13. Gratitude Beyond the Finish Line

There are moments in life that stay with you forever.

For me, one of those moments happened with one wall ball left.

One final rep.

One final squat.

One final push.

Glenn had timed our wall balls perfectly so that I would finish the race. As I stood up out of that final squat and threw the 100th wall ball towards the target, something unexpected happened.

Emotion caught me.

As I drove the ball upwards, I could hardly breathe. My throat tightened as tears welled in my eyes.

I hit the target.

Caught the ball.

Let it fall to the floor.

High-fived our incredible judge.

And then we ran.

Hand in hand towards the finish line.

I've crossed many finish lines over the years.

Marathon finish lines.

Half Ironman finish lines.

HYROX finish lines.

Training milestones.

Personal victories that nobody else ever saw.

But this one felt completely different.

As Glenn and I crossed together, I was overwhelmed.

Relief.

Gratitude.

Emotion.

There were tears before we'd even stopped moving.

For a few moments, everything we'd been through over the past few months seemed to arrive all at once.

The surgery.

The diagnosis.

The recovery.

The uncertainty.

The medication.

The fatigue.

The doubt.

And somehow...

Here we were.

Recovery Looks Different Now

After crossing the finish line, Glenn sat down in the recovery area.

I remember thinking, "If I sit down, I'm not sure I'll get back up."

So I stayed standing.

We gathered ourselves, took it all in, and started looking for another couple we'd been racing alongside. We wanted to cheer them home too.

That's one of the things I love most about endurance sport.

No matter what race you're having yourself, there's always room to celebrate someone else's finish line too.

Soon enough we grabbed our finish line photos,  collected our bags, caught up with our coach, and headed back towards Bondi.

Everything happened quickly.

The adrenaline was still carrying me.

I almost forgot how tired I was.

Almost.

When the Adrenaline Wore Off

By the time we reached Bondi, everything changed.

Thankfully Glenn's meeting had been delayed, giving us time to grab something to eat.

While we waited for our food, it hit me.

A wave of nausea.

Dizziness.

I suddenly felt incredibly unwell.

The race was over.

The adrenaline had disappeared.

And my body let me know exactly how much it had given me that morning.

I walked outside, desperate for fresh air... and just in case I needed somewhere to be sick.

For the first time that day, I was genuinely worried.

Thankfully, once we ate and made it back to the hotel, things slowly settled.

But looking back now, I think that was my body saying,

"I've carried you through today. Now you need to look after me."

Listening Instead of Pushing

Normally when we're in Sydney, especially around Bondi, I can't sit still.

I'm exploring.

Walking.

Finding new cafés.

Making the most of every minute.

This trip looked very different.

Rest wasn't just something I should do.

It was something I had to do.

Nutrition became even more important than usual.

Hydration.

Protein.

Good food.

Sleep.

Not because I was chasing performance anymore.

But because I was supporting recovery.

That evening we enjoyed dinner with the referee team.

A beautiful meal.

A huge wagyu steak.

Lots of laughs.

It felt like exactly what my body—and my soul—needed.

The next morning I managed a short walk down to the beach.

Coffee in hand.

Vitamin D on my face.

Watching people go about their day.

Feeling incredibly grateful.

Grateful that I was there.

Grateful that I'd made it to Sydney.

Grateful that my body had somehow carried me through the race.

Maybe gratitude isn't something we find at the finish line. Maybe it's something we discover on the journey that gets us there.

Choosing Gratitude

The following night I had the opportunity to watch Ireland take on the Wallabies.

If I'm honest...

All my body wanted to do was stay in bed.

It took every bit of energy I had to get out the door.

But once I arrived at the stadium, something shifted.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

Another wave washed over me.

Not adrenaline this time.

Gratitude.

Gratitude that I was alive to experience moments like this.

Gratitude for Glenn and the opportunities his work gives us.

Gratitude that, despite everything that had happened this year, life was still giving me

moments of joy.

Looking back now, I probably should have gone home afterwards.

Instead, I stayed out.

Shared a couple of drinks.

Watched more international rugby.

Even managed a little dance.

Met some more wonderful Irish people.

I wanted to squeeze every drop out of the evening.

Because I knew moments like these are never guaranteed.

Home

The following day we travelled home to New Zealand.

Collected the kids.

Picked up the dog.

Walked through our front door.

And then...

It was as though my body finally exhaled.

It said, 

"You're home now."

"You can stop."

And that's exactly what happened.

I hit a wall.

The Recovery Nobody Sees

For nearly two weeks afterwards, I barely did anything.

A short spin on the bike if I felt able.

Lots of sleep.

Lots of resting.

More fatigue than I'd hoped for.

There were moments I questioned whether I'd pushed too far.

Whether I'd asked too much of a body that was still healing.

Thankfully it was still the school holidays.

I didn't have to think about getting myself to work each day.

And honestly...

I don't know how I would have managed.

Recovery isn't always obvious.

Sometimes it isn't the scar.

Sometimes it isn't the blood tests.

Sometimes it isn't what anyone else can see.

Sometimes it's simply the quiet decision to stay on the couch because your body has nothing left to give.

The Lesson

A few months ago I think I would have been disappointed.

Frustrated that my recovery took so long.

Annoyed that I wasn't bouncing back.

This time felt different.

Instead of fighting my body...

I listened.

I rested.

I trusted that it knew what it needed.

And perhaps that's one of the biggest victories to come out of this whole journey.

Not crossing the finish line.

But learning that recovery doesn't end there.

What I'm Learning

I've realised that sometimes the biggest achievement isn't what happens during the race.

It's what happens afterwards.

It's having the courage to slow down.

To recover without guilt.

To stop measuring success by how quickly you bounce back.

To recognise that healing has its own timeline.

And perhaps most importantly, to choose gratitude.

Not just for the big milestones, like crossing another finish line.

But for the quieter moments too.

A body that, despite everything it has been through, still carried me to the finish.

A husband who was there beside me every step of the way.

A coffee in the sunshine at Bondi.

A steak shared with good people.

An evening at the rugby.

A hug from my children when I arrived home.

My dog.

A couch, a blanket, and the permission to simply rest.

Cancer has changed many things.

But one thing it has given me is a deeper appreciation for the ordinary moments I might once have rushed past.

The race finished when I crossed the line.

But the real work...

The real strength...

Was in everything that came after.

And perhaps the greatest finish line of all isn't marked by a timing mat or a medal.

Perhaps it's reaching a place where you can look around, exactly as life is today, and simply think,

"I'm so grateful to be here."