Redemption over Regret: Do Not Forget (DNF)

There I was, standing at the starting line of my first-ever 100-mile race—the Indiana Trail 100—ready to pit my will against the trail, the weather, my mind. Months of training had all come down to this one raw moment. I could feel my pulse in my throat, my nerves in my feet, every muscle vibrating with anticipation. I’d be out there for hours, maybe even days, if things went south. Finishing was the goal. The only goal. But, as it turned out, the trail had other plans. By the end of that day, I’d end up with three dreaded letters plastered next to my name: DNF. Did. Not. Finish. The words taste bitter, like they’re sticking to the back of my throat. To the uninitiated, a DNF is the scarlet letter of the ultra-running world, a mark of shame—something we’re taught to avoid at all costs. But it doesn’t have to be that way. In fact, it shouldn’t. I wanted redemption over regret. 

The Cult of Finish Lines

In ultra-running, you’re bombarded with this idea that finishing is everything. The medal, the title, the finish photo. You hear stories of grit, of people who crawled across the line or duct-taped their bodies just to keep moving. “Whatever it takes,” right? There’s glory in the suffering, a kind of masochistic respect we reserve for those who don’t give in. But what if the culture around DNF is all wrong? What if there’s a different kind of strength in choosing to say, “not today”?

There’s this unspoken shame attached to quitting, as though to DNF means you’re weak, unprepared, not “cut out” for the ultra-world. But that’s nonsense. Sometimes, dropping out is the brave choice. Sometimes it’s the only sane choice. Pushing through isn’t always heroic—sometimes it’s dangerous and plain stupid. A DNF isn’t failure; it’s learning. It’s recalibrating. It’s knowing yourself well enough to say, “I’ve hit my limit, and that’s okay.”

DNFs Aren’t for the Weak

A funny thing about DNFs is that they don’t come for the weak. You think weak people sign up to run a hundred miles? Not likely. Weak people aren’t out there slogging through training runs, doing hill repeats with a headlamp, logging miles that push them to the brink. A DNF isn’t proof you weren’t strong enough. It’s proof that sometimes the trail wins. And here’s the kicker: the trail should win once in a while. Otherwise, what’s the point?

When you drop out of a race, it feels like a punch to the gut, like someone’s just hit “pause” on your best-laid plans. But a DNF is a chance to pull back the curtain and be honest about what went wrong and why. You can’t hide behind “finishing” when you DNF. You must face the music. And what did you learn there? That’s the gold. That’s what makes you a better runner, a better human.

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Do Not Forget

Let’s talk about a mindset shift. DNF doesn’t have to stand for “Did Not Finish.” It can mean something a lot more powerful: Do Not Forget. Do not forget what got you here—every grueling mile, every drop of sweat, every frozen morning where you chose to lace up. Do not forget the thrill of the start line or the fire you had when you set that goal. Don’t forget the power of showing up. The DNF doesn’t erase any of that. It’s just one day in the story, a reminder that sometimes, things don’t go as planned.

And here’s the thing: ultra-running isn’t about one race. Hell, it’s not about any single race. This isn’t a sprint; it’s a journey of resilience, grit, tenacity. The kind of things that don’t get measured by finish lines or medals. A DNF can mark a failure to reach one goal, but it also marks the point where you pick yourself up, refocus, and move forward, stronger and wiser.

Fuel for the Fire

So, here I am, sitting with my DNF and letting it sink in. But it’s done something strange—it’s lit a fire I didn’t even know I had. Every mile of training now has a new edge, a new purpose. This time, it’s not about proving something to the world or racking up a finish line photo. It’s about the journey I started, the redemption that’s waiting for me on some future trail. That’s redemption over regret. I’m coming back stronger, and that DNF? It’s just part of the story—a reminder that I’ve got something worth fighting for. 

Ultra-running isn’t a tally of finish lines. It’s the test, the grind, the gut-check moments when you face your limits. And maybe, just maybe, it’s the DNFs that reveal the real strength in all of us—the choice to go on, to fight another day, and to redefine what “finishing” truly means. 

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