I used to think that checking the box of completing an ultramarathon would signal the end of something—that it would be the final chapter of my relationship with running. But the more miles I’ve put behind me, the clearer it’s become that I was never running toward an ending. I was answering a call.

Running has carried me across landscapes I never would have seen otherwise. It has taken me to places I didn’t plan on going, introduced me to people I didn’t know I needed, and opened doors I once thought were closed to me. Miles have a way of stripping things down—through fatigue, injury, and quiet persistence, friendships are forged, belief is tested, and something deeper is revealed.

The most important thing running has given me isn’t endurance or distance—it’s belief. Belief in myself. Somewhere along the way, my ifs began to shift into when. Not out of arrogance, but out of knowing. Knowing that what I need to keep moving forward has always been within me. It was never a question of if I could do something difficult—only whenI would be ready to meet it.

That’s why this goal goes back onto my adventure list, unhurried. Other paths have surfaced, other calls have grown louder, and I’m learning to listen. Watching 100-mile runners move through 36 hours of effort was a humbling reminder of scale—of what the human spirit can endure. They exist in a different orbit of resilience, alongside Sherpas and others who move through hardship with quiet strength. Witnessing that doesn’t make me rush; it makes me respect the journey.

If there’s one thing I wish for everyone, it’s this: find something that calls you forward. Something that pulls you to the edges of yourself. Let it challenge you. Let it unsettle you. Let it take you farther than comfort allows. Pay attention to what grows in that space—because somewhere between the struggle and the movement, you may discover who you’ve been becoming all along.

For a long time, I struggled to answer that question. What does adventure mean to me?

I think I finally understand.

What the trunk could not carry, the branches reached for.

What the branches could not hold, the leaves would catch.

A tree is never just one thing. It is roots, trunk, branches, and leaves—each a generation, each necessary. No single part is more important on its own, yet none can exist without the others. Growth only happens together.

My family’s first great adventure was not a choice made lightly—it was survival. Immigration. At that time, my great-grandparents were the roots, buried deep in sacrifice. My grandparents became the trunk, bearing the weight. My parents were the branches, stretching toward stability. And my sister and I were the leaves—new, fragile, carried by what came before us.

My grandparents spoke often of what it cost to keep the tree alive. Meals without meat. Nights when hunger was normal. My mother told me stories of going to bed with empty stomachs. As a child, I listened but did not yet understand. My parents made sure we never felt that absence.

Understanding came later—when I traveled back to the places my grandparents and parents once called home. When I stood on the same ground they stood on. When I felt how narrow the margins once were. And later still, when the roles shifted again—when my grandparents returned to the earth and became roots themselves. The tree changed. My parents became the trunk. My sister and I became the branches.

This is what adventure means to me.

It is not escape. It is continuation.

It is the responsibility to push gently, deliberately, beyond the limits set before us—not in defiance, but in gratitude. My grandparents did not travel so that we could. My parents carried weight so we could move freely.

One day, the roles will shift again. When that happens, I want to know that I stretched far enough—that I grew wide enough—that the next generation inherits a tree unafraid to reach higher.

Maybe even high enough to touch the moon.