The Long Run Home is a cross-country marathon project — but it’s also a personal reclamation.
It’s me and Malcolm chasing 26.2 miles in every state, one finish line at a time. But the real miles? They’re the ones that lead inward. This isn’t just about races. It’s about roadtrips and recovery, playlists and purpose, finding softness in exhaustion and strength in solitude.
5 states down. A country to go.
Some people run to escape. We’re running to remember. To rebuild.
To make it home — whatever that means now.
Got a race that changed your life? Tell us. Maybe we’ll meet you out there, somewhere in the wide, wild world you sent us to.
This project didn’t start as a bold declaration — it started as a quiet need.
To find a place where my litany of neurodivergencies softened. To outrun my shame, my self doubt, my guilt, my feelings of inadequacy, my depression. A place where I was my only priority.
The product of an abusive Irish Catholic family, I was the scapegoat child, the one who couldn’t keep up, mentally, physically, emotionally, I was tagged as wrong so that everyone else could be right. And I believed it, for years.
Then covid happened, I found space to be quiet, to reflect, I came out, again and again. I let go of people who harmed me. I shifted my priorities and my obligations. I started running six days a week, and I haven’t really looked back.
Running a marathon in every state might sound like a challenge, but for me, it’s more a compass. A meditation on what I thought was impossible, a way to carve a path forward when the way back is no longer an option.
It’s not about medals or finish times — it’s about what happens in between: the early alarms, the playlists that carry me, the strangers who cheer, the way Malcolm curls up against me when it’s all over.
This is a road made of small moments. And somewhere along it, I’m learning what it means to come home.