This is not to say that Kieffer represents what an “un-thin” woman looks like. By regular-person standards, she is quite thin. But she knows firsthand how the word “strong” can be a euphemism for “too big,” and how the goal of running fast is consistently equated with weight loss. As her extraordinary athletic success continued this year — and she weighed 10 pounds more than she did at her last peak, in 2012 — she faced speculation on whether her speed was related to drugs, since, in the words of one online commenter, “nobody runs that time at that weight without EPO or blood doping.”

Of course, there is a growing movement telling us to embrace the bodies we’ve got — thank you — but it’s hard to drown out the other messages. Whether it’s for a race or a wedding, women are told that they are at their most valuable when their bodies are their most diminished. Resisting the impulse to feed yourself is an accomplishment we praise. You don’t have to buy into these values, but you’ll probably still be judged by them.

And you don’t have to be as talented as Kieffer for her story to resonate. It certainly felt familiar to me. Since I started racing, in high school, I’ve been the kind of runner who’s lucky to just make the medal podium. Every so often, people will remind me that I don’t look as if I belong out there, that my doubts aren’t just in my head. A few years ago, I told a new colleague that I was running a marathon over the weekend and interpreted her wide eyes as a reflection of how much I’d clearly just impressed her — except she was struck by something else.

“But you’re not even skinny!” she exclaimed.

(No, I learned in high school that not eating enough food won’t get you everything you might have hoped it would.)

In my case, I wasn’t just thinking about how I looked compared with my peers or what I ate. My approach was about all the other powerful temptations of discipline versus excess that it takes to push your limits in this sport: more mileage, more working, more, more, more, even when it didn’t really get me anywhere.

After five years of pushing through injuries doing what I was certain the successful version of myself should do, I never made it to the starting line of a race. I’d get injured, get upset, and try the same thing again, hoping that maybe by the seventh or the eighth or the ninth try it would finally work.

Then, one summer, I realized I wasn’t even trying anymore — without even deciding to, I’d given up and let go. And then last year, I started running again, without any pressure, because I love it. And I decided to try racing again; now, the only goal would be simply making it to the starting line. I made it, and I reached the finish line too — faster than I’d ever run. And it all somehow felt easier, and more satisfying, than whatever nonsense I’d been attempting before. Sometimes, trying to keep up is less productive — and far more frustrating — than motivating yourself on your own terms.