Somewhere around the second week of September, without fail, a text lands in my phone from at least one client: “I don’t know what’s happening. I’m crashing at 8:30 p.m. and my 6 a.m. run feels like someone snuck weights into my shoes.” Every single year. For a long time I chalked it up to back-to-school chaos or the mental exhale that follows a busy summer. Then I started paying closer attention to the calendar instead of the client, and the pattern became impossible to miss. Here’s what’s actually going on: we are in the steepest daylight decline of the…
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Every September, without fail, somebody on my coaching roster sends me the same text: “The kids are back in school and I have forty minutes to myself. What do I buy?” For years I gave complicated answers. Last fall my team counted how many of our clients ended up sticking with equipment they bought in September, and one category beat everything else combined by a margin that embarrassed me. It was not a smart treadmill. It was not a fancy recovery gun. It was a pull-up bar. Not because hanging is magical, but because a bar in a doorway you…
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Walk into any commercial gym and count the benches. Not the dumbbells, not the treadmills — the benches. There’s a reason a big-box gym has twenty of them and never enough. They are the most borrowed surface in fitness, the piece of equipment that quietly supports half the exercises in any given program. And yet when my clients send me their home gym budgets, the bench is almost always the last line item — whatever cash is left after the flashy gear, if any. Half the movements in a serious program happen on, over, or against a bench. Photo courtesy…
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I spent two years standing in the probiotic aisle like it was a pharmacy confessional — fifty-dollar bottles, promises in foil packaging, and a nagging feeling that most of those little capsules were taking a very expensive ride through my digestive system. Then last spring, one of the dietitians I work with on client meal plans said something that stopped me mid-lecture about gut health: “You know the most reliable probiotic on earth is two dollars of cabbage and a tablespoon of salt, right?” She was mostly joking. I took it as a dare. Six months later, a corner of…
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There is a specific kind of August morning where the air feels like a wet towel by mile two, and this year I spent most of those mornings with a small plastic pod clipped to my left forearm, listening to it narrate my sweat. Every second, it streamed fluid loss, sodium concentration, and a drink-or-don’t verdict to my phone while I plodded through the humidity. My running partners thought I’d finally gone full lab rat. My coaching clients thought it was hilarious that the woman who preaches “learn your body” had outsourced hydration to a sensor the size of a…
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Every September, the same thing happens in my coaching practice. The trail runs get rained out, the evening light shrinks, and one by one my clients start asking about the same machine — the one gathering dust in the corner of their gym while they wait in line for a treadmill. By October, half of them have a rowing machine in their living room, and every single one of them asks me why they waited so long. I felt the same way in college, when my heptathlon coach stuck me on an erg for the entire off-season to protect a…
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The text came in at 3:14 a.m. My client Dana — 48, marathoner, more disciplined than half the college athletes I’ve coached — had woken up soaked for the fourth night that week. Her smartwatch, meanwhile, insisted she’d logged “excellent sleep, 96% recovery.” She sent me a screenshot with three words: “Make this make sense.” I stared at it for a long moment, because I’ve lived some version of that same mismatch myself. For years, the wearable industry built its algorithms around bodies that run like metronomes — predictable cycles, stable temperatures, textbook sleep architecture. Then perimenopause arrives and quietly…
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The first Tuesday after Labor Day has a smell to it. New sneakers, sharpened pencils, someone’s slow cooker bubbling at 6 a.m. In my house it also has a sound: the little beep of the bathroom scale waking up while I’m still half-asleep. September is when the reset happens, whether you planned one or not. The kids are back in school, the schedule firms up, and suddenly there’s room again for the version of you that got buried under popsicles and road trips. So this year, my team and I decided to finally answer the question I get asked more…
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There was a season of my life when I trained twenty-two hours a week. Two-a-day track sessions, lifting blocks at six in the morning, plyometrics while the dew was still on the infield. I was chasing an Olympic heptathlon qualifying mark, and my entire worldview could be boiled down to three words: more is better. It wasn’t, by the way. More was what left me with a stress fracture in my left tibia and a very humbling conversation with my coach about recovery — but that’s a story for another day. So when a new study crossed my desk this…
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There is a moment in my house every evening that used to go one of two ways. The plates would land in the sink, my husband and I would collapse onto the couch, and the night would fold itself around whatever screen was closest. Or — and this is the version that changed everything — we would leave the dishes exactly where they were, lace up, and walk out the front door for ten minutes. That’s the whole habit. Ten minutes, right after dinner, at an easy pace, most nights of the week. No heart rate targets, no tracker alerts,…