MY STORY

I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t moving.

As a child, movement was instinct. Trails, roads, cold air, and open space became my first teachers. I didn’t yet have the language for endurance, but I was already learning it — one breath at a time, one step at a time, one quiet challenge after another.

Years later, that instinct carried me to podiums, national teams, championships, and distances most people never touch — let alone return to. I ran through mountains. I skied through silence. I asked my body questions long before I had the words to form them. Sometimes it answered with strength. Sometimes with pain. Sometimes with stillness.

There were years defined by speed and recognition. And there were years shaped by doubt, injury, and the slow unravelling of certainty.

Those quieter years taught me more than any medal ever could.

I became a coach not because I had all the answers, but because I had learned how to listen. I became a therapist because I understood how much the body holds. I opened a shop not just to sell gear, but to create a place where athletes could feel seen, supported, understood.

Still, there was a knowing inside me that my own story wasn’t finished.

The second half of life doesn’t arrive the same way as the first. It’s less about proving and more about understanding. Less about noise and more about the long breath between moments.

I write more now. Reflect more. I live in the spaces between effort and stillness — and that is where I am becoming.

This was the beginning of The Mileage Game.

Not as a brand. Not as a business plan. But as a philosophy: that life is measured not in miles logged, but in meaning gathered. That the long road — with all its detours, breakdowns, quiet mornings, and unexpected returns — is where the real work happens.

Today, I am still training. Still competing. Still preparing for the demands of race floors, starting lines, and the weight of unfinished goals. But the chase has softened. The purpose has deepened. I am no longer trying to outrun time — I am learning how to move with it.

I lift in silence. I bake in quiet mornings. I find rhythm in repetition. I honour the stillness between sets, between seasons, between chapters of a life that refuses to settle.

This story is not about perfection.
It is about presence.

It is about choosing discipline again and again.
Choosing curiosity over ego.
Choosing the long breath over the shallow win.

And after all these years, I know this much is true:

The real race was never against others.

It was always an invitation
to meet myself
more fully.