Beyond the Thick Weeds & Woods & Finding the Sunshine
It’s easy to get lost in the weeds. Not just one weed, but a whole world of them—the weeds of overthinking, comparison, school projects, work deadlines, and even how we measure ourselves against others.
What does that even mean—to get lost in the weeds? The Cambridge Dictionary defines it as “to be dealing with so many small details or so much work that you are finding it difficult to deal with something.” Psychologists often call this analysis paralysis—when your brain becomes so overloaded with choices and pressure that it freezes. What if I make the wrong decision? What if I fail? So instead of moving, we overthink. We freeze.
My Own Experience with the Weeds
From a young age, I’ve always been very hard on myself. In some ways, that discipline served me well—as a military officer and as a runner. Discipline and consistency do matter. But inevitably in life, we fall short sometimes. And that part—I wrestled with. The noise of “not good enough,” the fear of failure, the pressure to perform—it stacks up. It gets LOUD. Even after success, that noise doesn’t always go away.
Running is one of my truest loves, and also one of my biggest teachers. My first 5K at age 15 took me over 30 minutes. In college, I broke 20 minutes for the first time—19:50—and I should have been proud. But I wasn’t. I would finish races thinking, Why are you slow? Why didn’t you run faster? Even when I was improving, it never felt like enough.
I went on to run for the Army 10 Miler Team for two years, finished five half marathons, one ultra marathon, and my first full marathon in fall 2023 with a time of 3:58. By all accounts, these were accomplishments I should have celebrated.
But I didn’t.
After my marathon, I wasn’t proud—I was relieved it was over. I had pushed through chronic pain in my knees and feet, lost weight hoping it would make me faster, and ignored my body when it begged me to slow down. Instead of celebrating, I immediately started thinking about running a faster marathon so I could qualify for Boston. I didn’t even allow myself to feel the accomplishment.
And of course, social media didn’t help. I watched everyone else’s highlight reels: faster runs, stronger bodies, constant PRs, lives that looked perfectly in control. The comparison poisoned my joy. My injuries lingered, and so did my toxic thought patterns. My relationship with running, food, my body—even myself—became dark. The weeds grew thick. For almost two years, I was lost in chronic pain and felt like I had lost a part of who I was.
It’s Kind of Like a Dark Wood at First…
When I read The Hobbit in 7th grade, I was captivated by Mirkwood—the massive, tangled forest Bilbo and the dwarves had to cross. It was heavy, disorienting, and full of shadows. The deeper they went, the harder it was to stay hopeful. That’s what my mindset felt like during that season of life—like being trapped in Mirkwood.
There were glimpses of light here and there, but mostly, my thoughts were stuck in darkness. I desperately wanted to get past my injuries and “return” to who I once was—a faster, leaner runner. I thought that if I could just get back there, I’d feel like myself again.
But panic comes with pain. Fear piles on top of frustration. Every run made me anxious—What if it hurts again? What if I never get better? What if I’m just not meant to be a runner anymore?
In late 2024, everything came crashing down at once: my dad passed away suddenly, and shortly after, I was laid off from my job. Grief hit my body like a storm. I was exhausted and aching, inside and out. I was angry at my body for slowing down; angry at life for being unfair. I tried to force myself to run anyway, trying to use it as emotional escape—but my body didn’t want to run. It wanted rest. It wanted healing.
Still, I pushed. I signed up for races anyway, convinced I had something to prove—to myself, to others, to the old version of me I was trying to chase. During my last trail race of 2024, I fell—hard—twice. Bloody knees, battered quads, pride shattered. For the first time, I stopped and wondered:
What if I’m doing this all wrong? What if forcing myself to “push through” isn’t strength—but fear?
That was the moment I knew something had to change.
Not Running Opened Up a New World for Me
At the beginning of 2025, I fully stopped running and focused on strength training. I had already submitted my physical therapy school applications, so I poured my energy into rebuilding—not just my body, but my life.
Around my birthday, on a Friday night, I received a phone call with very exciting news—I had been accepted into the Doctor of Physical Therapy Program at Washington University (WashU) Medical School in St. Louis – my first choice. I was ecstatic! After a dark season of uncertainty, something good finally took root. Hope.
I suddenly had 8.5 months before school started. For the first time in years, I wasn’t training for a race. I wasn’t chasing pace goals. I wasn’t obsessing over mileage. I had space. Time. And a fiancé—now my husband—who challenged me to pour myself into something, a dream I had been talking about for a long time.
That’s when it was time to build Fueled by Sunshine into it’s ultimate goal and vision—not just as an Instagram page or a food blog, but a business that inspired people to live their best lives by doing things they loved, while embracing themselves wholly, just as they are. My husband encouraged me to build the website and start an LLC. TERRIFYING. I didn’t feel “ready.” I didn’t feel “qualified.” But I decided to try anyway.
I started experimenting— testing recipes, sewing aprons, talking about my goals with Fueled by Sunshine, and posting my creations online even when I felt insecure. Every post felt vulnerable. My inner critic hated it. But it also made me feel alive again.
During that time, I found a physical therapist on Instagram, @thespeedypt, who specialized in treating runners. He messaged me one day and asked what brought me to his page. I was honest: “Life has been really hard. My dad passed away. I lost my job. I’m becoming a PT. I can’t run because of pain. I don’t feel like myself.”
He listened; really listened. We set up an intro call and decided to work together.
For the first time, someone wasn’t just treating my pain—they were treating me.
We spent three months together working through my plantar fasciitis and chronic knee pain. It wasn’t linear. It wasn’t quick. Some days, I cried out of frustration. Some days, I wanted to quit. But my PT kept telling me: “Consistency over perfection. Keep showing up—especially on the days it feels slow.”
He also gave me something I didn’t expect—permission.
“Run if you want to run. Lift if you want to lift. Your body isn’t your enemy—it’s your teammate.”
I finished my PT plan and kept going on my own for another couple of months while preparing for school and planning my wedding. Progress was slow—but it was happening. I learned something I had resisted for years:
Healing isn’t something you force. It’s something you grow—patiently, steadily, honestly—from the inside out.
As of Fall 2025, I am running again. More importantly—I’m enjoying running again. I joined a new running group that I absolutely love. I’m running over 6 miles again, and I’m researching spring races, which I am so excited about! And when I think about running now, I don’t think about being fast first—I think about being grateful.
My two years of foot pain turned out to be one of my greatest teachers. It humbled me. It softened me. It taught me to listen. And now, as a student physical therapist, I have already started applying those lessons to caring for patients. Pain changes people—but so does healing.
And if healing is possible for me, it’s possible for anyone.
Here’s the Thing—There Will Always Be Weeds
Think about tending a garden each spring. No matter how carefully you plant, there will always be things you can’t control. You can’t control the weather. You can’t control every insect or every weed. Some things grow beautifully. Others don’t make it. It can feel unfair—Why is my garden struggling when everyone else’s is blooming?
But here’s the truth:
You never really know what someone else is growing through.
You don’t see the early mornings they showed up tired.
You don’t see the failures, the tears, the quiet self-doubt.
You don’t see the storms they survived in silence.
Everyone is fighting something. Everyone has weeds. But growth is still possible—right in the middle of them.
Your Thoughts and Your Words Matter
When you’ve spent a long time being your own harshest critic, kindness toward yourself doesn’t come naturally. It feels uncomfortable at first—even fake. I get that. But here’s what I finally had to realize:
Your body hears everything your mind says.
Your spirit feels the weight of your thoughts.
And your words—especially the ones you speak to yourself—can either heal or poison your path.
You deserve a voice inside you that encourages you rather than tears you down. A voice that says:
“I am worthy of rest.”
“I am allowed to grow at my own pace.”
“My story is not over.”
Your body—your mind—your soul—they deserve warmth. They deserve patience. They deserve grace. They deserve love. They deserve the same sunshine you so freely give to others.
It’s All About Your Journey
Remember how I said overwhelm feels like walking through Mirkwood—dark, endless, heavy?
Here’s the thing:
That dark forest isn’t the whole story.
Your story has more pages. More light. More hope still to come.
Beyond the dark and uncertain woods is place that waits for you — a sunlit meadow filled with wildflowers. Once a small garden, bloomed over rolling green valley of soft breezy grass, dotted with colorful vibrant paint strokes of all different kinds of flowers; swirling white clouds drift across an azure sky, silver sunlight pours warmth over everything, and joy radiates in every direction. A place where:
Your growth is noticed.
Your pace doesn’t matter.
Your heart is safe.
Your joy returns.
Your path won’t look like anyone else’s. You might take detours. You might fall and have to get back up—again and again. You might pull weeds for a season. You might have to replant parts of your life.
But it will be worth it—because you are worth it.
I’m still learning these lessons myself. I still have days of self-doubt, days I feel slow, days I feel behind. But I am no longer lost in the weeds. I am choosing to grow through them. One small step at a time. One brave breath at a time.
And I want you to know this—whether we’ve met or not:
You are worthy of goodness. You are worthy of healing.
You are worthy of love—always.
And no matter where you are on your journey, I hope you never forget—
You are, and always have been, Fueled by Sunshine.
