As with every millennial, my life hasn’t panned out as I thought it would. As a child, I thought I’d graduate from Columbia, work for a magazine, and be married with at least one child. All by the age of 27. In the 90’s, it may not have sounded crazy, but times have definitely changed. For one, some of the magazines I used to read are now obsolete. I’ve also had trouble landing any journalistic gigs that would help me pay off my exorbitant student loans (hey, I did still go to school in NYC). 

30 has been a year of contemplation, since I’ve been on this journey to prove to myself that I still have a pulse. On a whim, and with the encouragement of friends, I decided to run a marathon. Number 8 on my 30 at 30 list was to run for a cause, so I decided to run for Back on My Feet, the same charity that threw the 5 miler that I ran earlier this year. 

When I began training, I reflected on 8 year-old me-the version of myself that beat up the boys in football and watched the olympics religiously. I knew that she’d be proud of me for committing. That 8 year-old believed anything was possible. 

And when I crossed the finish line after 16 weeks of training, I knew she’d be thrilled with my accomplishment. And there is no feeling like it. I had a moment of self-actualization, which was warranted, after completing the toughest physical task of my life. 

My biggest fan Barb

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