The Guilt of Missed Training and the Weight of Grief

Mallorca is less than eight weeks away, and somehow I feel two things at once: ready and not ready at all.

On paper, training is moving forward. The race is getting close. The work has been happening. But underneath all of that is the feeling that there is still so much left to do, so much that could still go wrong, and so much pressure tied to what this race means to me.

Last week was especially hard. It marked one year since I lost Alex.

When that kind of date arrives, grief does not politely announce itself and then pass through. It settles in. It changes the weight of everything. There were a few days last week when I simply could not do much beyond surviving the day. Training was supposed to happen, but instead I was just trying to keep my head above water.

And then came the guilt.

Not just the normal athlete guilt of missing workouts or falling behind on a plan, but something heavier. It felt like missing those sessions meant more than missed sessions. It felt like I was letting Alex down. Letting Jason down. Letting down the promise I carry with me when I train and when I think about showing up to this race.

I tried to rearrange the schedule. I tried to make up what I missed. I wanted to do it because it felt important — because doing my best matters to me, and because this race is tied to something much deeper than finish times, paces, or power numbers. I want to be able to say I gave everything I had. I want to know I showed up for them fully.

But I could not make up those missed sessions.

And that has been hard to sit with.

What I am slowly trying to understand is that grief is not the same as failure.

Missing training because of laziness would be one thing. Missing training because your heart is carrying the weight of loss is something else entirely. That does not make it easy to accept, but it does make it true.

There is a part of me that still wants to believe that honoring Alex and Jason means never missing, never slipping, never having an off week. But maybe that is not what honoring them looks like at all. Maybe honoring them is continuing anyway. Continuing imperfectly. Continuing honestly. Continuing after the hard days, after the tears, after the silence, after the days when all I could do was survive.

Maybe the promise was never about perfect execution.

Maybe the promise was simply to keep going.

That does not erase the disappointment I feel. I still wish I had been able to do every session. I still wish that week had looked different. I still feel the tension between wanting to give my all and knowing that sometimes life, grief, and love demand something different from me.

But I am still here.

I am still training.
I am still moving toward Mallorca.
I am still carrying Alex with me.
I am still trying to show up in a way that would make both Alex and Jason proud.

And maybe that has to be enough.

Because love is not measured by perfect adherence to a training plan.
Promises are not kept only on the days when everything goes right.
Sometimes showing up looks like pushing through a workout.
Sometimes showing up looks like making it through the day.

Last week, showing up meant surviving.

This week, it means beginning again.

Mallorca is getting closer. I still feel the nerves, the pressure, and the unfinished parts of preparation. But I also know this: a few missed sessions do not define my training, and they do not define my love.

I am not behind in the ways that matter most.

I am still here.
I am still trying.
I am still going.

And I will carry them with me all the way to the starting line.