The Effort Paradox and the Boston Marathon

You don't run Boston to prove you can. You run it to find out who you are when it gets hard.

I was out there yesterday. Not running this time, but cheering. Watching. Remembering 2012, when I crossed that finish line myself for the first time.

Back then, race organizers offered deferrals to anyone concerned about the risk of death. It was 92 degrees. Halfway through, my husband stuffed bags of ice into my sports bra. A mile later, a woman on the sidewalk pointed at them and yelled, "What a great idea!" And I looked down, genuinely confused, and was like, "Where did those come from?!?"

By mile 20, I was hallucinating. There were little men on my shoulders, like the Great Gazoo from The Flintstones. (I'm really showing my age here, I know.)

And that's when the voices started:

One voice screamed: You're going to fail. You're going to die. All these people supported you and you are going to collapse on this asphalt.

Another voice — softer, sneakier — whispered: You are going to finish. Someone is going to put a medal around your neck. Run, walk, crawl — it doesn't matter. You will be a marathoner for the rest of your life.

I was in hell. But I was also in wonder.

That's Wonderhell.

The space where what you wanted collides with what it actually takes.
Where pride and doubt arrive at the same time.
Where your body says stop and your brain has to decide who's in charge.

And in that moment — only one voice gets to win.

Here's what I know now that I didn't know then:

The magic of Boston isn't in the finish line photo. It's not in the qualifying time or the training plan or the Boylston Street crowd. The magic lives in the messy middle — somewhere between Hopkinton and Heartbreak Hill, when every single runner has the same thought:

Why the hell did I sign up for this?

That's not failure. That's the moment it gets real.

Then there's the other truth. And this one runs deeper than the race.

After the bombing in 2013, this city didn't shrink. The field didn't thin. People didn't stop running — they ran harder. Louder. Together. The following year, they called it Boston Strong, but what they meant was something more precise than that:

Resilience isn't bouncing back. It's choosing to keep going with the full knowledge of what's possible.

That's a different kind of courage entirely.

The "Effort Paradox" is Why We Care

There's a concept in behavioral science called the effort paradox: we value things more when they're hard. Not in a motivational-poster way — in a real, neurological, meaning-making way. Hard things force us to engage. To decide. To stay.

Boston is the effort paradox, 26.2 miles long. And you don't need a bib to live this.

The moment your work gets hard is the moment it has the potential to matter. But most people misread that signal. They think difficulty means something's wrong — that they chose the wrong path, that they should back off.

No. Difficulty is data. It's telling you: this is where you earn it.

The question isn't how do I make this easier?
​It's is this hard thing worth it?

Because if it is — if it connects to your calling, your contribution, your sense of purpose — then the struggle isn't a problem. It's the point.

And if you're leading people?

I've stood on that course as a runner. I stood there yesterday as a witness.
And I can tell you — no one remembers the miles that felt easy.
They remember the moment they wanted to quit, but didn't.

As a leader, it's okay to stop sanding down every edge to make work so frictionless that no one ever feels the resistance. That's not leadership. That's anesthesia.

Because here's what I know to be true this week: People don't stay because things are easy. They stay because things are meaningful.

The leaders I coach who build real loyalty don't eliminate the hard parts — they make the hard parts count. They show people why the difficulty matters. They stand in the struggle alongside them, not above it.

Give your people something worth pushing through, and they'll surprise you with have far they can run.