For the past 40-odd days I’ve been tracking rower Kelsey Pfendler on her journey to become the first American woman, youngest woman, and fastest woman to row solo across the Pacific Ocean from California to Hawaii. She’s currently on schedule to not only achieve all those goals, but also to shatter both the women’s and men’s existing speed records. Based on weather reports and her pacing since leaving California, she’s very likely to reach O‘ahu sometime in the next day or so.

I joked to my husband that I started following Kelsey way too early—I stumbled on her Instagram about 4 days into her journey and was stressed learning the current women’s record was just over 86 days. Her attempt is specifically “unsupported” which means she’s truly out there in the middle of the ocean alone and unable to accept any support from others. If she runs out of food she can’t receive a drive-by (row-by?) drop off, and if her boat requires repairs she’ll have to do them herself. Yes, she somehow has internet access—she’s been updating Instagram with daily posts, answering questions from followers and giving us some insight into what her days look like—and she also has a team on land that she checks in with in case of emergency. But 86 days, or even 40 days, is a very long time to be all by oneself…

Of course, that’s one of the biggest things she’s been asked about leading up to this challenge and throughout. Are you nervous about spending so much time alone? I’ve really appreciated her answers every time, especially as she’s actually been living through that kind of isolation.

In a recent Instagram post she answered the question “what has surprised you most about this row?” with the following:

She also acknowledges that isolation is hard for everybody, particularly if it’s not chosen. But chosen seclusion has actually provided her with a unique opportunity to be deeply in touch with herself.

In another post she talks about the benefits of endurance sports and the challenge of pushing yourself through doing something hard:

This is something I’ve touched on in therapy over the years—the intellectual and emotional knowledge that you are capable, that you can in fact handle whatever the difficult thing is. It doesn’t necessarily make the situation suck any less to know this, but it does give me the small comfort of knowing that at some point things won’t suck quite so much anymore. That I can feel sad, stressed, angry, depressed, cynical, but that those feelings won’t last forever. As my best friend Laura repeated quoted throughout marathon training, “pain is inevitable, suffering is optional” (Haruki Murakami).

I’m wildly impressed with Kelsey’s drive for doing this cross-Pacific row. It really is all about her testing her own limits and challenging herself, both physically and mentally. Yes, she wants to break the speed record, but she’s also said she hopes this inspires more people (and specifically other women) to try to beat her record. It’s really all about the love of the game.

I can’t wait to tune in live—I hope I get the timing right and it doesn’t happen in the middle of the night!—to see Kelsey officially break the speed record and achieve her goal. Furthermore, I can’t wait to see what she does next and how she reflects on this experience. She has a really interesting mindset and point of view as an athlete, one that I’m excited to learn from, both with regards to sport and not.

Kelsey’s row is raising money for The Whale Foundation, an organization dedicated to providing health and well-being services to Grand Canyon river guides. If you want to support her and her fellow river guides (aka her day job when she’s not rowing solo to Hawaii), you can donate on her official Spotfund page.

I’m already sad that Kelsey’s journey is almost over, but it’s also ending just in time for me to get too deeply invested in a different woman challenging herself in the Pacific Ocean—Catherine Breed is currently three days into her attempt to swim the entire length of the California coastline, all the way from the Oregon border down to Mexico. It’s expected to take her FOUR MONTHS covering about 15 miles per day. These women are incredible, and I am already in awe.

xo, AH

I love classical music. My Spotify top played songs for the past five years have been almost entirely Tchaikovsky. I adore the way the build of an orchestra can make my emotions swell and the way my heart begins to race along to the pace of a high energy march. My body is physically invested in the experience just as much as my mind, and it’s a ride I want to take over and over and over again. Ironically, this is also exactly why I have such a hard time watching live sports.

The final match of the last men’s world cup in 2022, between Argentina and France, was tied 3-3 and ended in a penalty shootout. I could not care less about either of these teams. I had absolutely no dog in this fight. I couldn’t name a single player on either team, and had no friends devoted to either country in particular. So tell me why I watched those penalty kicks peeking out from behind my couch with my pulse racing?

Why were my emotions running so high for two groups of men I very honestly knew I did not care about? Even writing this I had to look up which teams were involved in the match because I didn’t remember. What is it about sports that so aggressively pulls me in and grips at my emotions despite the intellectual acknowledgment that my afternoon, week, life will be no different no matter how this game ends?

I had a remarkably similar experience earlier this month when I stumbled upon the Spain vs. Cabo Verde group stage match in its 70th minute while out to eat at a sports bar. After googling Cabo Verde and learning it’s a small island nation off the coast of West Africa that had never been to the World Cup before, but that was somehow managing to ward off Spain, the 2010 tournament winner and consistently one of the best teams in the world, I was hooked. I didn’t just want to root for the underdogs, I needed them to win. I had to very consciously regulate between double checking the score and the time while also trying to have a lovely lunch with my in-laws and nephews. The final score, a 0-0 tie, filled me with a level of pride that was entirely unearned. What the fuck was going on with me?

I’ve spent the last few weeks really trying to dive into this oddity, especially given that these are the exact same feelings I derive so much joy from with classical music. Classical music moves me in a way that no other genre really can. It makes me smile, yelp with joy, feel compelled to dance just as often as it brings tears to my eyes, fills me with fear, devastates me. And yet I’ll gladly tune in, prepared and ready to accept these emotions, even the bad ones, as they come with the music. What marks the difference between these two experiences of intense emotion?

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I suspect it has something to do with the shared human element of sports. When I listen to music it is a personal endeavor. I’m getting in touch with myself—my feelings, my experiences. Even with an opera or ballet, the people involved are fictional. Subconsciously or not, there is a level of removal between my emotions and theirs. But with real people—athletes competing on a team or individually, at really any level—it all feels so much more intimate.

With music I only need to focus on myself, and what’s going on in my own head. With sports the added element of empathy—actively sharing in another person’s emotional experience—ratchets things up to an entirely different level.

There is a shared experience, between myself and these athletes. One of intense pressure, hope, desire, and physical effort. Even if I can’t relate to the specifics of the sport (couldn’t tell you anything about canoe slalom and yet cried watching it in the summer Olympics) or the high level of competition (I peaked as a D3 athlete), I know intimately well the emotional and psychological effort involved in bringing your A game.

I empathize with these athletes. I know that their afternoons, weeks, lives will be vastly different depending on the outcome. The Cabo Verde goalkeeper went from 45,000 Instagram followers to more than 2 million (including me) over the course of that one match. His life will never be the same again, and that brings me immense joy despite the fact that I will never actually know him.

With classical music I suppose there is an innate sense of control. Unless I’m at a concert, I can turn down the volume or turn it off entirely should I find myself uncomfortable in my emotions. I can turn off the TV if a high stakes game is proving to be too much, but I can’t shake the knowledge that the game continues on without me, the stakes just as high as before I tuned out. In acknowledging all of this, I’m trying to find the fun in the emotional rollercoaster of live sports. I’m trying to really connect to the fact that it can be fun to go all in on excitement or disappointment in connection with these athletes. And it’s also ok to let it go immediately afterwards. And if I need to start listening to Beethoven to help me come down after the emotional intensity of each world cup match, so be it.

I keep a running playlist of my favorite classical music on Spotify if you’re curious. Also, if you ever find yourself lacking motivation on a run, I highly recommend putting the Can-Can (aka Orphée aux enfers by Offenbach) on repeat to get you through the end with a consistent upbeat pace.

P.S. Cabo Verde plays Saudi Arabia today at 8 pm ET. If they win, they’ll definitely make it to the knockout stage, but a draw may also be enough to allow them to continue. I’ll be watching from behind my couch.

xo, AH

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The other week I attended a panel discussion hosted by the wellness dating app ATEAM to discuss the idea that run clubs could be a cure for loneliness. So much has been written recently about both the running boom and the loneliness epidemic, and it’s true that there is a notable Venn diagram where to the two topics intersect. But as with just about anything the answer to the question posed is extremely nuanced.

I won’t pretend to know a lot about the roots of the loneliness epidemic, but I do know about run clubs. I know they can provide a sense of community through shared experience and similar values. But simply joining a run club does not guarantee any of that. Community takes work, and it’s very troubling to me to think about the ways in which that work is being discouraged, dismissed, or discounted.

I’ve run with the Nike Media Miles group for years now. It’s a Nike-lead run club made up of members of the media (journalists, influencers, podcasters, etc.) that sometimes centers around new launches or interesting brand news, but most often is just a weekly get-together to do about 3-ish miles through the streets of NYC at any pace you like. For at least the first year I spent almost every one of these runs gossiping and catching up with my coworker Catrina, which was wonderful except that I didn’t really talk to or meet anyone else. Catrina and I might as well have been meeting on our own to run. So while my relationship with her blossomed into real friendship, I didn’t actually feel like I was a part of the Nike Media community at all.

Then Catrina got pregnant and moved out of NYC to the burbs. She repeatedly told me she didn’t think things would change that much after the move and the baby, and thankfully I knew enough to not believe her in the least. (I will always love you and your optimism, Trin, lol.) Although I still saw her at work all the time, her ability to attend early morning run club was very understandably diminished. But I still went. And this time I forced myself to actually participate. Like really participate—talking to people I didn’t know, keeping pace with folks I’d never run with before, and engaging with the group at large instead of just glomming onto my one dear friend.

Nike Media Miles has now become one of the most cherished parts of my week.

I’ve gotten to know such an incredible group of people—the other media members, the coaches, occasional special guests—but only because I put in the work to do so. Was it awkward? Of course. Perhaps especially because these were people I’d technically been “hanging out with” for months and yet had never really spent time connecting with. It’s not always easy or comfortable to put yourself out there, to search for common topics of conversation, to remember people’s stories, to remember to check in the following week to see how their date went or how they’re feeling about marathon training so far. There were plenty of runs and conversations where I felt silly, dumb, awkward, or like I was just a body occupying space not really part of the group. But I tried. And in this case, it worked out.

Near the end of the ATEAM discussion, the moderator, Lia Porcelli, told a story about being approached by a med spa that wanted her to host a monthly “Botox run club.” The very idea made pretty much everyone in attendance laugh and roll their eyes, but it highlighted something interesting about the panel topic: run clubs have become a sort of shorthand for community.

Proposing a Botox run club has the same vibe as someone’s boss coming into a meeting and asking, “how can we go viral on social media?” The very question demonstrates a fundamental misunderstanding of the medium. If a med spa wants to build community it can’t just latch onto any old group activity. It needs to find something that feels genuine to the people already frequenting the med spa. And it feels highly unlikely that a monthly run club would feel particularly genuine to that crowd.

Building community takes work. And while run clubs offer a space with at least one shared interest point, they are not an easy or quick fix to any kind of social ill. Simply showing up is the bare minimum (if that) required of you, but truly combating loneliness takes so much more effort. You can go slow, you can do things your own way—you don’t need to suddenly transform into the most outgoing, sociable person in the group. But it may also turn out to be the case that this particular run club isn’t really a fit. And unfortunately, it takes time and effort to come to that kind of conclusion.

My one-word answer to the original question posed by the ATEAM panel—can run clubs cure loneliness?—is a definitive no. But only because they are not a generic band-aid that can be slapped over any ol’ problem. Intentionality is extremely important to both building a community and to finding a community in which you feel connected and welcome. Are you a runner who can fairly easily make the run club’s designated workout times with a real curiosity in the lives of the other members even if you can’t directly relate to their stories? Then, yes, maybe this run club will be able to provide you with meaningful relationships.

The phrase “good things come to those who wait” holds a good deal of truth, but if the good things you’re searching for are new relationships and a larger community on which to depend I think you’ll find more success updating the mantra to be “good things come to those who take the time to put in the work.” No, it’s not as catchy, but I can tell you firsthand that it’s much more accurate.

Things I’ve been exposed to in run club that it turns out I love but would otherwise never have known: ginger shots, the Café Lyria coffee shop (specifically the namesake latte), Fred Again, breath work and cold plunges, The Greatest Showman soundtrack, Rare Beauty eyebrow gel (stays put even with tons of sweat), Nerds Gummy Clusters, the Knicks

xo, AH

My mom recently asked me, “Why do you like running?” She wasn’t trying to be sassy or dismissive, she just genuinely wanted to know what I enjoy about it, especially as someone who really, really, very much does not like running. I found the question shockingly hard to answer.

By my own memory, I’ve always loved running. Playing in youth soccer and basketball I delighted in being the first one to get to the ball and beating everyone down the field or court (nevermind that I was terrible at actually scoring). And I have vivid memories of truly racing the mile for the Presidential Fitness Test in elementary school…and of not understanding why anyone wouldn’t want to push themselves to the limits for an arbitrary mile that ultimately gained you nothing if you came in first.

I joined the track team in middle school and again in high school, but it wasn’t something I considered to be a huge part of my identity—I had lots of interests and activities and, frankly, didn’t want to be defined by any single one. In fact, I mostly did the jumps (high, triple, and long), occasionally also doing the 400m, 400m hurdles, or 4x4m relay. I was also on the fencing team. And loved my science classes. And creative writing. And photography. My sense of self was spread across lots of different things, not just running.

And yet, by the end of college (despite spending those four years on the fencing team rather than competing in track and field), running had undoubtedly become part of who I am.

Immediately after graduating, I thought of running mostly as a cheap and easy way to exercise and stay healthy. I couldn’t afford a gym, nor did I have time for one. But running really only required shoes and a sports bra, and I could do it just about anywhere for any length of time available to me. It was also something I was relatively good at, which is why so many friends in college considered me a runner. Somewhere along the way, however, running evolved from mere convenience to a real adoration.

My relationship with running has grown and changed to become something I love, look forward to, sometimes even plan my whole day around. I wish I could tell you that my runs are my “therapy” or that I spend them having profound thoughts or important internal conversations. But the truth is that I just like it, even when it’s not that deep. Even if it’s just 30 minutes of me jogging at an easy pace, listening to the exact same playlist, and doing the exact same route I did last week. I just like the feeling.

It feels good to move my body, good to get outdoors. It’s a rhythm that’s familiar. Even when I’m doing a hard workout, pushing my body to move faster or work harder, the motions themselves feel easy because I’ve done them a million times before. It’s a comfortable pattern or flow I can return to again and again and again.

I think the fact that running is (theoretically) extremely accessible has a lot to do with why I love it. It’s that accessibility that allowed me to develop a habit that’s stuck. It’s one of the only things I’ve done consistently for almost all of my life. It’s taken many different forms, of course—sprinting around during gym class, chasing my friends in games of tag, timing myself through 800m repeats, celebrating at the local Turkey Trot, gossiping with my BFF Laura on long runs, racing through scavenger hunts in high school, exploring new places on vacation, training for the marathon—but it’s always been there.

All this is to say, I don’t have a succinct reason why I like running. I just do. And that’s as fine as reason as any other, in my opinion.

DID YOU KNOW: This weekend marks 15 weeks until the Berlin marathon, 17 weeks until the Chicago marathon, and 20 weeks until the NYC marathon. Have you figured out your training plan yet?

xo, AH

About two years ago I decided to challenge myself to bring nothing new into my wardrobe. That meant no shopping unless I was replacing an existing item (like the white tee I accidentally stained with coffee) and no accepting of gifts from brands (a major perk of being a fashion editor). This came after a particularly thorough and harshly honest closet cleanout wherein I assessed every single item in my possession.

And yes, that meant trying on every single pair of jeans, every wedding guest dress, every bathing suit. It was a humbling experience to say the least.

At the end of the multi-day process I’d gotten rid of so much (sold what I could and donated the rest), and while it was tough saying goodbye to many of those pieces, I actually felt a huge sense of relief. It was wonderful knowing I could open my closet or drawers and know exactly what was in there and that it all fit and made me feel good to wear. Although I’d heard multiple people talk about the joys of having a closet that consists entirely of pieces that fit your body and lifestyle right now—not some imagined future you—it had never quite clicked for me.

At the beginning, I set a three month timeline for my “nothing new” challenge. One month felt too short to really assess whether I would truly utilize the clothing on my wishlist, and if you’re going to do two months then why not do three? Effectively one season of no shopping.

In that time, I made an effort to get creative with my wardrobe rather than relying on my go-to favs. How many different ways can I wear this top? What are all the shoe options that work with these pants?

And you know what? Turns out playing dress-up is just as fun as an adult as it was as a kid.

The urge to shop didn’t go away overnight, but fairly quickly I found myself getting excited by the challenge of mixing and matching my clothing in previously untested combinations. It was an important reminder of why I fell in love with fashion in the first place.

I’ve since eased up on my “nothing new” experiment, but the lessons I learned stuck. Even when I find myself falling head-over-heels for some gorgeous dress or sleek handbag (I’m only human, after all), it’s much easier to take the time to actually assess that want. Will I truly wear it for years to come? Or can I simply appreciate its beauty from afar? The result is a wardrobe filled with things I both love and use. Even better, it’s filled with items that inspire me.

More than attending fashion week shows or combing through new arrivals at my favorite retailers, playing dress-up with things I already own has proven to be the biggest source of inspiration and joy. Getting creative, mixing and matching in weird ways, making do with what I already have—who knew it could be so fun?

xo, AH

Warning: this post contains spoilers for Rear Window and 2001: A Space Odessey.

On Wednesday night Brian and I went to see Rear Window at the Metrograph theater in the Lower East Side. It’s one of my favorite movies of all time, and one I haven’t watched in quite a while, so I was really excited to see it on the big screen. I sometimes worry about going to the movies—worry that people will be talking or on their phones or generally color my experience in a way I dislike. But with theaters like the Metrograph, that primarily play old movies, re-runs, and lesser-known indie films, I find that worry is so much more often unfounded.

There’s something truly special about seeing a movie in a large group. The energy is completely different from watching at home, even if you’re able to transform your living room into a darkened theater. (My living room never actually gets all that dark thanks to spacious windows and the perpetual glow of New York City.) I know it’s why I had such a fun time watching The Fablemans at a packed Director’s Guild screening, and why the film hit totally differently watching again with my parents at home. The crowd was much quicker to laugh, giving the movie a feeling of rose-tinted nostalgia, whereas at home I could more acutely feel my parents’ unease and sadness in the darker moments.

I wasn’t sure how Hitchcock’s 1954 classic would play out in a full theater. Would the use of a phone book and flash bulbs feel dated or comical to the audience, or would the suspense hold? Much of my movie theater anxiety comes from assuming the worst of other people’s behavior when seeing a new movie (a habit I am trying to break, trust me). But when it’s an old favorite being screened I find it easier to assume the people in attendance either already know and love the movie, or they’re really invested in a seeing a classic. Somehow I trust the audience of the Metrograph, IFC, or Film Forum more than your average AMC viewer. I don’t know how fair that is, but I can tell you it’s at these kinds of theaters that I’ve had some of my absolute favorite shared experiences.

Like when we went to see 2001: A Space Odyssey at The Paris Theater and the college student in front of us yelped out loud when HAL silently turned off life support for the crew of the Discovery One spaceship. I’d never seen the film, but I did know of HAL’s evil turn and, frankly, assumed pretty much everyone would know at least that twist of such an iconic movie—one that came out 58 years ago, no less. This guy’s genuine shock and guttural reaction to such a quiet but impactful scene made the whole theater-going experience worth it. It was such a fabulous reminder of how movies can envelop you whole and transport you anywhere in the world, real or imagined.

Watching Rear Window, I was slightly annoyed by how often the audience laughed at some points early on the film. They just weren’t really that funny and I couldn’t tell if the vibe was one of laughing at the movie or with it. But the collective gasp that went out when the nosey little dog is found dead made clear that everyone was well and truly invested in the mystery. And when Thornwal catches Grace Kelly flashing the wedding ring at Jimmy Stewart, someone in the row in front of us couldn’t stop themselves from shouting out “No!”

Again, it was such a human moment. It made me so happy to know that a piece of artwork I love can still move people, even 72 years after its release. It’s incredibly cheesy, but last night’s viewing was a wonderful reminder of the magic of movies. That they can lift your mood, catch your breath, devastate you, make you fall in love.

All too often these days, I find myself seeking out media that nullifies my emotions. The world is in a real rough spot and I get enough heartbreak from the news, I don’t want more. But this was a good reminder of how movies can be different, even when they’re heartbreaking. It’s good to remember that emotions are a good thing, and a joy of life. And if your favorite movies are ever playing in theaters, it’s a very good idea to buy a ticket and experience the collective joy of watching the drama unfold on a big screen.

xo, AH

Hi all! As part of my new freelancer life I’m starting a newsletter as a place to practice writing, share cool things I learn, and wax poetic about all my favorite wellness, outdoors, and running ephemera.

Today’s “desk” (as it all too often is) is actually my couch. An ideal place to relax and let words flow, though perhaps not so ideal for my posture. This is, realistically, where I do the vast majority of my writing, which I’ve often thought of as a bad thing. But as long as words are getting onto the page, what does it matter where they’re being crafted? What’s important to me is to get them out, to share them with others. And share I will.

More to come very soon!

xo, AH