When I tell people I've run five marathons, I feel proud of myself, and happy with where I'm at with my fitness goals.

When I tell people I started training for my first marathon because of a guy, I feel sort of pathetic.

It was October of 2015, when I unearthed my running shoes from under my bed, laced them up, and went for a two-mile run around Ann Arbor. By the end of it, I was so tired I felt sick, and my feet were so sore I thought they'd fall off. I ran cross country for a few years in high school, and was always one of the slowest on the team. However, I figured that some base level of fitness would stick with me, and I'd survive a long run after over a year off.

Sadly, I was mistaken. I felt like death.

I'd been dating the guy for a month. I knew he liked skinny girls. I was still, by BMI standards, a healthy weight, but my "Freshman 15" had taken a toll on my body. I had stretch marks, a pudgy stomach, and not a lot of energy or zest for life. I know it seems so, so pathetic to have embarked on the biggest lifestyle change I'd ever had simply because I wanted a guy to think I was pretty, but I figure, any motivation to make a healthy change is good motivation indeed.

The two-miler turned into a three-miler, then a four-miler. I was pleasantly surprised with how quickly I was able to go for the five and six-mile-long runs I'd grown used to in high school. I was (even more) pleasantly surprised that I shed eighteen pounds in less than four months, and added a lot of muscle definition to my legs and core. My boyfriend (who was pretty obsessed with fitness) told me how proud he was of me, and all was well.

Then, we broke up.

Now, I'm a pretty spiritual girl, in some respects. I feel spiritual connections to many things, such as my family, my major, and my running shoes. The night that we split up, though, the only thing I wanted to find solace in was Ben and Jerry's. I wanted to drown my sorrows in "Americone Dream" and just have a good cry. I did both of those things, as a matter of fact.

And then I woke up and hit the gym.

The motivation that had stemmed from wanting someone to find me nice to look at had, somehow, grown into this giant beast of an idea. I'd told the guy before, "You know, it would be cool to run a marathon, one day, maybe, possibly, potentially."

The morning of that first post-self-pity-wallowing gym session, I had a new take on my first marathon. My mantra blossomed from one of uncertainty to "Girl, you're gonna train like a beast, prepare like a beast, and wake up at 5 AM on the morning of April 3rd, 2016, and run your cute size two ass for 26.2 miles."

From that moment on, I didn't want to train to be skinny, I wanted to train to become strong. It was all fine and dandy to have a person think you're decent enough to look at, but what I wanted didn't have anything to do with another person. Instead, the feelings of pride and happiness I sought, were my own.

I bumped up those runs, usually running for at least an hour a day. I ate a lot healthier. I made juice out of spinach. I took a genuine interest in reinforced, woven running socks. I became a running stereotype. I didn't drink the night before a long run. I bought a "26.2" bumper sticker for my Subaru (and promised myself I wouldn't put it on early).

I learned that motivation can start in funny places. Some days, when I need motivation to run, I think of all the adorable forest creatures I might see on the trails, or I think of how relaxing it'll feel when I've clocked in a long run, and other wholesome things like that. Heck, other days, I find motivation in crasser ways (trust me, watching four minutes of an episode of "My 600 Lb. Life" is more motivating than one might think).

I also learned that, even if your motivation comes from a weird place, it can grow into something bigger than you know. And, it's not always an observable change. I didn't go around thinking, "Hey, I'm probably a stronger lady now, and any iota of strength I gained could potentially have exponential increases!" No, I went around thinking, "My boyfriend broke up with me. Maybe I should go eat dirt and become a forest person." And then, at the gym, boom! A dirt-eating, forest-dwelling person no more.

I learned that working for a marathon of a goal (PUN!) is hard. There's a reason One-Mile-Fun-Runs have a lot more people signing up for them, compared to longer races. 26.2 miles is hard. Popping quarter-sized blisters on your feet is mad yicky. Seeing other people's nipples bleed through their shirts is incredibly unsettling. Eating energy gel from a tube is nausea-inducing.

But, from all of that, I learned that there is a huge correlation between effort and reward. When I finished my first two-mile run, I'd put in a fair amount of effort (because I was the embodiment of an out-of-shape potato), so I felt proud. The routine mid-length runs left me feeling sort of 'meh.' But that last run, the last run out of the whole marathon-training production, when I crossed that finish line, I felt more proud of myself than I'd ever felt before.

I learned to value your circumstances. How lucky the people of Ann Arbor are that we have a safe (99% of the time) city to run in. I have two working legs, and the time to dedicate towards training. I learned that, even if you aren't training for a certain fitness event, that there's no excuse to be unhealthy, unless you suffer from a preexisting medical condition. If you're a regular, fairly-healthy schmuck like I was/am/will hopefully continue to be forevermore, there is no excuse to sit on your butt, being romantically attracted to Qdoba, when there is an entire, super fun world to romp through.

And, finally, I learned that I had what it takes.

I wasn't super fast, and I wasn't looking too tough or mighty right at the end, but my trained little feet didn't quit on me, and they carried me through.

Never quit on you.