Running on Empty: What Directing Texas' Top Marathon Taught Me About Anxiety

Two months before race day, I began waking up at 3:00 a.m., my thoughts already racing. I wasn’t mentally preparing for the course—I was rehearsing every potential failure. What if I overlooked something critical? What if the momentum built over the past two years collapsed overnight?

This was the third year of the marathon—an event that began as a friend’s bold idea and quickly grew into something people were talking about well beyond our town. The first two years were filled with energy, excitement, and overwhelmingly positive feedback. With that success came immense pressure to deliver again.

Though I was stepping into the role for the first time, I was directing what had become Texas’ highest-rated marathon. I felt the weight of expectation and was plagued with anxiety. I felt like an imposter trying to hold everything together. My sleep fractured. I struggled to be present with my family. I carried the belief that if anything went wrong, I’d be responsible for ruining not only the past success, but also any future momentum.

Then, the night before the race, it rained ice—literally.

At 11 p.m., I was 30 feet up on a scaffold in freezing rain, hanging finish line banners with numb fingers and a lingering cough. Overnight sleet formed icy patches along the course. By morning, the DJ and sound system we’d hired were no-shows. Race day began in silence. No music. An a cappella national anthem. No energy-infused sendoff. To me, it felt like the worst-case scenario had arrived.

Convinced I had ruined the experience, I made my way to the finish line after the race began, sulking as I prepared for the first wave of finishers. A sinking feeling had settled in. Surely, I thought, runners would remember the cold, the icy patches, and the absence of music. I braced myself for the flood of disappointment.

But something surprising happened: they didn’t.

The feedback was overwhelmingly positive. No one seemed bothered by the absent DJ. The ice became a funny anecdote, not a dealbreaker. What runners remembered wasn’t the things I feared would go wrong—it was the energy, the community, the sense of accomplishment, and the well-organized pieces that held it all together.

Lessons from the Edge of Anxiety

Reflecting on that season, I realized the anxiety I experienced had far less to do with race logistics and far more to do with deeper internal dynamics—the drive for control, the discomfort with uncertainty, and the fear of not being enough.

Here are four key insights that have reshaped how I relate to anxiety:

1. Uncertainty is inevitable, not intolerable.

Anxiety often tricks us into believing that with enough effort, we can eliminate every variable. But the sleet and missing DJ reminded me that some factors will always remain outside our control.

Practice: When anxiety surfaces, ask yourself: Can I hold space for uncertainty and still move forward with courage?

2. Perfectionism often masks fear.

I labeled my intense preparation as responsibility, but beneath it was fear—fear of failure, of being seen as inadequate, of ruining something someone else had built. Perfectionism became a defense, not a virtue.

Practice: When perfectionism flares up, gently ask: What am I afraid will happen if this isn’t flawless? Then remind yourself that your worth is not conditional on performance, and that gifts are often found in imperfection.

3. Perspective is a powerful antidote.

In the haze of anxiety, I catastrophized. I missed what was going well. The feedback from runners helped me realize that presence matters more than perfection.

Practice: In moments of stress, pause and ask: What else might be true right now?

4. Mindfulness isn’t a fix—it’s a daily rhythm.

At the time, I didn’t have tools to regulate my nervous system. Since then, I’ve come to view mindfulness not as a quick solution, but as a steady rhythm that brings clarity and grounding.

Practice: Take a brief moment to check in with your body and breath. These micro-pauses can interrupt anxiety’s momentum and create room for clarity.

The race happened. People showed up. They ran. They celebrated. The imperfections faded into the background. What nearly robbed me of joy wasn’t the external chaos—it was the internal pressure I hadn’t yet learned to name.

If you find yourself consumed by anxiety—believing you must carry it all perfectly—let me offer this: you’re not alone, and there is a different way. One built on grace, daily practice, and learning to trust that you can show up fully, even when it’s messy.

It’s not about eliminating anxiety. It’s about learning how to walk alongside it, one imperfect step at a time.