Hello Steeps! We have a special treat for you today: Oksana Lightfield returned to the running scene after a bit of a hiatus and wanted to share her journey back, culminating in the Coastal Delaware Marathon. Enjoy and be sure to send some love her way!

Remember that we are always looking for stories from our members about races they’ve run or how they got into (or back into) running; please reach out to heather.zimmerman@steeplechasers.org with anything you’d like to share with the Intervals Blog!

Coming Back Strong: Coastal Delaware Marathon 2025

For six months, I ran nothing. Not a single step. From the lingering heat of September 2023 through the cold hush of March 2024, my shoes sat quiet by the door — like dogs that didn’t understand why the walks had stopped. I wasn’t injured in the dramatic, race ending kind of way. I was in the slower, quieter struggle: discomfort, a procedure, the long thaw of healing. The kind where you don’t realize how much you miss the sound of your breath keeping rhythm with your feet until it’s gone.

I never stopped believing I’d come back. I just didn’t know when. Or how. Or what it would look like.

But eventually, the return began. One step. Then another. Progress stitched itself together like a stubborn quilt — not pretty at first, but warm and real. There were no glory days, no epic workouts, just the quiet accumulation of minutes, of miles, of trust. Enough, finally, to piece together a training block. I treated each week like a bridge — carefully built, with no room for rushing.

And then April arrived, and with it, the Coastal Delaware Marathon.

This race isn’t flashy, but it’s full of soul. It begins on the Rehoboth boardwalk with the Atlantic whispering over your right shoulder. The course shares DNA with the December Rehoboth Seashore Marathon, but Coastal chooses a different adventure. Where Rehoboth loops and doubles back through lonely trails, this one breaks away after mile 12 and wanders into the quiet residential corners of Lewes, DE — a detour I wasn’t entirely ready for.

By mile 13, I had just peeled away from a friend I’d been running with — we’d kept each other steady, kept the miles warm with quiet company — but now I was on my own, and quickly bored out of my mind. The trees didn’t talk. The houses didn’t cheer. The runners around me were thinned into a quiet string of shuffling shadows. And that’s when I noticed it: a faint squeak from my left shoe. Every. Single. Step. The kind of squeak that drills into your brain and sets up camp there. I became hyper-aware of the sound, like a metronome you can’t turn off — squeak… squeak… squeak. It was absurd, and hilarious, and a little maddening. But I kept running.

Mile 16 brought the long stretch alongside Route 9 — the strange dreamscape portion of the race. Runners are funneled onto the sidewalk on the right-hand side of the highway, cars flying past in a blur — though now and then, a window would roll down and you’d catch shredded bits of support flung into the wind: “—gooot thiiiis!” or “—king stronnngg!” before the words vanished behind tires and static. Then, after a dizzying loop and backtracking under a concrete bridge of Route 9, you pop up on the left side of the same highway, running alongside it for the umpteenth time, it seems. It felt like glitching in a video game — like the loop hadn’t loaded properly. I half expected the rest of the race to just be me, endlessly circling Route 9, waving at my own ghost on the other side.

But I was calm. I was steady. I was ready. This wasn’t survival mode — this was strategy. I had zeroed in on my hydration all week, sipping deliberately in the days leading up to the race. On the course, I didn’t skip a single gel. My salt chews were timed to the minute. Gatorade? I took it like it was medicine. I was a little lab in motion — efficient, quiet, and laser-focused. By mile 21, we dipped into the loneliest stretch — a narrow dirt path with not a spectator in sight. I remembered it vividly from Rehoboth 2022, when the trail had turned to sludge. That year, my feet slid, my energy tanked, and the pain cave swallowed me whole.

The path stretched straight ahead like a landing strip — but I refused to land. I wasn’t here to crash. I was here to take off.

This time, the ground held firm — but the voices still came.

You’ll never make it.
Who are you kidding?
This is where you fall apart.

Brief, sharp, and cold as wind off the bay. The occasional course marshal sat on a stopped bike along the side of the trail, bundled tight against the chill, still as shadows — like buzzards waiting to sweep in for the kill. From a distance, they wore wide, inviting smiles, but up close those smiles looked painted on — cold, hollow, almost beckoning me to give in. To be swallowed again.

Not this time.

Just as the doubt started pressing in, my phone chimed from the pocket of my vest — another RaceJoy cheer. A voice from home, breaking through the static like a lifeline: “You’ve got this!” My family, my friends — all tracking me, sending bursts of belief through the air, carrying more than just noise. Their voices pierced the fog in my mind, anchored me to something stronger than fatigue. I wasn’t alone. Not even here.

I kept my eyes forward, spine tall, as if bracing against a storm I’d already survived. I knew what it meant to fall — to be cracked open and swallowed whole — but I also knew how to rise, bone by bone, breath by breath.

I didn’t falter.

The whispers tried. They curled around my ankles like smoke, familiar and cunning — you’ll never make it… who are you kidding… — but this time, I let them slip through me like mist through a screen door.

I was built for this. Not by luck. Not by chance. But by every quiet mile, every careful rebuild, every time I chose to try again.

And I had made it this far. I hadn’t come through all that darkness just to dim now.

The final miles unspooled like ribbon. No cramps. No fade. Just breath and effort and heart. I picked up my feet and found a rhythm that felt like poetry — not because it was fast, but because it was mine. Smooth, grounded, strong.

And somewhere inside that strength, I thought of the Ukrainian people — living under skies streaked with missile fire, carrying groceries and children and grief, and still moving forward. Still fighting. Still standing tall in the mud and ash. They don’t falter — and in that moment, neither did I. My struggle was small, but my will was shared.

And just before the finish line, there they were — my friends, cheering like mad, eyes lit up, arms waving, voices soaring above the salt air. The sight of them cracked something open in me. I shifted gears and unleashed a kick I normally reserve for 5Ks, legs spinning, lungs roaring, every fiber charged. I crossed the finish line with everything I had left, and had to steady myself on the woman handing out medals — laughing, shaking, a little overwhelmed. It was glorious.

This race was never about breaking records. It was about proving that progress is possible, even after setbacks. That you can rebuild from zero and find joy again in the run. That with smart training, consistent effort, and an unshakable belief in yourself, the elusive becomes possible.

I’m not done. There’s a time I set in 2022 that I’d like to beat someday. But I’m not chasing it. I’m building toward it — thoughtfully, slowly, with a quiet fire. Because this race reminded me that strength doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it squeaks. And still, it carries you forward.

To every runner who’s ever felt sidelined, stuck, or uncertain — your finish line is still out there. It’s waiting for you, just around the bend. Trust the work. Trust your body. Lace up, listen closely… and run.

Ode to the Squeaky Shoe
It started soft, a stealthy sound,
A squeak with every rolling stride.
By mile thirteen, it stuck around—
A tiny mouse I couldn’t hide.

I tried to shake it, shift my gait,
But every step just cried anew.
It wasn’t pain or twist of fate—
It was my left foot’s grand debut.

And though it drove me near insane,
I found a rhythm in its plea.
It hummed the tune of my return—
A soundtrack for recovery.

So here’s to shoes that sing and slide,
And runners making comebacks true.
You don’t need silence to find pride—
Just heart… and one loud squeaky shoe