5. Why Ultrarunning Goals Feel Hard
We’ve all signed up for a big race with a quiet hope that everything will go smoothly. However, ultras rarely go to plan. When you set yourself a big goal, unexpected emotional and physical challenges can be found at every turn. But the truth here: difficulty doesn't mean you're doing it wrong.
You’ve had those moments when everything seems to go sideways—pouring rain, freezing wind, painful blisters, and the crushing thought of another DNF. But instead of letting that thought win, it’s time to start thinking a little differently, so you can come out the other side stronger.
Tune in this week to find out why your big goals aren’t supposed to feel easy. Whether you're training for your first ultra, or setting yourself a target that stretches you, what I share today will help you see setbacks in a new light, while helping you build the mindset that gets you to the finish line every time.
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What You’ll Learn from this Episode:
Why it’s not supposed to be easy—and what to do when it’s not.
How emotional discomfort can masquerade as failure (but isn’t).
The exact mental shift I use (and teach my clients) to keep moving through tough moments.
Why letting go of your expectations might be the most powerful thing you do mid-race.
Listen to the Full Episode:
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Full Episode Transcript:
Hey there, and welcome to Episode 5. I'm so glad you're here. If you've ever gone after a big goal and struggled with the training or race, this one's for you.
Welcome to Unstoppable Ultra Runner, the podcast for ultrarunners who refuse to let anything hold them back. I’m your host, Susan Donnelly, veteran of over 150 100-mile races, and a coach who helps runners like you break through mental roadblocks, push past doubt, and run with confidence. Let’s go.
Here's the real reason runners struggle to hit big goals: They expect the process to feel good, and when it doesn't, they think something's gone wrong. Think about it. Big goals bring big discomfort: fear, doubt, setbacks, identity shifts, and most runners aren't taught to expect that or how to handle it. So when it shows up, they assume, "I must not be ready. I must not be good enough." Or worse, "I must not be cut out for this."
Then they pull back, play it safe, or drop out of the race—not because they're not capable, but because they think the struggle means they're not. And sometimes, it's not even the big goal that throws you; it's the one you thought would be manageable. For me, that was Daytona 100 last December. On paper, it looked easy. Flat, fast, pavement, point-to-point. I'd run it before, crewed it before, and knew the layout. There's nothing tricky there.
I don't love pavement, and long straight stretches are mentally tough for me, but I like the relaxed vibe of the race and the generous 31-hour cutoff, and race director Bob Becker is a long-time friend. So it felt good to be there. And I'd also been finishing close to cutoff in recent races.
And I was coming back from a rough few months. I'd had a hard fall at Superior, a DNF there, and a broken finger that shook my confidence, and waiting for the finger to heal had taken me out of several fall events. So I picked Daytona to ease my way back into hundreds. Flat, familiar, no risk of falling—piece of cake. I expected it to feel mildly challenging but very doable.
But of course, the truth is, 100 miles, no matter how flat, friendly, or familiar, is never easy. And here's what we don't talk enough about in ultra running. It's not just about the physical discomfort. There's emotional discomfort too. Big goals bring doubt. Like, "Who am I to try this?" They bring fear: "What if I fail again?" And identity friction. "I'm not the kind of runner who finishes races like this. What am I doing here?" And they bring setbacks that can be disappointing: "Why does it feel like I'm getting worse and not better?"
And at Daytona, that emotional discomfort hit me in the middle of the night. We'd had a strong, steady wind all day, which really helped with the heat. It was great in the heat. And the forecast called for occasional showers at night. No big deal; it's Florida. At mile 72, I stopped at an aid station under a picnic shelter and was digging through my drop bag when the rain started. I didn't bother with a jacket; I figured it would pass. Because we were supposed to have occasional showers, right?
And it stopped by the time I left. But a few minutes later, out on the road, the rain started again, and this time it didn't stop. And I reluctantly stopped and pulled my jacket out of my pack, put the pack back on, and resumed moving. And then it began to pour. And the wind, which hadn't let up once all day, was starting to drive the rain sideways. So I stopped again, took off my pack, pulled out something I almost never use: my emergency poncho. And I put it on, and the wind whipped it so loudly I couldn't hear anything, but it was keeping me warm enough.
And in the meantime, the sidewalks had turned into ankle-deep ponds, and for good ironic measure, the sprinkler systems for the developments we were running by—the sprinkler systems that work at night—kicked on too. So we were getting water from the sky and the ground. I couldn't see my watch. I didn't know how far I'd gone or where I was on cutoff. I just knew I was cold, and it was dark and wet. And that's when doubt crept in.
It's not about the weather, but about what it meant. This isn't how this race was supposed to go. This is hard. I didn't think it would be this hard. This was supposed to be easy, and now I might not even finish. And then came the blister. I almost never have to stop for blisters and definitely didn't want to stop now, in the middle of the cold, rainy night, but this one was making even walking hurt.
"Here's another failure," I thought. "I shouldn't have a blister I have to treat in an easy race like this." But I pulled over, found a small store that had a bench and a narrow awning, and I sat down just barely out of the rain. I taped the wet toe and just hoped it would hold. That was the best I could do, and it helped, and miraculously, the tape stuck. But it cost me time. And so I got resumed running, and immediately when I did, it hit me: that hard, unwelcome thought. I hadn't counted on another DNF.
The words in my head echoed like a failure. I wasn't just feeling setbacks; this was a crack in everything I'd been trying to rebuild all fall. And this is the moment where most runners think they've failed because it feels wrong; it doesn't feel good. The race isn't going the way they expected. They didn't expect this kind of struggle, especially emotionally. But discomfort isn't a red flag; it's part of the process, even in the "easy" races.
We forget: even when the course is flat or familiar, we're still doing something big. We're still testing our limits. We're still risking failure. We're still showing up in ways most people don't. So that's what I remembered out there in the Florida night, soaked, cold with the wind howling as I slopped through sidewalk ponds under a flapping poncho hood. I caught myself resisting the hard.
I realized I'd expected this race to feel easy, and that expectation—not the conditions—was the problem. So I did what I've done for decades and what I teach my clients to do, and I let go of the race I expected because holding on to it wasn't helping me at all. And I reframed the moment. "Okay, this is the race I'm in. It's not the race I wanted, but this is the race I'm in, and I'm going to do it." It didn't need to be easier; I needed to stop needing it to be easy.
I'm going to repeat that for emphasis. I didn't need it to be easier; I needed to stop needing it to be easy.
After that, I built what I call an "evidence bank," which is just reasons I could finish, and I came up with these: Daylight would come soon. That would change things, for sure. I was doing the best I could, watch or no watch. I've run worse trails in worse rain, and at least this footing was okay. I definitely wasn't overheating. That was a win. I was still moving, I was still passing landmarks, I was still in the race. And I wasn't alone.
There were a couple of headlamps flickering in the dark ahead of me and probably behind, but I couldn't turn around and see. So we were isolated, but we were still isolated together. And that helped. So what changed in all that wasn't the weather, or my pace, or my plan, and there were no crew or pacers that said anything life-changing because I didn't have any. What changed was my mindset.
I stopped thinking discomfort meant I was failing. I stopped resisting the reality of the race, and I ran. And that reframing didn't look like a breakthrough. It was just me, soaked, cold, still running, choosing to keep going on. But that moment changed the race for me. Not because the rain stopped or because my legs felt better, but because I stopped needing it to be easy, and that created clarity. That gave me relief.
And this is the real work of chasing big goals. Not waiting for the perfect moment, not hoping discomfort goes away, but deciding right in the middle of the mess to keep going forward anyway. That choice didn't fix everything for me, but it turned heavy disappointment into strong determination. And it turned doubt into perseverance. And that got me to the finish.
So if you're out there in your own storm right now, this is how it starts to feel better, and this is how you get strong enough to go the distance. Here's the takeaway today: It's not supposed to be easy; it's supposed to be yours. Think about that one. It's not supposed to be easy; it's supposed to be yours.
Your race might feel disappointing, overwhelming, or out of reach. And you might feel angry, ashamed, or frustrated with yourself. But if you're chasing a big goal or in a race that's turning out to be harder than expected, don't assume that means you're failing. Discomfort, even emotional discomfort, doesn't mean something's wrong. It means you're in it; you're doing it.
Big goals will always test you. That's what makes them worthwhile. So stop arguing that there shouldn't be hard parts and stop being surprised when they show up. Start getting better at moving through them because this is where emotional strength gets built. This is where confidence grows. And this is how you reach the finish again and again—not by being comfortable, but by walking through fire, again and again. You can handle more hard stuff than you think.
Alright. You've got more in you than you think. See you next week.
Thanks for listening to Unstoppable Ultra Runner. If you want more ultra talk, mindset tools, and strategies for running with confidence, visit www.susanidonnelly.com. This podcast receives production support from the team at Digital Freedom Productions. That’s it for today’s episode. See you next week.
Welcome to Unstoppable Ultra Runner, the podcast for ultrarunners who refuse to let anything hold them back. I’m your host, Susan Donnelly, veteran of over 150 100-mile races, and a coach who helps runners like you break through mental roadblocks, push past doubt, and run with confidence. Let’s go.
Here's the real reason runners struggle to hit big goals: They expect the process to feel good, and when it doesn't, they think something's gone wrong. Think about it. Big goals bring big discomfort: fear, doubt, setbacks, identity shifts, and most runners aren't taught to expect that or how to handle it. So when it shows up, they assume, "I must not be ready. I must not be good enough." Or worse, "I must not be cut out for this."
Then they pull back, play it safe, or drop out of the race—not because they're not capable, but because they think the struggle means they're not. And sometimes, it's not even the big goal that throws you; it's the one you thought would be manageable. For me, that was Daytona 100 last December. On paper, it looked easy. Flat, fast, pavement, point-to-point. I'd run it before, crewed it before, and knew the layout. There's nothing tricky there.
I don't love pavement, and long straight stretches are mentally tough for me, but I like the relaxed vibe of the race and the generous 31-hour cutoff, and race director Bob Becker is a long-time friend. So it felt good to be there. And I'd also been finishing close to cutoff in recent races.
And I was coming back from a rough few months. I'd had a hard fall at Superior, a DNF there, and a broken finger that shook my confidence, and waiting for the finger to heal had taken me out of several fall events. So I picked Daytona to ease my way back into hundreds. Flat, familiar, no risk of falling—piece of cake. I expected it to feel mildly challenging but very doable.
But of course, the truth is, 100 miles, no matter how flat, friendly, or familiar, is never easy. And here's what we don't talk enough about in ultra running. It's not just about the physical discomfort. There's emotional discomfort too. Big goals bring doubt. Like, "Who am I to try this?" They bring fear: "What if I fail again?" And identity friction. "I'm not the kind of runner who finishes races like this. What am I doing here?" And they bring setbacks that can be disappointing: "Why does it feel like I'm getting worse and not better?"
And at Daytona, that emotional discomfort hit me in the middle of the night. We'd had a strong, steady wind all day, which really helped with the heat. It was great in the heat. And the forecast called for occasional showers at night. No big deal; it's Florida. At mile 72, I stopped at an aid station under a picnic shelter and was digging through my drop bag when the rain started. I didn't bother with a jacket; I figured it would pass. Because we were supposed to have occasional showers, right?
And it stopped by the time I left. But a few minutes later, out on the road, the rain started again, and this time it didn't stop. And I reluctantly stopped and pulled my jacket out of my pack, put the pack back on, and resumed moving. And then it began to pour. And the wind, which hadn't let up once all day, was starting to drive the rain sideways. So I stopped again, took off my pack, pulled out something I almost never use: my emergency poncho. And I put it on, and the wind whipped it so loudly I couldn't hear anything, but it was keeping me warm enough.
And in the meantime, the sidewalks had turned into ankle-deep ponds, and for good ironic measure, the sprinkler systems for the developments we were running by—the sprinkler systems that work at night—kicked on too. So we were getting water from the sky and the ground. I couldn't see my watch. I didn't know how far I'd gone or where I was on cutoff. I just knew I was cold, and it was dark and wet. And that's when doubt crept in.
It's not about the weather, but about what it meant. This isn't how this race was supposed to go. This is hard. I didn't think it would be this hard. This was supposed to be easy, and now I might not even finish. And then came the blister. I almost never have to stop for blisters and definitely didn't want to stop now, in the middle of the cold, rainy night, but this one was making even walking hurt.
"Here's another failure," I thought. "I shouldn't have a blister I have to treat in an easy race like this." But I pulled over, found a small store that had a bench and a narrow awning, and I sat down just barely out of the rain. I taped the wet toe and just hoped it would hold. That was the best I could do, and it helped, and miraculously, the tape stuck. But it cost me time. And so I got resumed running, and immediately when I did, it hit me: that hard, unwelcome thought. I hadn't counted on another DNF.
The words in my head echoed like a failure. I wasn't just feeling setbacks; this was a crack in everything I'd been trying to rebuild all fall. And this is the moment where most runners think they've failed because it feels wrong; it doesn't feel good. The race isn't going the way they expected. They didn't expect this kind of struggle, especially emotionally. But discomfort isn't a red flag; it's part of the process, even in the "easy" races.
We forget: even when the course is flat or familiar, we're still doing something big. We're still testing our limits. We're still risking failure. We're still showing up in ways most people don't. So that's what I remembered out there in the Florida night, soaked, cold with the wind howling as I slopped through sidewalk ponds under a flapping poncho hood. I caught myself resisting the hard.
I realized I'd expected this race to feel easy, and that expectation—not the conditions—was the problem. So I did what I've done for decades and what I teach my clients to do, and I let go of the race I expected because holding on to it wasn't helping me at all. And I reframed the moment. "Okay, this is the race I'm in. It's not the race I wanted, but this is the race I'm in, and I'm going to do it." It didn't need to be easier; I needed to stop needing it to be easy.
I'm going to repeat that for emphasis. I didn't need it to be easier; I needed to stop needing it to be easy.
After that, I built what I call an "evidence bank," which is just reasons I could finish, and I came up with these: Daylight would come soon. That would change things, for sure. I was doing the best I could, watch or no watch. I've run worse trails in worse rain, and at least this footing was okay. I definitely wasn't overheating. That was a win. I was still moving, I was still passing landmarks, I was still in the race. And I wasn't alone.
There were a couple of headlamps flickering in the dark ahead of me and probably behind, but I couldn't turn around and see. So we were isolated, but we were still isolated together. And that helped. So what changed in all that wasn't the weather, or my pace, or my plan, and there were no crew or pacers that said anything life-changing because I didn't have any. What changed was my mindset.
I stopped thinking discomfort meant I was failing. I stopped resisting the reality of the race, and I ran. And that reframing didn't look like a breakthrough. It was just me, soaked, cold, still running, choosing to keep going on. But that moment changed the race for me. Not because the rain stopped or because my legs felt better, but because I stopped needing it to be easy, and that created clarity. That gave me relief.
And this is the real work of chasing big goals. Not waiting for the perfect moment, not hoping discomfort goes away, but deciding right in the middle of the mess to keep going forward anyway. That choice didn't fix everything for me, but it turned heavy disappointment into strong determination. And it turned doubt into perseverance. And that got me to the finish.
So if you're out there in your own storm right now, this is how it starts to feel better, and this is how you get strong enough to go the distance. Here's the takeaway today: It's not supposed to be easy; it's supposed to be yours. Think about that one. It's not supposed to be easy; it's supposed to be yours.
Your race might feel disappointing, overwhelming, or out of reach. And you might feel angry, ashamed, or frustrated with yourself. But if you're chasing a big goal or in a race that's turning out to be harder than expected, don't assume that means you're failing. Discomfort, even emotional discomfort, doesn't mean something's wrong. It means you're in it; you're doing it.
Big goals will always test you. That's what makes them worthwhile. So stop arguing that there shouldn't be hard parts and stop being surprised when they show up. Start getting better at moving through them because this is where emotional strength gets built. This is where confidence grows. And this is how you reach the finish again and again—not by being comfortable, but by walking through fire, again and again. You can handle more hard stuff than you think.
Alright. You've got more in you than you think. See you next week.
Thanks for listening to Unstoppable Ultra Runner. If you want more ultra talk, mindset tools, and strategies for running with confidence, visit www.susanidonnelly.com. This podcast receives production support from the team at Digital Freedom Productions. That’s it for today’s episode. See you next week.
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