The Ironman DNF That Changed Me | by @the.tri.nurse

There was a time last year when an Ironman start line felt impossibly far away.

Significant illness stripped everything back. Training plans became survival plans, and progress was measured by whether I was strong enough to stand up that day rather than cross a finish line.

Coming through that period taught me something I now carry into every challenge: health, strength and opportunity are privileges that can never be taken for granted.

So when I began preparing for Ironman Lanzarote, it was never just about racing. It was about proving to myself that I was back. That my body and mind could once again align towards something extraordinary.

I trained while balancing a life that rarely slows down. Military life demands discipline and adaptability, while working as a critical care nurse means long days, longer nights and 13-hour shifts caring for people on some of the hardest days of their lives. Training didn’t fit neatly around life—it had to exist within the chaos of it.

Early mornings, late evenings and tired legs became familiar companions. There were sessions squeezed between shifts, long rides after sleepless nights. Endurance training taught me that consistency is rarely glamorous. Most of the work happens when nobody sees it.

Race week arrived, and life delivered a challenge I could never have prepared for.

My nan died.

One moment I was focused on race preparation, obsessing over pacing, fuelling and the final details—and the next, none of it seemed to matter.

Grief has a way of silencing everything around you. It cuts through the noise and reminds you how fragile life really is.

I felt torn in ways I struggle to put into words.  The woman who had been part of my story, my strength and my memories was suddenly gone.

My body was ready to race, but my heart was somewhere else entirely.

It took every ounce of mental resilience I had built over months to quiet the noise in my own head and reach race day. To hold space for grief while still finding enough of myself to keep moving forward. I cried, I doubted and I wrestled with emotions I could not control.

But with a heavy heart and a mind carrying far more than race-day nerves, I stepped onto the shoreline and raced.

And then Ironman Lanzarote humbled me.

From around the four-hour point on the bike, something shifted. For nearly 30 miles I couldn't keep fuel down, and with every failed attempt I felt the race slipping away. Energy disappeared. Clarity faded. The body I trusted so much was no longer responding the way I needed it to.

A flat tyre at mile 86.

The final blow.

Under normal circumstances, a puncture is manageable. An inconvenience, not a catastrophe. But depleted, underfuelled and already struggling, it became the nail in the coffin. My body went into shock and suddenly the race I had prepared so relentlessly for was slipping away.

DNF.

Three letters I had never seriously considered as part of my story.

Not because I underestimated Ironman, but because failure had never featured in the outcome I pictured. I had prepared to suffer. I had prepared to fight. I had prepared for pain. I had not prepared to stop.

And yet, there I was.

At first, the DNF felt heavy. Not just disappointment, but confusion. How do you process something you never imagined happening? How do you make peace with a result that feels so far removed from the effort behind it?

But distance creates perspective.

And perspective taught me this:

A DNF is not the opposite of courage.

It is proof that you dared to try.

The easiest thing after Lanzarote would have been retreat. To let fear grow roots. To protect myself from disappointment by avoiding another start line.

Instead, I booked another race.

Not because the fear disappeared, but because it didn’t.

Now I carry something I never had before—the knowledge of what it feels like not to finish. And that brings new fears. Questions. Doubts. But it also brings lessons I could never have learned from a perfect race.

I understand myself more, how my brain ticks under pressure. Where my knowledge gaps are in the sport. 

I understand that I need to appreciate just how far I’ve come. 

That is why my mission remains unchanged.

To push my limits and encourage others to do the same.

I want people to feel seen & believe in themselves! 

Too often people minimise their goals, convincing themselves they are too small or not important enough to matter. But every goal matters if it matters to the person chasing it. Whether it is an Ironman, a first 5k, recovering from illness or simply finding the confidence to begin—it deserves respect.

I've seen the impact of physical exercise on mental health both professionally and personally. Within the military community especially, movement can provide structure, confidence, connection and purpose when people need it most.

Lanzarote did not give me the medal I wanted.

But it gave me something more valuable. 

A reminder that setbacks do not end the story—they shape it.