If you had asked me at the start of 2025, while I was sitting in a hospital bed hooked up to an EEG, if I’d be writing a race report this year, I would have laughed.
The EEG was negative, which was the first win. But the "answers" we eventually found led to a new reality: Dysautonomia. It’s a glitch in the nervous system—a cousin to POTS—where my blood pressure and heart rate decide to play by their own rules. Sometimes they plummet, and they don't always give me a reason why.
Two months after Ironman Lake Placid in 2023, I had a nasty virus (likely COVID, Mono, or a cocktail of both), I just... never got better. I had to learn to move again. Safely. Carefully.
The "Maybe" Plan
Signing up for Florida 70.3 wasn't just about a comeback; it was a trip down memory lane. This was my very first 70.3 back in 2011. Back then, the race was held at Walt Disney World. I had graduated from college just one week prior, standing at the starting line with the world at my feet and "newbie" legs that didn't know what they were in for. Fourteen years later, the venue has changed and my body works a little differently, but the fire to finish is exactly the same.
My dad was set to race Ironman 70.3 Florida. I desperately wanted to be out there with him, but I refused to let triathlon become a source of stress. This sport is supposed to be fun, not a hospital invitation. I made a deal with myself: If I could complete half of each tri leg six weeks out, I’d sign up.
I hit the target. I knew this wasn't about the training I wanted to do; it was about the training my body allowed me to do. My goals were simple:
Don't get eaten by an alligator.
Don't pass out.
Don't ruin my tri-suit (Ulcerative Colitis- if you know, you know).
Finish.
Heavy Hearts at the Starting Line
Race weekend brought a different kind of weight. On the drive to check-in, my dad and I passed a van defaced with anti-Semitic graffiti. The next morning, news broke of a horrific terrorist attack in Australia targeting Jews celebrating Hanukkah.
After two years of seeing the worst spike in anti-Semitism of our lifetimes, it felt like the world was on fire. It was hard to pivot my brain to "race mode" when my heart was so heavy for my community. But sometimes, moving forward is the only way to fight back.
The Swim: Swamp Puppies and Straight Lines
Target: 35:00 | Actual: 36:18
The morning was beautiful. For the first time ever, the buoys had flashing red lights on top—a godsend for someone like me who can’t sight to save their life! I swam the straightest line of my career. The "swamp puppies" (alligators) stayed away, and despite the "sea grass" jump-scares, I exited the water feeling strong.
Status: Not eaten. One goal down.
The Bike: The Mile 52 Wall
Target: 3:00:00-3:30:00 | Actual: 3:23:21
The Florida hills (yes, they exist—1,545 ft of them!) felt great for the first 25 miles. I was flying at 19 mph, convinced a PR was in the bag. My dad passed me around mile 51, and I felt a surge of pride.
Then, at mile 52, the lights started to dim. My right eye began losing vision—my body’s "low battery" warning before a blackout.
I had to pull over. I squatted on the side of the road, devastated. All that work, gone. I tried to restart twice, but my body said no. I eventually crawled back onto the bike and pedaled at a "cool-down" pace, fighting back tears. The cheers from the fans felt like they belonged to someone else. I was broken.
Transition: The Turning Point
I rolled into T2 in tears. I wasn't tired; I was just malfunctioning. A volunteer saw me—I wish I knew her name—and asked what was wrong. I told her about the dysautonomia.
She looked at me and said: "Just start walking. Walk the transition. Walk the run. Stop if you have to, but just see if you can keep moving."
The Run: One Foot in Front of the Other
Target: 2:10:00-2:30:00 | Actual: 2:38:31
I saw my mom and gave her the "it’s a rough day" update. I walked the first mile. But then, a funny thing happened. I jogged a bit. Then a bit more. I walked the hills and managed my heart rate like a scientist. I wasn’t racing anymore; I was overcoming.
The last quarter mile, the red carpet appeared. The noise, the announcer, the finish line.
Final Stats:
Don't get eaten: Check.
Don't pass out: Check (barely).
Don't ruin the suit: Check.
FINISH: Check.
Final Thoughts
I love my alligator-in-a-Santa-hat medal. It wasn’t a PR. It wasn't "pretty." But in a year where I wasn't even sure I’d be healthy enough to stand on a sideline, I finished 70.3 miles.
To my parents, the volunteers, and everyone who keeps pushing when the lights get dim: Keep moving.
Wow. What a story. Very well written.
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