Meet Merry Mullins, MM 15936

Conquering the Chaos: How I Started Running at 48 and Turned Grief Into 50 Marathon

By Merry Mullins

Ten days after I buried my mother, I ran my first marathon.

I was almost 49. I didn’t own proper running shoes. I hadn’t trained the way runners are “supposed” to. The farthest I had ever gone was 13.1 miles, and I’d only done that once. Most days I was just trying to get through six miles without stopping. People told me I couldn’t do it. They were probably right, at least on paper. 

But grief doesn’t care about paper. It doesn’t follow plans or timelines. It just sits there, heavy and constant, asking you what you’re going to do with it. So I ran.

That first marathon had nothing to do with pace or performance. I wasn’t chasing a time. I was trying to find a way through something that didn’t have a clear path. I finished in 4:41, but the number didn’t matter. Somewhere along the course, something inside me shifted. I wasn’t healed, not even close. But I was moving. And movement mattered.

One race turned into two. Two turned into ten. Somewhere along the way, an idea took hold: what if I ran a marathon in all 50 states? It sounded a little crazy. Maybe it was. But it gave me something to chase.

Over the next 32 months, I crossed the country one race at a time. I ran in heat that felt suffocating and cold that cut straight through me. I ran in wind, rain, and altitude. I ran through minor injuries, sickness, exhaustion, and the quiet voice that kept asking me why I was doing this. Sometimes I ran alone in places I’d never been. Other times I ran beside strangers who, for a few miles, became part of my story.

I started at 49. What I learned quickly is that starting late doesn’t matter nearly as much as continuing. I never followed a perfect training plan. I didn’t have a coach. What I had was consistency and a willingness to keep showing up, even when it wasn’t pretty. Some races went well. A few even surprised me with personal records or age-group placements. Others were just about finishing. Some days, finishing was everything.

Running didn’t take the grief away. It came with me, mile after mile. But something else showed up too. Strength. Resilience. A kind of quiet determination I didn’t know I had.

There were moments I’ll never forget. Running through the thick humidity and hills of Hawaii while knowing surgery was ahead. Fighting through storms in Arkansas and still managing to place. Standing at elevation in Estes Park, Colorado, during my final state, when a mother elk reminded me just how small I was out there.

By the time I finished my 50th state, I understood something I hadn’t at the beginning. This was never really about the states. It was about who I was becoming along the way.

In 2024, I became the only female from Missouri certified by the 50 States Marathon Club. It meant something, but not because of the title. It meant something because of everything it took to get there.

Every race taught me the same lesson in a different way: forward is enough. It doesn’t have to be fast. It doesn’t have to be perfect. You just have to keep going. And I didn’t stop there. My most arduous test came at the American Bottoms 100. One hundred ten miles. Thirty-three hours and fifty-five minutes. Thirty-one runners started. Eleven finished. For the first time in my running life, I came in last.

Finishing at the back of the pack humbled me in a way I didn’t expect. But after covering that distance, being last didn’t feel like failure. It felt like gratitude. I finished. That was enough. That race stripped everything down. No distractions. No shortcuts. Just one step after another. There were moments when quitting would have been easier. Moments when everything blurred and doubt crept in. But those were the moments that mattered most. The ones where continuing, even slowly, felt like a win. 

And I’m still going. Maybe it’s seven continents next. Maybe it’s something else. What I know is this: I won’t be running alone. I carry every lesson, every mile, every hard day with me. 

This has never been just about running. 

It’s about showing people, especially those who think they’ve missed their chance, that it’s not too late. You don’t need perfect timing. You don’t need perfect conditions. You don’t even need to know how it will turn out. You just have to start. Take the step in front of you. Stay in the mile you’re in. There’s power in that, even when it doesn’t feel like much. And when your mind tells you to quit, there’s usually more left in you than you think. At the end of all this, I don’t want to wonder what might have been. I want to know I tried

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