At around 25km into the Sydney Marathon, I felt my hamstring go.

I had trained for months for this race. I had a pacing plan, a time I wanted to run and a pretty good idea of what I thought the next 17km were supposed to look like. Suddenly none of that mattered.

I started trying to manage the load on my hamstring and, not long afterwards, both my calves started cramping. From there, I was basically hobbling. There was no version of the race left where I was going to run the time I had trained for. I still had 17km to go. No training could have prepared me for 17km of literally hobbling along.

Somewhere in all of that, I made a decision that I wasn't going to quit. The countless hours of training ran through my head. There were moments when the pain was ridiculous and stopping would have been completely understandable. But I just kept fighting. It wasn't pretty. There was no heroic second wind where my hamstring suddenly came right and I started flying again. I hobbled, walked when I needed to, tried to run when I could and just kept finding a way forward.

It wasn't the time I wanted, but the fight I showed was genuinely one of the bravest things I feel like I've personally done. In the days since, I think I understand why.

I initially came away from Sydney thinking the race hadn't gone according to plan. In one sense, that's obviously true. I had trained hard. As I got fitter, the targets became more ambitious. I wanted to see what I could do.

But in thinking about everything that went wrong, I briefly forgot why I had chosen Sydney in the first place.

My dad.

My dad is now a seven-star Major medalist. I started this journey wanting to emulate him, and I chose Sydney because I wanted the opportunity to run a Major with him.

My dad travelled a lot for work when I was growing up. We didn't always get to do things together as often as I would have liked. I have a complex relationship with him, as I think many sons probably do with their fathers, but this was an opportunity to enter his world. To take something that he loves and has done for years and do it alongside him.

That was the goal from the very start. Everything that followed was a bonus. The target time came later. The obsession with pace came later. The gels, long runs, training plans and endless conversations about what speed I should run a particular hill at all came later.

Somewhere along the way, the goal accumulated other goals, and I started judging the success of the whole experience against them. But I went to Sydney to run a Major with my dad. I did.

Afterwards, he told me how proud he was of me. My dad doesn't say that often, so hearing it meant more to me than the medal itself.

I got the race I wanted. It just didn't go the way I thought it would.

In some ways, the race felt like a representation of the year I've had. Everything looked so promising, then it all went to shit and I've just been figuring it out since then.

My long-term relationship ended. My former boss, who had led our corporate finance business and played an enormous role in my career, resigned. I suddenly had to step into responsibilities that I wasn't entirely sure I was ready for. I've been questioned more times this year than I can remember being questioned before.

There have been moments personally and professionally when I've wondered whether I am actually as capable, strong or ready as I thought I was. There are plenty of things in my life that haven't magically resolved themselves. But I'm still standing.

And, increasingly, I'm learning to stop wishing things went another way.

Take it the way it came.

That's what I eventually had to do with Sydney. At 25km, I could have spent the remaining 17km wishing my hamstring hadn't gone. It wouldn't have changed anything. The race I had prepared for was no longer available to me. All I could decide was what I was going to do with the race I actually had.

I think there is a difference between accepting reality and surrendering to it.

I accepted that my time was gone. I wasn't willing to accept that my race was over.

I'm starting to see some of this year in the same way. I can wish certain things hadn't happened. I can wish some people hadn't left. I can wish some situations had played out differently. But at some point, you have to deal with the circumstances that actually arrived. That doesn't mean pretending you wanted them. It means figuring out how to keep moving.

The thing I'm most proud of from Sydney is that I now know my spirit is stronger than my body. And that's a beautiful place to be.

I can strengthen the body. I can work on my hamstrings and calves. I can train harder and smarter. I can come back fitter and go after the time I wanted again. Fortifying the mind is harder.

Before Sydney, I could tell myself that I was mentally strong. I've always been competitive. I've always been the type of person who seems to excel when I'm told I can't do something. Give me something to prove and there is a part of me that comes alive.

But believing you're someone who doesn't quit is different from being given a very good reason to quit and finding out what you actually do. I had one. My body was hurt. My target was gone. Nobody would have thought less of me for pulling out injured. And I kept going.

There is a South African word for what those last 17km required: dogfuck. And apparently I have plenty of it. It's difficult to describe it more elegantly than that. There was nothing elegant about those kilometres. It was stubbornness, fight, pride and a refusal to stop moving.

I went into the marathon not really knowing what type of man I am when things get that difficult.

I know now.

And I think I finally understand why so many successful people choose to do endurance challenges. From the outside, it can seem ridiculous. Your life is already difficult and demanding, so you decide to wake up at stupid hours, train for months and voluntarily put your body through hours of suffering.

Now I get it. There are things you can find out about yourself out there that are difficult to discover anywhere else. Eventually your job title doesn't matter. Your intelligence doesn't matter. Nobody cares what you've achieved before. It's you, the pain and the decision about whether you're going to continue.

But there is another part of this that matters just as much.

I didn't do it alone.

Running is an individual sport, but let's make no mistake about it: I would not have been there without the help of so many people.

Most Saturdays, I ran with a friend who is much fitter than me and has done Ironmans. He pushed me to my limits and kept me going when I probably would have eased off on my own. There were also mornings when I didn't particularly feel like running, but I knew he was getting up to run with me and I didn't want to let him down.

On other runs, I deliberately ran with people who were quicker than me because I needed somebody who could help me hold a pace and give me something to chase.

I learnt that different people could give me different things. Sometimes I needed someone to push me. Sometimes I needed someone to set the pace. And sometimes I just needed to know that somebody else was getting out of bed in the morning and expecting me to show up.

And my dad gave me the reason to start the journey in the first place.

When I was struggling during those final 17km, I thought about the countless hours of training I'd done, but I also had all of these people in the back of my mind. People had invested time in helping me get there. People had followed the journey. People believed I could do it.

My legs still had to cover 42.2km. Nobody could take the pain for me or make the decision to continue for me. I'm incredibly proud of what I achieved as an individual on the day. But strength and doing everything alone are not the same thing. Sydney made that very clear.

At some point in those final kilometres, while I was hobbling along, a gentleman came past me. He put his arm around me and told me not to give in. We had less than 10km to go. We were going to finish.

I told him I wouldn't let him down. Then he kept running and disappeared ahead of me.

About fifteen minutes later, I saw him again. This time he was clutching his knee and visibly in pain. So I hobbled over to him, put my arm around him and reminded him of what he'd told me fifteen minutes earlier.

We ended up finishing the marathon together.

There was something quite funny about it. Two broken men who had independently decided that they were going to save each other. But I've thought about that moment a lot since.

When I needed some strength, this complete stranger happened to have some available. Fifteen minutes later, he needed some and I could give it back to him. Neither of us was necessarily stronger than the other. We just needed each other at different moments.

The crowds taught me something similar. I cannot properly explain the rush you get when you're struggling and suddenly someone on the side of the road shouts encouragement at you.

There were stretches where I felt my pace dropping and then I'd run into an area with lots of support. Someone would shout. Someone would put their hand out for a high five. People I'd never met were cheering for me. And suddenly I had energy again. At points running through the city, it was euphoric. I felt like I was on a runner's high.

These people didn't know me. They didn't know how long I'd trained, what time I wanted or that my hamstring had gone. They certainly didn't know anything about the year I'd had. They were just giving encouragement to a stranger. And it worked.

I think we'd be so much further in this world if we did this for everything. Words of affirmation can be so powerful, and yet in ordinary life we can be incredibly stingy with them. We can see somebody trying and not tell them. We can know somebody is struggling and assume they know we're behind them. We can admire something somebody is doing and never actually say it.

Yet put thousands of people next to a marathon route and suddenly everybody knows exactly what to say. Keep going. You've got this. You're almost there. And you physically see what those words can do to another person.

This year has forced me to learn that I can carry myself when I need to. Running has also reminded me that I don't always have to.

I don't want to turn the marathon into some perfect metaphor where suddenly everything that has happened this year makes sense. It doesn't. I would still change some things if I could. But I think I'm dealing with things differently.

Professionally, my former boss's departure forced me to step up. I am not where I need to be yet, but day by day I'm proving that I'm worthy of the position I've been given. I've had to take on greater responsibility, make decisions I wasn't previously responsible for and keep going while being questioned.

None of this has happened as neatly as I would have wanted. Neither did the marathon. But I'm still moving. Sometimes quickly. Sometimes, apparently, hobbling.

When I look at my Sydney medal years from now, I don't think the first thing I'll remember will be my finishing time. I'll remember 25km. I'll remember the pain and realising that the race I'd trained for was gone, but deciding that I was finishing anyway.

I'll remember the people screaming from the side of the road and the ridiculous amount of energy a high five from a complete stranger could give me. I'll remember the friends who pushed me through training and kept me accountable. I'll remember telling a stranger that I wouldn't let him down, finding him injured fifteen minutes later and the two of us eventually finishing together.

I'll remember the year when quite a few things didn't go the way I thought they would.

And I'll remember my dad.

That's why I was there. I wanted to run a Major with him. I did. Everything else was a bonus.

I still want to come back and see what I can actually do over a marathon, probably more than I did before. I'll strengthen my body, train again and go after it. But I'm not wishing Sydney went differently anymore.

I went there wanting to run with my dad and thinking I was going to find out how fast I could run a marathon. I came back knowing my spirit is stronger than my body, that when things don't go according to plan there is something in me that keeps fighting, and how much further other people can help me go. I also learnt how powerful it can be to give some of that strength back when somebody else needs it.

Most importantly, I know what type of man I am now.

That's why I run.