For two years, I was a delusional optimist.

I built my life around a dream no one else could see — sticky notes on mirrors, mantras on my fridge. Every decision revolved around one belief:

If I believed hard enough, maybe the impossible could become real.

And on October 5th, it did. 

With race day only 21 days after Ironman Japan, it wasn’t about medals or times — it was about how deep I could dig when nothing was left.

And from the first moment I hit the water, I knew that’s exactly what it would take.

The swim was chaos and calm all at once — bodies thrashing, salt water stinging, yet somehow rhythmic, almost meditative.
The bike was two relentless loops — cliffs above the Mediterranean, waves crashing below, wind howling like it wanted to race too.
The run was a surrender from the start. By mile five, my face was pale, my vision a tunnel. For twenty-one miles, I didn’t fight the pain — I met it, breathed with it, and held its hand all the way home.

I don’t remember crossing the finish line. The loudest place in the world had gone still — time stopped, the whole journey exhaling with me.

When I opened my eyes, my family was reaching for me.
My mom handed me the Guinness medal, and all I could say was, “WE DID IT!”

In that moment, I understood — when you chase a dream this big, it stops being about you.
You become a mirror for other people’s hope.

For their comeback.
For the version of them that still wants to try.

People weren’t just cheering for me — they were cheering for the part of themselves that believes they can do something impossible too.

One day, someone else will break this record.

And honestly? I hope they do.

Because records are meant to be broken.
It’s who you become and what that inspires in others that lasts.

So when this record is broken, I won’t be sad.

It’ll mean the story did what it was meant to — 

help someone else believe they can.