September. Just saying the word feels heavy. Not like February-heavy, when winter has you by the throat, but in its own sly, creeping way. September is the month that changes everything. The mornings start colder, the evenings vanish quicker, and suddenly the daylight you thought you could rely on slips away like change out of your pocket. I’ve always felt it—this quiet dread that comes with the shift. Maybe it’s the years of bracing for Christmas bills, maybe it’s just how I’m wired, but as long as I can remember, September has been a season of unease for me.

So this year I decided to do something different. To flip it on its head. Instead of letting September steamroll me, I was going to hit it head-on. I set a goal so big, so ridiculous, that even saying it out loud made me laugh: 250 kilometers of running in a single month. Two-hundred-and-fifty. That’s the kind of number that makes you question your own sanity. My previous best? 160. That’s like saying, “Yeah, I climbed a hill once, now I’m going to Everest.” But that was the point. Goals aren’t supposed to be realistic. They’re supposed to scare you. If they don’t, then they’re not goals—they’re errands.

And here I am, the final week of September, sitting at 204 kilometers. That leaves 46 left to go. To anyone else, 46 kilometers sounds insane. That’s a marathon, plus a couple of bathroom breaks. But to me, it’s the last stretch of a promise I made to myself. It’s the finish line I can practically see shimmering in the distance. And honestly, I don’t care if I need to crawl those last kilometers. I’m getting there. Period.

Pain as a Training Partner

Now, let me be clear—this hasn’t been pretty. My body is hanging together like a construction site held up with duct tape and stubbornness. Shin splints on the right leg, ankles barking, knees whispering threats I probably shouldn’t ignore. Every morning is a roll of the dice: will today’s run be “painful but doable” or “dear God, why am I like this?” But here’s the thing—pain stops being just pain after a while. It becomes part of the process. Like a coworker you don’t like but you know you need. The kind of guy who always complains but somehow keeps showing up with his lunch pail. That’s my shin right now. Annoying as hell, but still clocking in.

And in a weird way, I love it. Because when the pain’s there, it means I’m still in the fight. It means I haven’t backed down. Pain becomes proof. And proof is addictive.

The Marathon That’s Coming

The other thing this month taught me is just how different goals can shape you. When I trained for my first marathon, the only goal was to finish. That’s it. Survive. Crawl across the line if I had to. And I did it, and I was proud, but that was the floor, not the ceiling. This time? I’m thinking about more. May’s marathon has been rattling around in my head. And I know now that if I pour this kind of mileage into the winter, if I keep stringing together these 200-kilometer months, I’m not just going to show up to finish—I’m going to show up to compete with myself. To test not just if I can survive, but how far I can push.

That’s a whole new game. It’s not “bucket list running.” It’s transformation running.

Evan’s Lesson

Speaking of transformation, my son Evan got a taste of it this month too. He’s eleven, and like most eleven-year-olds, he thinks he can master anything on his first try. Basketball, chess, rocket science—doesn’t matter, he’s convinced he’s one rep away from greatness. And honestly, I love that about him. The kid ran a 5K with me last year at eleven. He’s tough. He’s got that spark.

So when he tried out for the flashy basketball team—the one with the cool gear, the big reputation, the politics that parents whisper about—he thought he had it. We thought he had a shot too. But then the email came. The dreaded “thank you for trying out” note. He didn’t make it. And knowing that before he got home from school, knowing that the second he walked in the door he’d be looking at me with hope in his eyes—that was brutal. Parenting’s supposed to make you strong, but in moments like that, it just makes you soft. Laura and I hurt for him, maybe as much as he hurt himself.

When we told him, his face cracked. That kind of heartbreak you only feel as a kid when the world teaches you, for the first time, that effort doesn’t always equal reward. And man, did that sting. But here’s the thing: Evan didn’t quit. He joined another team, the one he played for last year. Less glamour, fewer friends on it, sure. But he showed up. That’s the real test. Not the wins, not the gear, not the name on the jersey. It’s whether you show up after the door closes in your face.

And I think that’s the lesson—one I’m learning right alongside him. You don’t always get the team you want. Sometimes you don’t even get close. But the ones who keep showing up anyway? They’re the ones who end up winning the long game.

Humor in the Hurt

Now, don’t get me wrong—I’ve had to laugh at myself more than once this month. Picture this: a grown man hobbling down the street like a malfunctioning robot, sweat pouring off me, neighbors peeking through blinds like, “Is he okay? Should we call someone?” Meanwhile, I’m telling myself, “This is fine. Totally fine. Just another casual 15K.” If you can’t laugh at that, you’ll quit. Humor is how you survive the absurdity of chasing down big goals. It’s the duct tape for the soul.

The funniest part is realizing how much I underestimated myself. Past Trevor, the guy at the beginning of September, thought this was a pipe dream. He’d laugh if you told him Future Trevor would be writing this at 204 kilometers with four days left. That guy didn’t believe in me. But here I am, proving him wrong with every stride. Honestly, it’s kind of fun to make your past self look like an idiot.

The Lesson

So what’s the takeaway from all this? That goals are supposed to hurt. That they’re supposed to scare you. If you’re setting goals that you already know you can reach, then you’re just making to-do lists. And nobody’s ever been transformed by a to-do list.

This month taught me that I’m capable of more than I thought. It taught Evan that setbacks aren’t stop signs. It reminded Laura and me that watching your kid hurt is brutal, but watching them rise up is worth every ounce of it. And it showed me that even when September tries to crawl under my skin, even when the daylight slips away and the ghosts of old anxieties start whispering, I’ve still got the choice to fight back.

And that’s what Mental Miles is all about. Fighting back, one step at a time. Laughing when it hurts, crawling when you have to, and always, always showing up. Because in the end, it’s not about the 250 kilometers. It’s about proving to yourself that you can chase down something that once felt impossible—and then keep going.