I stare at the photo in disbelief. Anger, sadness, and compassion merge into an overwhelming emotional storm as I try to understand. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t find a logical explanation for why I didn’t see back then what I do see now.
I do, however, know why I have changed so much in the 17 years since that photo was taken.
And while the transformation of my body is apparent, I know that the real transformation was internal. I know that my eating disorder was the physical manifestation of the psychological struggles I didn’t know how to overcome.
At 23 years old, I was still struggling with severe social anxiety, likely a result of a traumatic childhood.
My stepfather was an alcoholic who called me “fatty,” and my mother was equally verbally abusive. At school, I was bullied for being “ugly.” I sucked in PE and would regularly “forget” my sports clothes to avoid the humiliation of being picked last for team sports.
I was too afraid to ask questions and even more terrified to answer them.
I was a loner and grew up without ever experiencing what friendship meant.
The Training Ground (South Africa, 2007)
As a forestry student, I spent 6 months in South Africa. I had long dreamed of visiting Africa one day, but little did I know that a few months of living on the other side of the world would start a journey of personal development and growth that would last a lifetime.
And running started it all. Still deeply insecure, I decided to start running to lose weight. While I had tasted the beauty of friendships since I started my studies, I still thought I needed to change some parts of myself to be likable. And since I had this deeply ingrained belief that I was too fat, losing weight would be the solution to all my self-doubts and insecurities.
Those first steps on the plantation were still fueled by self-loathing and the wish to shrink. I hated running with a passion. It was hard, and it made my heart beat fast, and my head hurt.
But it wasn’t long before I noticed my morning runs’ substantial mental health benefits. I could think and observe my thoughts. I could move without fearing the ridicule of others. No one was there to watch, to judge or ridicule. For the first time, I was free to explore movement without pressure.
I was amazed by what my body could do. The more my fitness improved, the more self-confident I became. I still remember proudly writing in my journal, “I can run for almost an hour without stopping.”
This wasn’t about being picked for a team or meeting someone else’s standards. This was about discovering what my body could do when shame wasn’t weighing it down.
But like any ultramarathon, these early miles of newfound freedom were deceptive in their ease. I was riding the high of transformation, believing I had finally outrun my demons. I didn’t realize I was approaching my metaphorical “wall” — that point in an ultra where everything you thought you knew about yourself gets tested.
As my departure date from South Africa approached, I felt invincible. My journal entries were filled with pride and possibility. But just like those moments in an ultra when you’re feeling your strongest and think you’ve finally figured it all out, that’s often when the real challenges begin.
I was about to enter my own “dark miles,” a section of my journey that would test everything I thought I had learned about myself and my relationship with movement.
The Dark Miles (2008–2015)
Some people say you live a whole life during an ultramarathon. You experience the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. You might feel invincible one moment just to feel broken and unable to continue just a few minutes later. When I injured myself just a few days before flying back home to Germany, I went from feeling on top of the world to wanting to hide again.
Stripped of my daily movement routine and the protective solitude of plantation trails, I lost more than just running.
I lost my anchor.
Because I canceled my student room for the 6 months I was living overseas, I lived in my parents’ house again for a few weeks until the new semester at university started. Suddenly, I lost my freedom and was back to the place I thought I had left behind. I felt stuck and out of control.
The eating disorder that I developed during that time claimed most of my twenties. My period disappeared along with my weight, and running became sporadic, marked by frequent injuries and frustration. I channeled my energy into my studies and career, excelling academically while neglecting my personal life.
Most of my twenties were spent in self-imposed isolation that felt like protection but was really another form of prison. I missed parties, relationships, adventures — all the experiences that make up a life — because my eating disorder and social anxiety had convinced me I didn’t deserve to take up space in the world.
The freedom I’d glimpsed in South Africa seemed like a distant dream.
In 2013, I stopped running altogether, exhausted by constant injuries and the underlying battle with my body. This period felt endless, like those darkest miles in an ultra when you’re unsure if dawn will ever come.
But, like those nights, it prepared me for a dawn I couldn’t yet imagine.
Finding Strength in Iron (2015)
In 2015, searching for something different, I ordered my first kettlebells — two oddly shaped weights with handles that would become unlikely instruments of transformation. Biking felt too gear-intensive, hiking too passive, and I was still too scared to work out in a gym. But these simple tools of strength could be used in the safety of my living room, where no one could see me struggle.
At first, I approached kettlebells like I’d approached running — as a weight loss weapon, doing endless swings in pursuit of a smaller self. But something unexpected happened during those solitary training sessions: I began to feel strong.
The first time I successfully pressed a heavy weight overhead, I wasn’t thinking about calories burned or pounds lost. I was amazed at how strong I was.
The mental transformation through kettlebell training was profound and unexpected. Each training session became a lesson in mindfulness and self-trust. You can’t afford to entertain self-doubt when you’re holding a heavy weight overhead. The weight demands your full presence, your complete confidence.
Every successful lift became a tiny rebellion against the voice that had told me for years that I wasn’t enough.
The simple act of showing up day after day, facing increasingly heavier weights, taught me something profound about courage. It wasn’t about being fearless but acknowledging the fear and moving forward anyway.
Each time I attempted a weight that seemed impossible and succeeded at something I thought I couldn’t do, I rewired old beliefs about my limitations.
Slowly, imperceptibly at first, my focus shifted. Instead of training to shrink, I began training to strengthen. Rather than viewing my body as something to be diminished, I started seeing it as something to be developed.
Each successful lift became a declaration: I deserve to be powerful, to take up space, to expand rather than contract. In my living room, with the help of kettlebells, I unlearned decades of believing I needed to be less, discovering instead that every challenge was an opportunity for growth.
Going Ultra (2021)
In 2021, after eight years away from running, I made a decision that would have seemed foolish to anyone who knew my history: I signed up for a 61-kilometer trail ultra as my comeback race. The girl who once hid from PE class chose to run farther than she’d ever imagined possible.
But this wasn’t the impulsive choice it appeared to be. Years of kettlebell training hadn’t just built physical strength — it had reconstructed my entire relationship with my body and movement.
This time was different. Where once I had approached running as punishment, now it was a celebration. Where once I had used it to shrink, now it was about expanding my capabilities. The woman stepping up to that first ultra start line wasn’t running from anything — she was running toward everything she could become.
Eight months later, I stood on the podium as the third female finisher. But the real victory wasn’t in the placement — it was in the realization that I had completed an ultra distance without a single thought about weight loss, without my old eating disorder patterns resurfacing, and without the injuries that had plagued my earlier running attempts.
The girl who once couldn’t ask for directions had navigated trail markers through forests for hours. The woman who once feared being seen was standing on a podium, claiming her achievement in full view of others.
The strong foundation built through kettlebell training proved invaluable. Not only could I increase mileage without breaking down, but I also brought something unexpected to ultrarunning: the mind of a strength athlete.
This unique perspective — understanding how to build load progressively, respect recovery, and train for capacity rather than punishment — transformed what could have been a risky comeback into a sustainable progression.
The successes came steadily — podium finishes, course records, and ultimately, a win at a 24-hour race. But more meaningful than any trophy was the realization that the isolation that once served as my shield had become my strength.
Those long hours alone on trails weren’t an escape anymore — they were a homecoming. The social anxiety that once kept me trapped in my head had transformed into a capacity for peaceful solitude that served me well in endurance challenges.
From 2021 to 2025, each ultra finish line has been a testament not just to physical preparation but to the power of approaching challenges from a place of wholeness rather than woundedness.
Every long training run, every mountain climb, and every night section run alone under the stars has reinforced what kettlebell training first taught me: that we grow not by punishing ourselves into submission but by building ourselves into strength.
Running the Distance Between
Looking at the chicken trophy from that 24-hour race victory, I see more than just an achievement in distance covered. I see the distance traveled between the girl who avoided PE class and the woman who coaches others through their first ultras, between the teenager who exercised to disappear and the athlete who trains to expand her capabilities, between isolation as a shield and solitude as a source of strength.
At 40, I understand that life’s most meaningful ultras aren’t run on trails or tracks. They’re run in the space between who we were and who we’re becoming.
Every finish line I’ve crossed, whether a mountain ultra or a heavy kettlebell press, has shown me that the real victory isn’t in outrunning others — it’s in catching up to the person you were meant to be.
The girl who used to ‘forget’ her sports clothes would never believe that one day, the movement would become her medicine, her meditation, and ultimately, her mission to help others. That those first tentative runs through South African plantations would lead to coaching others through their own transformative journeys. That the body she once tried to shrink would become the source of her greatest strength.
This is what forty years and countless miles have taught me: we can all run much further than we imagine — not despite our struggles, but because of them.
Our deepest wounds can become our greatest teachers, our biggest fears can transform into our strongest allies, and it’s never too late to start your own ultra journey.
Because, in the end, the most important ultra we’ll ever run is the distance between our fears and our dreams. And in that race, as in life, the only place that matters is the one that keeps you moving forward.
This is a story about distance, but not the kind measured in kilometers. It’s about the distance between hiding and being seen, shame and strength, and running away and running toward.
It’s about how movement — whether through forests or under iron— can transform our bodies and our fundamental understanding of who we are and what we can become.
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