A couple of years ago, Glenn and I were killing time in a tiny regional airport on an island off the coast of Northern British Columbia.

We’d just spent several days visiting the Kitasoo Xai’xais First Nation, hoping for a glimpse of the elusive Spirit Bear—one of the rarest animals on Earth. Spirit Bears are white-coated black bears, their coloring the result of a recessive genetic trait (like red hair in humans). There are likely only 50 to 150 of them in existence.

We didn’t see one. But we did spend days in close proximity to grizzly bears, orcas and beautiful scenery, which more than made up for it.

So there I was, slouched in a folding chair at the tiny airport, smiling like an idiot, head full of bears and wilderness and that buzzy, dreamlike high that follows a truly immersive experience. The kind that makes you immediately crave the next one. Like an adventure junkie looking for another hit, I wanted—no, needed—to know what was coming next.

My phone buzzed.

It was a text from Mirna, whom we’d met months earlier while running over a volcano in the North Atlantic.

“You and Glenn should come do TransRockies with me next year!”

I had never heard of TransRockies. But I had learned something important about Mirna: if she invited you somewhere, you said yes.

“We’d love to!” I replied.

Still sitting in that airport chair, I frantically signed us up—before Mirna could change her mind or the event sold out. Only after the confirmation email landed did I start reading the details.

Trail race in the Colorado Rockies? Gorgeous. I was born there—it felt like coming home.

Six days? Okay. That’s a lot, but I’ve done multi-day hikes.

120 miles?

Wait. What?

That’s 20 miles a day. For six days. In a row. Sure, I’d run plenty of half marathons… but not one and a half, day after day, on trails.

20,000 feet of elevation gain?!

That had to be a typo. That’s like hiking out of the Grand Canyon five times. Once had nearly ended me.

Most miles between 9,000 and 12,600 feet elevation???

Oh no. No no no. There’s no oxygen up there. How does one run that high up? Or walk? Or crawl?

It was, in fact, not going to be fine.

I texted Mirna, outlining the many ways this seemed like a terrible idea. The furthest I’d ever run was 16 miles. At sea level. Once.

She responded calmly:

“Relax. Your only job is to run or hike, eat, shit, sleep, and do it again the next day. Maybe not in that order.”

Sage advice.

Thus was born my “two-week cooling-off period” rule.

It turns out I’m prone to questionable decisions while riding an adventure high. From that point on, no new adventure commitments until two weeks after the last one.

Unfortunately, this realization came too late. The race was paid for. No refunds.

So we decided to do the only thing left: train like our lives depended on it. For a year, Glenn and I worked with coaches, planned meticulously, and tried very hard not to panic.

As the race approached, panic crept in anyway—especially once our training included back-to-back four- and five-hour runs. I’m not typically anxious. If anything, I under-react. My default setting is “whatever, it’ll be fine.”

This was different.

With no frame of reference, my imagination ran wild. I pictured failure. Injury. Being the slowest person there. Being exposed as someone who didn’t belong.

I told Mirna more than once that Glenn and I should defer for a year or two. She looked me dead in the eye and said, “No.”

Mirna had done TransRockies multiple times. Our running coach Mike had too. They both believed—steadfastly—that we could do this. And slowly, borrowing their confidence when I couldn’t find my own, we found ourselves headed to Colorado.

TransRockies changed my life.

Day after day, I asked my body to do things it had never done before. I learned to find joy in sleeping through alpine thunderstorms in a soaked tent. I fell in love with pre-dawn rituals—fumbling with headlamps, pulling on cold shoes, laughing about poor life choices over pre-race oatmeal and coffee.

What makes TransRockies special isn’t just the suffering—it’s the culture.

Mirna often called it her trail-running family, and she was right. It is radically inclusive, celebratory, and welcoming in ways I’d never experienced in endurance sports.

In the lead-up to the race I worried less about whether I could physically finish than whether I would feel like an imposter. I’m slow. I’m fat. I regularly battle the “I’m not a real runner” narrative in my head.

But TransRockies met me exactly where I was.

It’s the birthplace of “Dawn Patrol”—an early start for slower runners so we have a fighting chance at cutoffs. It exists because the race director wanted Mirna to succeed years ago. That love is baked into the event’s DNA.

Starting early means spending hours on the trail as the rest of the field catches you. I love it. We cheer them on, they cheer us on. For hours, the trail becomes a moving celebration of effort.

The finish line is just as thoughtful: food, drinks, lounge chairs and hammocks, music, fire pits. Faster runners stick around, which means when folks like me finally cross, there are hundreds of people still there, cheering. It’s a point of pride to stay until the very last runner finishes.

Since that first year, Glenn and I have done multiple TransRockies events—and we’re signed up again for 2026.

All because someone sent a text.

Mirna’s invitation reset my understanding of what I’m capable of.

It introduced me to a community that celebrates effort over speed, and belonging over perfection. Once I felt the power of that invitation, I wanted to give it away.

So I started inviting others.

First, it was canyoneering—rappelling over waterfalls with a group of girlfriends. None of us had done it before. Afterward, several women admitted they’d only said yes because they felt honored to be asked. The pride on their faces from their accomplishments was electric.

Then I organized a five-day backpacking trip through Paria Canyon and Buckskin Gulch—one of the most magical places I’ve ever been.

I rarely repeat experiences, but this one deserved sharing. Watching friends rise to the challenge, find joy in the struggle, and surprise themselves was deeply moving.

These days, I have a reciprocal relationship with adventure-loving friends like Sayuri. I invite her to something wild (like hiking seven days through the Italian Dolomites), and then she invites me to something equally audacious (like climbing Kilimanjaro).

At this stage of life, friendships like that feel rare and precious—people who don’t just accept who you are, but call you forward into who you might become.

Here’s what I’ve learned: transformation doesn’t always begin with courage. Sometimes it begins with an invitation.

A simple, generous, “Come with me.”

You never know how far that sentence might carry someone.

Here’s to many more fun, hard, adventurous invitations ahead…both given and received!

Check out my Instagram if you want to see some fun photos and videos of these adventures!