In 2024, I failed at my first attempt to run a 100-mile ultramarathon.

After 28 hours slogging through the mountains without sleep, I lost my footing on slippery shale and sprained my ankle at mile 75. Adrenaline masked the pain, and I kept moving, unaware of how badly I was hurt. By mile 83, I was waddling into the aid station barely able to stand, with an uncertain number of toenails left. One look from the medic confirmed what I already knew. My race was over.

The next morning, lying in bed icing an ankle that looked more like a grapefruit than a body part, I didn’t feel defeated. I felt unfinished. I immediately signed up to return the following year. I had come too close not to try again.

Over the next year, my life reshaped itself around that goal. Friday nights disappeared. Saturdays began at 4 a.m. I logged countless miles through the Santa Monica Mountains, refining my race plan and building strength. By the end of summer, I felt stronger and faster than ever before. I was ready.

Then everything changed.

Eight weeks before race day, I began experiencing episodes that caused sudden muscle paralysis in my hands, torso, and legs. Over the following months, I lost my ability to walk—and at times, my ability to speak. I cycled through ER visits, each one ending the same way: normal labs, normal scans and exhausted by a lack of answers. In a matter of months, I began inhabiting a body that no longer felt like my own.

I went from a healthy 31-year-old woman with a freelance career in filmmaking that summited mountains for fun - to seemingly overnight needed help getting from my bed to my bathroom, dressing, and managing basic daily tasks. As my mobility continued to decline, I needed a cane to be able to get around. My legs that had once carried me across mountain ranges now couldn’t manage the last two steps at the top of the stairs.

The dream I had been chasing all these years— running 100 miles — suddenly felt ridiculous, if not utterly impossible.

Months of uncertainty culminated in a five-day hospital stay. After exhaustive testing, I was finally diagnosed with a rare migraine disorder and Functional Neurological Disorder (FND)—a condition that disrupts how the brain communicates with the body.

The diagnosis gave my symptoms a name, but it didn’t give me a roadmap

While my migraine symptoms could be managed with medication - the treatment plan for FND was unclear. There is no single medication or that restores function and resources on the disorder were scarce. Doctors explained that my brain had a “wiring problem,” but no one could tell me how to fix it.

“Well, fuck that”, I thought.

I refused to let this be the end of the story.

Months after the diagnosis I found a neurological rehabilitation clinic specializing in FND. For the first time, I was given a path forward. Instead of avoiding difficult movements, my care team encouraged purposeful, repetitive motion—challenging my brain to rebuild its connection with my body. Slowly, I began to rely less on my cane. Step by step, signal by signal, my brain started to rewire.

Recovery was not linear. It still isn’t.

While I’ve regained a significant amount of mobility back, FND is a chronic condition that requires constant management. My nervous system is still repairing and remains vulnerable to triggers. Though I’ve been able to slowly return to trail running, my training looks very different now adapting to FND. I’m still learning how to live inside this new body.

Project Rewire100 was born from that decision—to retrain my brain and body one step at a time. It is a one-year endurance and advocacy project using long-distance running as a form of rehabilitation while raising awareness and funding for FND research. The journey begins with the LA Marathon, continues through summer ultramarathons, and culminates with the Kodiak 100 Mile Ultra Marathon in October 2026.

This project is more than just races and finish lines.

Because the real wins were the small unseen victories of living with a disabling condition; taking my first steps on my own without my cane, being able to work full-time again, feeling physical therapy make a difference, re-gaining independence. Toeing the start line of a trail race is just the cherry on top of it all.

t’s about adaptation over ability.
It’s about reclaiming ownership of a body that once felt lost.
It’s about proving that progress doesn’t have to be linear to be real.

FND did not end my story. It changed it.

Through Project Rewire100, I’m documenting this journey through film, writing, and community under Forward, Not Done— a platform dedicated to stories of resilience beyond diagnosis.

All funds raised by this project support FND Hope, helping advance research, education, and awareness for people living with Functional Neurological Disorder.

This is what moving forward looks like for me. My hope is this project can help inspire others navigating the challenges of FND to move forward too.

One step.
One mile.
One signal at a time.

-Forward Not Done