I’m Doing a Mud Run 12 Days After Hip Replacement Surgery
Groot, Rocket and me on August 3 2024 (Savage Race Boston)Less than two days from now, Groot, Rocket, and I are doing another obstacle course together.
Today, I found myself weeping.
It came suddenly, in that kind of quiet that shows up when everything else goes still — when the distractions fall away, and there’s nothing left but breath and gravity. I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t anxious. I wasn’t in pain.
But the tears kept coming.
And for a few minutes, I didn’t know why.
They weren’t the kind of tears that ask for comfort.
They weren’t about giving up.
They were something else.
They were recognition.
Grief, maybe.
Truth, certainly.
Ten days ago, I had a hip replacement. This Saturday, I’ll be crawling through mud and ducking under barbed wire, dragging my walker behind me (I did just have hip replacement surgery, you know), with Groot and Rocket at my side, on an obstacle course — not out of denial, and not to prove anything, but because this is how I stay connected to who I am.
I’ve done a lot of these races — Tough Mudders, Rugged Maniacs, Savage Races — and they’ve walked with me through multiple chapters of my life.
Groot and Rocket will be right next to me — not just as pets, but as partners. After Brian died — in the total isolation of COVID lockdown — they became legitimate service dogs. They walked with me through the aftermath of loss, when everything felt broken. While the world shut down, they helped me find my footing again — not just emotionally, but physically, spiritually, practically.
I’m alive today because of those two.
That’s not exaggeration.
That’s fact.
When life slowly returned after lockdown, we trained. Paddleboarding. Public Access drills. And then Tough Mudders. After Brian’s death, Groot and Rocket were there through two knee replacements, two hand surgeries, and, now, one hip replacement. And every time, they stepped up beside me: showing up, holding steady. (Though Rocket insists on reminding me that she only participates because it suits her personal agenda, not mine).
And yes, these races allow service dogs. Not just any dog can come — it’s not some casual “bring your pet along” day. We are a bonded, trained trio, navigating the mud — and life — together.
We’ve done this before, and we’ll do it again. Because it matters.
Most people don’t see it that way.
Since I told people I was doing this race twelve days post-op, I’ve been hit with wave after wave of unsolicited commentary. People telling me it’s too soon. That I’m pushing too hard. That I’m being foolish. That I’m chasing glory or trying to make some statement.
They’ve said I’m reckless.
Prideful.
Attention-seeking.
Stupid.
But very few people have asked: What does this mean to you?
Because if they had, I would’ve told them the truth.
This isn’t a stunt.
It’s a ritual.
It’s not about grit or pain tolerance or adrenaline.
It’s about alignment.
It’s about remembering who I am.
I didn’t make this choice uninformed. My physical therapists have helped me problem-solve and make critical decisions: what to skip, how to protect the incision, how to pace myself, and how to stay safe.
I will ask for help. I will move slowly. I will use judgment.
I am not being a hero.
I am being honest.
Honest to a version of myself that has carried on through incredible grief.
Honest to a way of life that didn’t die with Brian.
Honest to the body that may be healing, but is still mine to live in, to move in, to honor.
Brian Stephens and me at mile 3 on a Tough Muder in 2014 (not his right arm)Brian did these races too. We did them together. He even ran one with his arm in a cast, laughing through obstacles, cracking jokes while navigating the course with one usable arm.
He knew these events weren’t about showing off.
They were about staying awake. Staying alive.
When I race now, I can still feel him there — in the humor, the resilience, the muscle memory. He’s not watching from afar. He’s walking with me.
So yes — there is grief in this.
Grief in suiting up without him.
Grief in standing in my truth while people around me question my sanity.
Grief in doing something deeply meaningful while being misjudged by people who refuse to look deeper.
What people don’t see is that this is the hard part — not the course, but the noise.
The way people rush to talk you out of something just because it makes them uncomfortable.
The way people project their fears onto you and expect you to carry them.
The way your clarity gets repackaged as arrogance, just because someone else doesn’t understand.
This isn’t about pride.
It’s about presence.
On Saturday, when I lace up my shoes, and grab my walker, I won’t be doing it to prove anyone wrong. I’ll be doing it because this is the rhythm of my life. And that rhythm doesn’t stop for judgment. It doesn’t pause for misunderstanding.
Each splash of mud will be a prayer.
Each skipped obstacle will say, “I trust my path.”
Each step forward will say, “I know who I am.”
Groot, Rocket, and I have walked this path through grief, through recovery, through transformation. These races are part of our language now — how we mark time, how we return to ourselves, how we remember the man we all loved.
This isn’t about toughness.
It’s about truth.
And sometimes, truth means crying while driving home from physical therapy in your Honda Fit two days before the starting line.
Sometimes it means showing up, knowing people are calling you stupid behind your back because of your choice.
Sometimes it means trusting your own wisdom more than the crowd’s warnings.
Groot, Rocket and me on Mud ‘N Guts (Savage Rave Boston 2024)I’ve been called a lot of things lately.
But I’ll tell you what I actually am:
Intentional.
Aligned.
Alive.
Sacred.
And on Saturday, you’ll spot me easily — I’ll be the man with the walker, flanked by two dogs, followed by memory, led by truth.
We’re still here.
We’re still taking on obstacles.
And no — I’m not reckless.
I’m ready.
If you’re reading this and you’ve got something like that — something the world is trying to talk you out of — I want to ask you:
What’s the thing that still feels sacred to you, even when everyone else dismisses it?
What have you been quietly holding onto because you know it’s right for you — even if no one else does?
Drop it in the comments.
Name it.
Let the world know that you are not walking away from it.
Because sometimes the only way through the noise is to stand taller inside your own clarity.
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