Yesterday I ran the Scottish Half Marathon, and while it wasn’t my fastest race, it may well have been the one I’m most proud of. Not because of the time on the clock, but because of the shift in perspective it gave me, a reminder of what it means to be grateful for my body.

If I’m honest, my relationship with my body hasn’t always been straightforward. Just three weeks ago I lined up at the San Francisco Marathon after training faithfully for more than 16 weeks. I’d poured myself into that training: long runs in the heat, early mornings, careful planning to fit everything in. But race day didn’t go the way I’d hoped. My body felt heavy, my energy drained, and the time I worked so hard for slipped out of reach. I crossed the finish line feeling like my body had betrayed me.

That feeling isn’t new. Living and working in West Africa has pushed my body to its limits in ways I could never have anticipated. Illness, exhaustion, the relentless heat, my health has taken hits that left me frustrated and disappointed. Too often, I’ve linked my body’s struggles with my own sense of worth, as though being unwell somehow meant I was failing. And as someone who likes to push, to achieve, to get things right, that’s been a hard pill to swallow.

So when I stood at the start line of the Scottish Half Marathon, I fell into old habits. I set off quickly, chasing a personal best, determined to prove to myself that my body could deliver. But about 3k in, I had a realisation: it was warmer than I’d expected, it’s only been three weeks since the marathon, and my body (and mind) are still recovering from all that it’s been through in the last field service. I could keep pushing and likely crash, or I could let go of the PB I’d been chasing and see what happened if I ran with gratitude instead of expectation.

That decision changed everything.

I slowed down. I breathed. I looked around at the course, the crowd, the beauty of being back home in Scotland. I took every sweet offered by kind spectators, gave every child a high five and tapped every sign to power up. I let my body set the pace instead of my ego, and in doing so I discovered something remarkable. My body wasn’t failing me, it was showing up. It was carrying me mile after mile, strong enough to run another half marathon so soon after a full one. Not perfectly, not at record speed, but faithfully, resiliently.

For the first time in a long time, I felt awe instead of frustration. Awe that my legs could keep moving. Awe that my lungs kept pulling in air. Awe that this body, the body that I so often criticise, was capable of something extraordinary.

By the time I crossed the finish line, I wasn’t even thinking about my time. I was thinking about how proud I felt. Proud that I’d chosen gratitude over disappointment. Proud that I’d run with joy. Proud that I’d allowed myself to be present, to notice, to celebrate instead of critique.

The Scottish Half wasn’t the fastest race I’ve ever run, but it may be one of the most meaningful. It reminded me that running isn’t just about personal bests or perfect training cycles. It’s about learning to honour what my body can do, even when it’s not what I planned. It’s about choosing to see strength instead of failure. It’s about gratitude.

And that lesson will carry me far beyond the finish line.