She passed me in the opposite direction during my long run last Sunday. I had just started, after getting lost on the way and finally finding the route half an hour later. I was frustrated and already thinking I’d be too hungry to finish the seven miles (there is a crucial window of time after my Sunday breakfast and before lunch where I feel it’s optimal for me to run long distances). But off I went, one foot in front of the other on the paved path along the riverbed in Patapsco State Park.

I saw her almost immediately. She was running through the tunnel directly at me. Now, because I’m generally a very nonsocial, ear buds firmly in place, introspective kind of runner, I don’t tend to notice other people on my routes, except of course to get out of their way if necessary. I will occasionally offer a smile and the runner’s head nod, perhaps even a quick wave if I’m feeling flirty. In general, though, I think of running as quality “me time.”

But I noticed her. I noticed her because she looked like she was suffering. Like she was literally forcing herself to get through it. She was crying, or had been at least, and her face was bright red from overexertion. What struck me even more was that she was also very young. Sixteen years old, tops. I’d describe her body type as somewhat stout. Definitely not a track star stick figure, but not overweight either.

After we crossed paths, I couldn’t get her image out of my head. I wondered why she was crying and why she seemed to be forcing her run. I wanted to reach out to her, and secretly hoped she’d still be at the start of the loop when I came around again.

I had this whole scenario played out in my head: She’d be sitting on the park bench. I’d approach her and ask her what was wrong. She’d somehow trust me enough to let it all out. So I’d sit there and listen with body language that said, it’s ok, I get it. It’d be some story about how her mom or dad, or maybe a boy she liked, made her feel bad about how she looked. Then I’d come to understand that that’s why she was running. To lose weight, to make herself pretty. To make herself lovable. To make herself perfect.

We’d sit there for a little while longer, exchange numbers, and we’d keep in touch. Through our occasional talks, she’d discover her true passions, none of which would involve running, in the end. Gradually, I’d try to convince her that she was an amazing young woman. And, gradually, she’d come to believe me.

Six miles later, the final steps of my run brought me to an empty parking lot. The girl I had seen at the start, the same one who occupied so many of my thoughts that day, was of course far gone by then. What I suddenly realized, though, was that the girl I had seen under that tunnel six miles earlier was not the same girl in the imagined scene in my head. That girl, the girl on the bench, was me.

It was in that moment – that crazy twisted moment – when I decided to run my first marathon. I want to do it for young girls who don’t believe in themselves, to show them that, yes, you can. And, yes, you are worth it. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. You have a unique strength within you that is unsquashable. I want to show them that whatever your dream is, whether it’s to run a marathon, run a lemonade stand or run for president, you can accomplish that dream.

Of course, in saying all this, I’m reinforcing these ideas for the teenage version of me on the park bench, and ultimately for the me of right now. Because as much as I’ve grown in these 31 years, frankly, I still need to hear it. There will always be mistakes, hurdles and setbacks, but I want to show myself, that, yes, I can. And, yes, I am worth it.

26.2 miles, here we go.