“Do you think I could run a half-marathon?” my 15-year-old daughter asked one day.

My answer to any question like that from my daughters is always yes, then I promise to do it with her, and I figure out how later.

To that point, we had run one 5k race together, another 5k for fun on a beach in Texas, and some neighborhood jogs. I write about, organize, and participate in endurance events often, but I had never run more than 5 miles in a row, and she had never run more than 3.1.

There was little in our backgrounds to suggest we should run a half-marathon.

Which is exactly why we ran a half-marathon.

She printed out a runs to-do list, wrote red Xs on the ones she completed, fought through a training injury, and soon enough we joined 2,500 others in downtown St. Charles for the 2025 MO’ Cowbell.

The noise at the beginning — thump-thump, thump-thump, our collective steps echoing across St. Charles — radiated tribal bliss. It sounded and felt cohesive, like community, like people joining together to accomplish something big, powerful, important.

I pulled out my notebook and scribbled a reminder to teach her about that. She rolled her eyes at me taking notes while running, and took a picture of me doing so, which I didn’t realize because I was busy taking notes. She now uses it to mock me.

A bunch of her friends stood along the route and cheered for her. Their presence made me even happier than I already was, and that’s saying a lot considering the industrial-grade dopamine cooking my insides because I was running a half-marathon with my 15-year-old daughter.

 

(Courtesy of MO’ Cowbell)

I wrote a note (she rolled her eyes again) reminding myself to explain to her the power of connection, the power of friendships, and how valuable showing up for your friends can be.

As we climbed the final, terrible hill, she argued internally with herself about whether she should throw up or pass out. “This is the worst thing I’ve ever done,” she said.

I wrote that down and thought, heck yes! And you’re going to finish anyway, and the you of the future is going to thank the you of today for it, and I’ll teach you all about that. But first we need to finish this thing.

As we ran the final stretch, I put my arm around her and smiled. A photographer captured the moment in a photo I will cherish forever. I sent it to my daughter. Her response: “EW THAT’S SO BAD.”

Kids. What do they know?

That photo represents the culmination of all we learned!

About community!

About friends!

About perseverance!

The next day, as she drove our minivan to school, I tried to reinforce the fruit that will come from the seeds of her struggle: You should voluntarily do hard things (I told her) when you can quit so that when you are forced to do hard things and you can’t quit, you’re that much more prepared.

This time her eyes rolled so far back in her head they almost fell out behind her. With love in her heart and sarcasm in her voice (where did she learn that?!?), she suggested I was laying it on thick.

Let me run just to run, she said.

But, but… #dadthoughts!

Wisdom!

Imparted smart things!

That you’ll remember!

Eh, maybe she’s right. But what am I going to do with all these notes?

Oh, wait, I know: Running season is here, and we have more races to do. She pointed out that this is 2026, and there are 26 miles in a marathon, so we should do one this year. I’ll break out these pearls of scribbled wisdom then.

And surely add to them.

I’m sure she can’t wait to hear it.

Author: Matt Crossman writes the “Finish Line” column for Terrain. To sign up for his free newsletter, go here.

Top image: Courtesy of Matt Crossman.