Why the Second Attempt Mattered More Than the First

By Daphne Kirkwood, Founder of iDaph Events

The decision to try again came quickly.

After my first 5K in May of 2002, I left feeling deeply disappointed — not because I hadn’t finished, but because I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I could run an entire 5K without stopping to walk. I just hadn’t done it yet. I didn’t feel defeated. I felt unfinished.

So I looked for another chance.

Two months later, in July, I found it at a small race in Saluda called the Coon Dog 5K. Signing up again didn’t feel bold. It felt like unfinished business I needed to take care of for myself.

The first race had been a trial. This one felt different. I was better prepared — not just physically, but mentally. I knew what a start line felt like now. I knew what nerves felt like. I knew how doubt could creep in and how to keep moving anyway.

At that point in my life, anxiety was already a constant undercurrent — long before I ever lined up for a start line. Life itself felt heavy and loud, and the stress didn’t turn off just because I signed up for a race. In fact, being so new to running made it worse. I had only done one race before, and my mind would spiral with questions as the next one approached. Would I make it? Would I have to walk again? Would I get lost? The rumination was relentless, growing louder as race day got closer. Sleep was often hard, especially when I felt pressure.

To me, races weren’t casual — they felt enormous. They were my Olympics. And because I was still so new, nothing else was allowed to interfere with that goal.

Running didn’t immediately quiet my anxiety. In the beginning, it almost amplified it — all the anticipation, all the uncertainty. But something shifted once I was moving. My breath would settle. My thoughts would slow. For the first time in a long time, I could take a deep breath without forcing it.

I had tried anti-anxiety medication, but it dulled parts of me — the emotional range, the highs and lows that made me me. Running didn’t take anything away. It steadied me. Slowly and carefully, I began reducing my medication, realizing that regular movement would need to be part of how I cared for my mental health moving forward.

As I trained, I was learning — not just about running, but about myself. Physically, things were clicking too. I had always been tall and lean, a body type that had been commented on and misunderstood growing up. For years, I had been criticized for being “too skinny,” never once thinking of that frame as functional or strong. But as the miles added up, I began to see it differently. I was light. I was efficient. I was built for endurance. Standing there that morning, it finally clicked: this is the body of an endurance runner.

The race itself was well organized. The course was clearly marked. The signs were out. I never worried about getting lost — a quiet but meaningful contrast to my first race. There were hills, but the route felt interesting and reassuring. Even then, I noticed how much clarity mattered — how small details could calm nerves and shape the entire experience.

My goal was simple: run the entire race without walking.

And I did.

Crossing the finish line brought deep satisfaction — not because of a solid finish time, but because I had done what I set out to do. I stayed afterward for the awards ceremony, mostly out of curiosity. Back then, results were calculated by hand. Someone pulled a tab from your bib, sorted times manually, and announced awards without screens or fanfare.

I didn’t know what finish times were considered “fast.” I didn’t even know adults received awards. I stayed to listen and learn — and found myself curious not just about the results, but about how everything worked behind the scenes.

When they announced the third-place time in my age group, I remember thinking, Wait… my watch says I finished faster than that.

Then they called my name.

The pause.
The energy.
The anticipation.
The delight.

I walked up to receive my award — a pint glass with the race name printed on it — completely in awe of myself. This was my second race. I had just learned how to run. And somehow, here I was.

Was I good at this?

I was good at this.

That moment wasn’t about winning. It was about belonging. About confidence. About realizing that understanding how things work — the course, the system, my own body — changes how you show up. Long before there was a business or a name, I was already asking quiet questions about what made an event feel supportive instead of intimidating.

Later that year, in the fall of 2002, after my first summer of races, I experienced my first running injury — a pulled groin muscle. I was stunned to learn you could get injured without falling. Running had become one of the few things that steadied my anxiety, and being forced to slow down was hard. But it taught me something early on: sustainability mattered.

In the fall of 2003, I welcomed my second child — another season that required patience, balance, and care for my body.

So I adapted.

I got in the pool. I picked up swimming again. I learned how to do deep water jogging. I bought a road bike. I cross-trained. Those tools would become essential.

By the spring and summer of 2004, I completed my first triathlon as a complete novice. Running was still my first love — it came easily to me — but triathlon taught me balance. It required me to swim and bike, even when running was my preference. That balance mattered not just for my body, but for my mind.

I was still healing. I still knew very little about training. But I was learning — and I was willing to keep learning.

Fifteen years later, I can see it clearly. Growth doesn’t come from the first attempt. It comes from layering experience. From adapting. From pivoting. From trying again.

Failure was never an endpoint — it was information.

And that second try changed everything.

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