The Layers We Run In

This year, on Memorial Day, I completed the BOLDERBoulder 10K (jog/walk)—one of the most vibrant, quirky, joy-filled races in the country that has been around since 1980. If you haven’t ran/walked/jogged it, watched it, or cheered someone on along the course, I highly recommend it. It’s more than a race. It’s a celebration of movement, community, and heart. You can have lots of fun with the attractions on the side of the track if you wish to: from marshmallows, to bacon, from belly dancers to bagpipes, music from Elvis or the Village People, from goats to cheering cows and bells. First

It didn’t hit me during the race itself, but as I scrolled through the professional photos afterward, it became clear. Somewhere between the tap dancers and the slip-n-slide, I thought this was just about running and maintaining, or breaking my previous timing. However, upon examining those snapshots, I realized it was also about something deeper: perception.

Because if you lined up three different photos of me from that day, each one would tell a completely different story:

• How I see myself: flushed but composed, smiling through the effort, still looking like I’ve got it together.

• How others see me: the team cheerleader, dressed in bright colors, exuding confidence, the one lifting spirits and leading the way.

• How I actually feel (sometimes): distracted, caught in my head, tugging at my pockets for no reason, in a quiet, pensive state—head down, simply trying to push forward.

And in that moment, I saw it clearly: What we show the world is often just one layer. The real story runs much deeper.

First photo: How I see myself

Post-Race selfie, smiling and showing off my bib

This is the image I carry in my head—the mental snapshot I imagine when I think of myself running. It’s how I hope I look: upright posture, even strides, hair behaving itself for once. I picture the moment someone snaps a photo just as I’m smiling, maybe waving, looking strong and energized, like I’ve barely broken a sweat.

It’s the version shaped by mirrors and filtered self-awareness. A little curated, sure, but not dishonest. It’s what I try to channel at the start line: calm, prepared, “I’ve trained for this.” Even when I haven’t slept well, even when my playlist won’t load, my shoe laces suddenly feel too tight or untied.

I see myself as someone who can rise to the moment, not just finish the race, but do it with poise. Someone who can hold it together on the outside, no matter how chaotic the inside feels. And that’s powerful. This self-image becomes a kind of armor. It’s what keeps me moving forward when nerves creep in. It’s the mental version of standing tall, even when the road ahead looks long.

But sometimes, I hold onto this version so tightly that I forget it’s okay to wobble, to feel unsure, not to match that inner picture. And when the race gets real—when the sweat stings and the thoughts spiral—it’s not the mirror version of me who keeps going. It’s the one underneath.

Second photo: How others see me

Arms up and smiling while on course

This is the version that lives in other people’s eyes. They see me as the cheerleader—always smiling, always lifting others up. The one who stands out, not just by what I wear, but by how I show up. Maybe I’m leading the team warm-up, coordinating logistics, or cracking jokes to keep morale high. They see strength, confidence, and energy.

And I love that version—they're not wrong. But it’s not the whole story.

Because sometimes I’m cheering on others while quietly questioning myself. Sometimes I lead the way, even though I feel completely lost inside. I wear bright colors and bold words not because I have it all together, but because I want to help others believe they can keep going, too.

It’s strange how leadership works—how the person people count on to energize the room might be the same person going home to regroup, to start again.

But that’s not weakness. That’s humanity.

Third photo: How I actually feel when no one's watching

Jogging while looking down at my jacket's pockets

This one doesn’t usually make it into the frame. Sometimes, I find myself mid-stride, grabbing my pockets absentmindedly, wondering why they’re even there. I get sidetracked. I slow down. My thoughts drift to everything I haven’t done yet, everything I should be doing better. I’m not smiling. I’m not cheering. I’m not leading.

My head is down, my breath is uneven, and I’m just pushing myself forward, one quiet step at a time, walking instead of running. No spotlight. No applause. Just the internal work of showing up when it’s hard. This is the version that never gets posted, but it’s the truest one.

The Reality Beneath the Surface

We live in a world of curated images—snapshots of joy, leadership, and accomplishment. But what those images don’t show is the effort humming beneath the surface. The work we put in when no one is watching. The hours of second-guessing. The mental noise. The starts and restarts.

We often compare ourselves to other people’s “second photos”—how polished they look, how confident they seem—and forget that they, too, have “third photos.” We often forget that the people we admire may also feel distracted, unsure, or quietly navigating their storms.

What we show on the outside—our poise, our energy, our confidence—is real. But it’s not the whole story. It’s just the visible fraction of everything underneath.

So if you ever feel like you’re falling short because you’re not constantly energized or joyful or “put together,” remember: no one is only what they show.

Your perfection does not measure your strength. Your persistence measures it.

You are allowed to feel all three versions of yourself on the same day, sometimes in the exact moment. You can be composed and unsure. Encouraging and exhausted, and moving forward and questioning the path.

Because showing up, even when you’re in your own “third photo,” is an act of courage. So wear the bright colors. Lead when you can. Reflect when you need to. And keep running your race—even when your pockets make no sense and your head is down.

Because that version of you—the real one—is more than enough.