What I Learned After Helping My Sister Train for Her First Obstacle Race—Even Though I Wasn't the One Competing

When my sister Jenna told me she signed up for an obstacle race, my first reaction was, “Why would you voluntarily suffer?” Crawling through mud, climbing walls, jumping over fire—it sounded like the plot of a reality show, not a weekend activity.

But she was determined. And nervous. And she asked if I could help her train.

I hadn’t worked out consistently in years, but I said yes because that’s what older siblings do—we pretend we know what we’re doing even when we don’t.

We started meeting every Saturday morning at the park. Jenna had printed a training plan she found online, full of things like “grip strength,” “explosive power,” and “upper-body endurance.” Meanwhile, I was just trying not to spill my coffee while helping her stretch.

But week after week, something shifted.

At first, I was just supervising. Then I started joining her “just for fun.” Then suddenly I was the one saying, “Let’s do one more round.”

I didn’t expect to rediscover exercise by accident.
I definitely didn’t expect to enjoy it.

One day, Jenna said she wanted to work on upper-body strength at home. She didn’t have equipment, and her tiny apartment couldn’t fit a full gym setup. So I brought over my old adjustable dumbbells—rusty, mismatched, unreliable.

She laughed and said, “Are these antique?”

I couldn’t blame her.

That night, I searched for something more practical for both of us and ended up ordering the keppi adjustable dumbbell set. Compact, easy to adjust, and way better than the relics I had. When they arrived, Jenna’s eyes lit up like a kid opening a new game console.

We started meeting twice a week at her place. We'd put on music, clear a tiny square of living room space, and run through circuits: rows, presses, lunges, carries. I wasn’t preparing for a race, but somehow the training felt like it belonged to both of us.

Helping her made me help myself, almost without noticing.

The deeper we got into training, the more I saw changes—not just physical, but emotional. Jenna had always been determined, but now she was confident. Focused. She carried herself differently. And she said something one day that stuck with me:

“I thought this race would help me prove something to other people. Turns out I just needed to prove something to myself.”

It hit harder than I expected.

We talked about stress, burnout, feeling stuck in routines, how adulthood somehow makes you forget what it feels like to push yourself for fun. The obstacle race became more than a bucket-list challenge—it became therapy in disguise.

Race day arrived before we knew it. The morning was cold, the field was muddy, and everyone looked way more prepared than we felt. But Jenna wasn’t scared. She was excited.

I stayed on the sidelines, running around like an over-caffeinated coach with a camera. Every time she completed an obstacle, she’d glance over at me with a proud, exhausted smile.

She climbed the rope.
She carried sandbags.
She crawled under wires.
She sprinted through her final stretch like her life depended on it.

When she crossed the finish line, she collapsed into my arms, laughing and crying at the same time.

“I did it,” she said.
“No,” I corrected her. “We did it.”

Driving home afterward, I realized the truth: I never needed to compete in the race to gain something from it. Helping Jenna reminded me of the joy of showing up for someone—and for myself. It gave me structure, purpose, and a new habit I actually looked forward to.

And to this day, we still meet twice a week to train. Not for a race. Not for a goal. Just because it became our thing—our shared ritual in a world where family time often gets lost in the chaos of adulthood.

Sometimes the most meaningful fitness journey isn’t the one you sign up for.
It’s the one that grows quietly alongside someone else's.