When the High Fades and the Blues Hit

Several years ago, I ran three 100-mile races on three consecutive weekends—for the thrill of pushing myself—and it went great.

Afterward, I should’ve felt like a badass. Proud. Accomplished. Satisfied.

Instead, I was disappointed.

Not in the races—they’d gone well. Not in my body—it had handled it brilliantly. But somewhere deep inside, I was just… sad. There was no fourth race waiting for me.

A part of me felt let down, like I was missing something. The anticipation. The excitement of the starting line. The “let’s go” of mile 60. The gritty daring of mile 75. The certainty of mile 90. The finish line glow. And maybe most of all—the purpose that carved out all the noise and left only what mattered.

Without a race to line up for, I felt unmoored. A little empty. Grieving.

What you’d call the post-race blues.

You cross the finish line. You celebrate. You ride the high for a day, a weekend, maybe a week.

And then… it fades.

The photos get posted. The congratulations slow down. Life moves on.

But your brain? It wants that feeling back. That rush. That clarity. That identity: I’m doing something big. I’m someone.

So you sign up for the next race. Or you question why you cared this much about a mere race and swear off racing altogether.

Either way, you’re trying to solve a problem that isn’t actually a problem.

Because here’s the truth: the post-race blues aren’t a sign that something’s wrong.

They’re a sign that you felt something real. And now your mind and body are adjusting to the after.

The problem isn’t the blues.

The problem is that we’ve been taught to fear them. To rush through. To escape. To replace the quiet with a new goal.

We start believing the only emotions worth having are the high ones. So we hop from race to race, chasing the next hit of purpose. But we crash harder when things don’t go as planned.

Over time, we get hooked on the high—and less able to handle the low.

Which means we become less resilient, not more.

Because true resilience isn’t built in the glow of success. It’s built in your ability to feel the whole thing—the glory, the grief, and everything in between.

Want to get good at racing?

Get good at what happens after.

At sitting in the quiet that follows. At letting your heart catch up with your body. At remembering what it took to get there—not just what it felt like to finish.

You don’t have to stay stuck in the blues. But you also don’t have to run from them.

What if that ache is proof that you were brave enough to care?

That your spirit is still integrating what you just did?

The answer isn’t to stop dreaming—or to panic-sign up for another race.

The answer is to make space for all of it.

⸻

Take this with you:

You don’t get stronger by chasing highs.

You get stronger by staying put when the excitement fades. By not rushing to fill the quiet.

The post-race blues aren’t a problem. They’re part of the deal. Proof you went all in—and now you have something real to feel the blues about.

So don’t panic. Don’t shut down. Don’t drown it in another finish line.

Feel the blues.

Let it settle in. Let it teach you something. Let it remind you: you’re still in the race—even here.

This is where real resilience is built—not only in the roar, but also in the stillness after.