Trying to Run an ULTRA

I failed. 

Earlier this year I wanted to try something different. It was an ultra, a 60 kilometer run from Luneta in Manila to Tagaytay. I wasn’t sure if i could do it and I wasn’t chasing a podium. I just wanted to see if I had that run in me.

But I pushed too far, too fast.

See, I started running in October 2024 and I only had two months to train—I still don’t understand why I thought it was a good idea. My body wasn’t ready, but I tried to push anyway, logging mileage far beyond my capacity. My legs eventually started to break down and I had no idea how to navigate the suffering. It just kept building and no matter what I did I could not find relief. I broke. I hid behind the excuse of “it’s not safe for me to continue training” and I pulled out of the race.

I’m not a great runner—not by any stretch. But the fun thing about ultramarathons is that it isn’t about speed or talent. It’s about showing up, embracing discomfort, and understanding that what you think you are capable of is a lie. My biggest lessons in running—and life—have come from people who’ve mastered this space. 

One of them is Courtney Dauwalter.

THE PAIN CAVE

Dauwalter is the gold standard in ultrarunning. She’s also living proof that the question of whether women can compete against men at the highest levels isn’t just outdated—it’s irrelevant. In 2017, she won the Moab 240—a grueling 386-kilometer ultramarathon through Utah’s deserts, canyons, and mountains—and finished in just under 58 hours. That’s 10 hours ahead of the second-place finisher, a man.

Courtney introduced me to the “pain cave”—a mental space you enter when you are at an absolute low. When you have driven towards a goal so hard that logically there isn’t anything that you have left. When people start to question if what you are doing is safe and when you start believing them. For years, Dauwalter viewed the pain cave as something to avoid—a dark place you entered only when absolutely necessary. Now she embraces it. She visualizes herself with a chisel, carving deeper into its walls. Each step she takes she digs deeper into the cave, closer to her goals. The cave isn’t punishment; it’s privilege. It’s where real, powerful growth happens.

During recovery, Courtney’s story gave me clarity. I didn’t fail because my body gave out—I failed because I didn’t know how to embrace the suffering. I lacked the mental tools needed to handle my excuses.

EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT

For me, this space isn’t just about confronting discomfort; it’s a home I’ve built where I store my favorite memories. When my brain starts telling me “I can’t do this anymore” I walk over to the shelf in my cave and pick up a favorite memory—the first time I jumped out of a plane by myself or closing out a solo hike around Mont Blanc despite ligament damage. In those moments, I’m not running; I’m letting experiences of life flow through me. These memories don’t erase the suffering—they remind me why I feel alive. They show me I’ve survived worse and I’m still here.

What I’ve learned is that this cave isn’t just for running—it’s for life. It’s a safe space that I can come home to, especially on the days when depression creeps in, when darker thoughts emerge. I remind myself that I no longer need to numb myself with substances. The cave reminds me that those moments have long passed- and if they come again, I’m fucking ready.

Pushing your red line—physically, mentally, emotionally—teaches you something no finish line ever can: pain isn’t an enemy. It’s an opportunity. It’s where you leave behind the weaker version of yourself and uncover strength you didn’t know you had. 

WE PICK UP WHERE WE LEFT OFF

Failing that first attempt didn’t break me—it showed me what I needed to build. So here I am, trying again. Not just to finish a race, but to keep carving deeper into the cave. To discover what’s at the edge of possible, but also to celebrate wonderful moments in my life.

People always ask me why am I doing this? Who hurt me? What am I running from?

It isn’t about that. It’s about answering that question. What if I could be the person I always wanted to be? What if I could finally trust myself to try?