From Couch to Triathlon: How a Reality Show Sparked a 15-Year Journey

Not the fastest. Definitely not the smoothest. But somewhere between the leg shave and the last mile, I found something better than motivation—momentum.

It was New Year’s Day, 2009. While many were tackling New Year’s resolutions or nursing headaches, I was planted on the couch watching a Biggest Loser marathon. Yes, I know—“Wow, he sounds like a blast.” But in that moment, watching the finalists gasp through a swim, wobble through a bike ride, and jog a 5K, something in me stirred.

Some would call what these contestants completed a triathlon. I called it inspiration.

There’s something powerful about watching people do what once felt impossible. Seeing someone who, months earlier, struggled to walk a flight of stairs now crossing a finish line—it awakens something. And for me, it whispered, “If they can do it…”

Now, I know what you’re thinking—Isn’t that comparison? And isn’t comparison unhealthy? Oftentimes, yes. I offer some version of that feedback to clients all the time. But inspiration is a form of comparison that fuels rather than drains. It trades in shame and “shoulds” for a flicker of belief. And that flicker—if fed just enough—can become a slow burn of change.

Of course, not every story begins with a spark of inspiration. For some, even the idea of getting started feels unreachable. If you find yourself there—in the weight of burnout, anxiety, or depression—know that you're not alone, and you're not broken. Motivation isn't always a switch we can flip. Sometimes, the first real movement is asking for help. Professional support can offer not just tools and strategies, but a renewed sense of possibility. And sometimes, that’s the most courageous step of all.

So I did what any totally rational, semi-inspired person would do: I joined a gym. Did I know how to train for a triathlon? No. Did I have a plan? Also no. But I showed up. Mostly to run—because it was the only form of exercise I knew. I ran with a lot of sweat, plenty of doubt, and some very questionable footwear. That was my start.

And something wild happened—I kept showing up. Eventually, I ventured to the pool. Lap swimming, which I assumed was reserved for silver-haired retirees and former Olympians, became part of my routine. I prayed for the first month that nobody would be at the pool to watch me flounder and attempt my first kick-turns. Yet every small effort—every awkward splash, every treadmill mile, every overly sore workday—built momentum.

Not perfection. Just momentum.

Did I train equally for all three triathlon events? Oh gosh, no. I barely touched a bike until race week. (Note to future triathletes: biking is kind of a big deal.) But those small behavioral shifts—what some might call “habit stacking”—started creating a different version of me. A version that believed small things weren’t small at all.

I planned to race a sprint triathlon. But I kept training. And I kinda forgot to actually sign up for a race. So I did the logical thing—I jumped straight to an Olympic-distance race. Because why not challenge yourself and your digestive system?

Then came race day. I walked into packet pickup and immediately regretted everything. These were triathletes. They had compression socks, sculpted calves, and bikes more expensive than my car—literally. I felt like a tourist. An undertrained, overhydrated impostor with a friend’s backup road bike stuffed in the back of my car. In a panic, I shaved my legs. Not for aerodynamics—mostly to feel like I belonged. (It didn’t help. And I did a terrible job.)

But here’s the thing: I didn’t race to win. I raced to finish. And finish I did—probably somewhere between a retiree with a hip replacement and someone who got lost on the bike course. But that day, I became a triathlete.

That moment—sparked by a reality show and built on a foundation of small, faithful effort—became the first step in what’s now a 15-year endurance race journey. And to think, back then, I had never run more than 30 minutes at a time. I had to learn to slow down—literally. To find a pace I could maintain, a rhythm that let me endure the run instead of suffer through it. And that lesson has stuck with me far beyond training plans and finish lines.

Sometimes, change doesn’t come from a grand plan or a motivational breakthrough. It comes from choosing to participate—just a little—on days when it feels easier not to. Real motivation isn’t about hype; it’s built through small, repeatable choices that reinforce progress. You don’t need to feel ready. You just need to move. One day. Then another.

Momentum doesn’t require speed or a feeling. It just requires movement.