Courage is not being afraid, it’s being afraid and doing it anyway.
—Gina Bianchini
My Ironman story didn’t start with confidence or a lifelong dream. It started on a cold December day in 2023, when everything in my life felt like it was caving in. I was depressed, broke, drinking again, newly heartbroken, and drifting through my days in that numb way you do when you’re just trying to make it to the next hour.
I texted, “I’m gonna sign up for Muncie Ironman,” and then I did. It wasn’t bravery or ambition. It was stubborn, reckless hope, a need for something bigger than my mess. Something to pull me out of the dark. Not to win, but to try. To stick to something.
I had no coach. No one telling me what to do, no structured plan, no professional guidance. I relied on research, trial and error, and the advice of a few mentors who helped me navigate when I felt completely lost. Every training season, every adjustment, every mistake was mine alone to figure out.
I had no proper gear. I ran my first miles in ragged Walmart sneakers. Every step reminded me that all I had to give this dream was heart. Halfway through training, friends at my home gym pooled money for my first real pair of running shoes, Brooks Adrenalines. Lacing them up felt like a small gift of belief I hadn’t yet given myself.
My bike was a hand-me-down Trek, way too big for me, until a mentor gifted me a men’s Fuji to get me through my first Ironman. After that race, she surprised me again with a red women’s Fuji that fit perfectly, but this time it was mine to keep. My tri suit was a hand-me-down, my wetsuit a last-minute Marketplace find. Nothing matched. Nothing was fancy. But every piece of gear told the same story. People believed in me long before I did.
I trained through every season while working an 8–5 job. Mornings became ritual; evenings were spent running or pedaling until dark. Sometimes I squeezed in a swim at lunch. I was juggling training, exhaustion, and a life unraveling behind the scenes.
The hardest part wasn’t the miles. It was the doubt.
Am I doing this right?
Can I do this?
Am I strong enough?
Tears came mid-run more than once. I wasn’t just training my body. I was wrestling with everything broken inside me.
After Muncie, I expected the high to last. Instead, I crashed. Months passed without running. Another race felt too big, too expensive, too uncertain. Slowly, I learned that the universe meets you halfway when you keep showing up. Small sponsorships, gear, encouragement reminded me that consistency, not perfection, moves you forward.
The three months before Ironman Arizona were the hardest yet. After a slowdown post-Louisville, I carried more insecurity than ever. I wasn’t counting down to a half anymore. I was facing the full Ironman. Every workout felt heavier. My body begged for rest. My mind questioned everything. But my tribe, friends, family, mentors, never wavered. They poured belief into me when my tank was empty.
The swim. Nerves had me putting my wetsuit on backwards in practice. “Good to get those race-day nerves out of the way now,” another athlete said with a smile. Race day water temperature was 67 degrees, cold enough for a wetsuit but warm enough that booties weren’t allowed. I needle-dived feet first into the Tempe Salt River and started the 2.4-mile swim. The straightaways felt endless, and the pull of the wetsuit was a constant reminder that I was moving forward.
The bike. The course looped through canals, landfills, desert stretches, and brutal winds that knocked me sideways. Moments came when I wanted to stop more than to continue.
The run. Unforgiving. Two mental walls, stomach issues, and exhaustion made every mile a fight with myself. By mile 23, I could smell the finish line. The lights, the noise, the cheers, and finally the words I had dreamed of hearing:
“Carly Smith, you are an Ironman.”
I crossed the finish line twice, once for the crowd, and again when I rang the first-timer’s bell under the Arizona night sky. Fountains sprayed. The arch glowed. It was surreal, overwhelming, and the closing of a chapter I’d once been too broken to imagine beginning.
Muncie built the foundation. Louisville gathered the pieces. Arizona fused them together. Those finish lines didn’t change who I was. They revealed who I had been all along.
If this journey taught me anything, it’s that the impossible is rarely impossible. It waits for you on the other side of fear, self-doubt, and the belief that you’re not worthy of doing something extraordinary.
You don’t have to feel ready.
You just have to say yes.
And take one imperfect step at a time.
Whether you think you can, or you think you can’t – you’re right.
—Henry Ford
When people ask me if I would do it again, I think about the challenge. The thing is, the challenge never changes. First Ironman, personal best, every race, it is always me versus me, my limits, my doubts, my perseverance. And that is exactly what makes it worth it. Just like courage isn’t the absence of fear, this race isn’t about ease. It’s about showing up anyway.
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