It Takes a Village

By Bri Sullivan (SWOOP)

Thirty-six hours is a long time to be awake for someone else’s race.

Long enough to lose track of which meal you’re eating, how long you’ve been awake, the last time you put on deodorant or drank water. Long enough to get rained on, dry out, get rained on again, and stop caring.

Our friend Kodi was running the High Lonesome 100, a 100-mile race through the Colorado mountains while the rest of us were there to crew, pace, fill water bottles, find snacks, change clothes, clean dirty feet, tell really bad jokes, talk about reality television drama, and do whatever else might help her continue moving toward the finish line.

For 36 hours, her efforts and that race became the center of all of our lives

Crewing Is Mostly Waiting (Until It Isn’t)

Crewing an ultramarathon involves a surprising amount of waiting.

You drive to an aid station, unload far more gear than one person could possibly need, and begin estimating when your runner might arrive.

Then you reconsider your estimate, check the tracker, and refresh it again, as though staring more intently might make the little dot move faster. Eventually, waiting becomes its own kind of event.

The six of us shared meals at aid stations and swapped stories with other crews. We cheered for runners we had never met because every person coming down the trail is worth celebrating. We laughed at how tired we were, created inside jokes, ate whatever food was available, and watched the sun rise over the mountains together... twice.

There were wet clothes, dirty shoes, bloody knees, parking-lot changes, and moments when nobody was entirely sure what time it was or what we were supposed to be doing next. Somehow, those stretches between Kodi’s arrivals became some of my favorite parts.

The race was unfolding somewhere out on the course, but another experience was happening around it: strangers encouraging one another, women sharing food, crews exchanging updates, and everyone finding small ways to make the long hours feel lighter.

Fifteen Miles Together

I joined Kodi to pace her for 15 miles.

By then, she had already traveled farther on foot than most people ever will at once. She was hurting and running had become difficult, so we hiked. We continued in whatever way her body would allow.

Pacing someone that deep into a 100-mile race is less cinematic than people might imagine. There is no single motivational speech that suddenly changes everything.

You pay attention.

You fill her water bottle before she has to ask. You make sure she eats. You offer a snack, a pep talk, a distraction, or silence depending on what the moment requires.

You break an impossible distance into smaller pieces: the next turn, the next climb, the next hallucination, the next tree stump, the next aid station.

You remind her that forward is still forward.

There is a particular intimacy in supporting a friend when she is exhausted, in pain, and too deep into something difficult to pretend otherwise. By that point, there is no polished version of anyone left.

You are simply there together, moving through the miles one step at a time.

The Moments Around the Miles

Before High Lonesome, I assumed the finish line would be the grand moment.

And it was extraordinary. We held hands, cried together, and watched Kodi cross the line after 100 miles of effort, determination, pain, and an almost unfathomable number of steps.

But the finish line wasn’t the only image I carried home.

I remember watching Kodi’s mom cry as she witnessed her daughter accomplish something incredible. Her pride and worry had lived side by side throughout the race. She couldn’t run the miles for Kodi or remove the pain, but she could be there to see her, believe in her, and help hold everything surrounding the effort.

I remember laughter that only made sense because we were all so tired. Eating cold pancakes that Kodi didn’t want. Meals shared at aid stations. Cheering wildly for runners whose names we didn’t know. Cleaning Kodi’s face, reapplying sunscreen and glitter, and watching our crew notice what needed to be done before anyone had to ask.

I remember the in-between.

The Village Shows Up in Motherhood, Too

Watching Kodi’s mom throughout the race gave the idea of a village another meaning.

She spent 36 hours watching her daughter attempt something incredibly difficult. She carried the pride of seeing Kodi pursue a huge dream alongside the worry of knowing she couldn’t protect her from every painful mile.

She couldn’t run the race for her. None of us could. But she could be there.

There was something powerful in that kind of support: loving someone enough to let the accomplishment remain entirely hers while quietly helping hold everything around it.

That same kind of care shows up between women throughout motherhood.

It can look like bringing a meal without waiting to be asked. Holding a baby so a friend can take a shower or sleep. Sending the text that says, “You don’t need to respond, I just want you to know I’m here.” Continuing to extend the invitation for a walk, a hike, a bike ride, or a margarita, even when a mother hasn’t been able to say yes lately.

Sometimes it means listening without trying to fix anything. Sometimes it’s celebrating a small win with the enthusiasm of a finish-line crowd. Sometimes it’s reminding another woman that becoming a mother doesn’t mean giving up who she is, what she loves, or how she wants to move through the world.

These moments may not be dramatic enough for a finish-line photo. Most happen quietly and without recognition.

But they are how a village is built.

That’s what makes Rally the Village feel so meaningful. It creates opportunities for mothers to find their people, spend time outside, laugh, move, try something new, and build real friendships.

The activity may be what brings women together.

Showing up for one another is what turns a gathering into a village.

Stay for the In-Between

SWOOP is proud to support Rally the Village because this kind of community is something we believe in deeply. Our clothes may come along for the adventure, the après, the shared meal, and everything in between, but the part that matters most is the women showing up for one another.

Go after the finish line. Make an ambitious plan. Attempt the thing that scares you. But pay attention to what happens around it.

Notice who sits beside you while you wait. Who hands you food when you’ve forgotten to eat. Who makes you laugh when you’re exhausted. Who celebrates your small wins as if they belong to her, too.

Pay attention to who holds your hand at the finish and who walked beside you long before anyone was taking photos.

Those moments may not become the headline, but they will most likely be the part you remember most.

Stay for the in-between. That’s often where the real story is happening.

A Few Things I Carried Home

• Showing up doesn’t always require knowing exactly what to say.
• Forward is still forward, even when the pace or plan changes.
• Celebrate other women’s wins like they belong to all of us.
• Eat the popsicle when it’s offered.
• Stay for the in-between. That’s often where the real story is happening.