I Got Caught—Then I Got Free
By Mohamed Abdullahi
I still remember the look on my coach’s face the first week we were back together. We’d barely started the workout when my body told the truth my logbook hadn’t. I couldn’t hang. I wasn’t fit. And deep down, I knew why.
Coach looked at me and asked the question I’d been dodging for weeks: Did you lie on your logs?
I tried to play it off—said I was sick, said my body didn’t feel right. But the weight of that first quarter at DePaul had been building for months: the pressure I put on myself, the loneliness, the culture shock, the feeling that I went from being near the top to starting over at the bottom.
I felt like I didn’t belong. But that day didn’t end my career. It saved it.
Freshman Year Freefall
My freshman year was chaos. My high school coach warned me and I knew it would be hard. I’m the kind of person who adapts slower than others. New workouts take time. New routines take time. But once I figure something out, I don’t forget it.
The problem was, I wasn’t figuring anything out yet.
I came in excited because I wasn’t alone. One of my closest friends from high school was coming with me. He was the one who first pulled me into running. Two weeks into practice, before school even got rolling, he wasn’t feeling right and quit.
That hit me harder than I expected. I spiraled.
On top of that, I walked into college with huge dreams: national champion, pro runner, Olympics. But the reality check was brutal. At DePaul, I felt like I was starting from scratch. The bottom guy again.
There was another layer I didn’t know how to talk about: culture shock. In high school, I trained around people who looked like me—Somali, Ethiopian; similar backgrounds. In college, I looked around and felt like the only one. Alone, out of place, unsure how to be myself in a new environment.
And instead of dealing with all that honestly, I started doing something that still doesn’t sit right with me: I started lying in my logbook.
The Day I Got Honest
The logbook seems simple: write down your mileage, your training, how you’re doing. But it’s really a trust test.
Winter training exposed everything. We were expected to train on our own: 70 miles a week, workouts, consistency. I wasn’t even close. Some weeks I ran 20 miles. Some weeks I skipped workouts entirely. I felt trapped between two bad options: follow the plan and break down, or keep faking it and hope nobody noticed.
Then we got back as a team. I tried to run with my roommate Nick. He dropped me. My body couldn’t hide what my logbook had been hiding. When we got to the indoor track the next week, it was obvious again.
That’s when I got called in.
I walked into coach’s office scared. This is it. I’m done. I’m off the team. Instead, he gave me another chance. I cried. And when I walked out, it felt like somebody took a backpack full of rocks off my shoulders.
For the first time in months, I didn’t have to act anymore.
That moment changed everything. Not just because I got caught, but because I finally got honest. Honesty made me vulnerable in a good way. I started with Nick. Then I brought the whole team together, told them what happened, and cried again. They hugged me. And after that, my running (and my life) started climbing.
Now when I think about leadership, I think about that. I know what it feels like to be a freshman and to feel like you’re drowning. So I pull the younger guys closer, ask them questions, and build connection early. Because I know how quickly isolation can turn into self-sabotage.
Now when I think about leadership, I think about that. I know what it feels like to be a freshman and to feel like you're drowning. So I pull the younger guys closer, ask them questions, and build connection early. Because I know how quickly isolation can turn into self-sabotage.
Always Moving, Always Searching
My story didn’t start at DePaul. It started with movement—Kenya, Toronto, Ohio, Wisconsin, Chicago—and a constant feeling of being in-between. In Kenya, I was “American.” Back here, I was “from Africa.” No clean category anywhere.
When I was 15, I wanted to come back to the U.S. for good. My dad didn’t want me to yet. He wanted me to stay in Kenya until I was 18 so I’d mature. I was stubborn and aggressive when I was younger—always ready to fight, always carrying a chip on my shoulder. My dad was scared I’d waste the opportunity.
So I had to convince him. I called my cousin in America and asked her to help persuade him. My dad’s question was simple: Can I trust you? Are you going to mess this up?
That’s the kind of love my dad has always shown me: he’ll support my dreams, whatever they are. But he expects me to listen, to grow up, to take it seriously.
When I got back, I thought I’d be a basketball player. Then I got dunked on at a higher level and snapped into reality. Those guys had been training since they were 3. A friend kept pushing me to try cross country. I didn’t even know what it was. They said, “Try it for two weeks.”
Those two weeks changed my life.
Run, Create, Believe
My high school coach gave me free shoes once, then said: They’re free in money, but they aren’t free. You’ve got to earn them. That hit me because growing up, nothing felt free.
Running gave me something to chase and people to chase it with.
DePaul wasn’t even supposed to be the answer, but I went on the visit and my gut said I belonged. So I stayed close to home. Now I’m chasing the program mile record, getting faster, stacking performances, staying connected to the goal without being attached to the outcome.
That’s the mindset I live by: connected to everything, attached to nothing. Effort is my job. The rest takes care of itself.
Off the track, I’m building, too. I tried finance because people said it pays. It didn’t feel like me. So I switched to film, and felt the difference immediately. The creativity, the network, the work itself.
I’ve seen myself as a creator from day one, not for clout but for connection. I want to document the journey, build my brand, and show what discipline looks like in real time. Faith sits at the center of all of it. I see effort as worship and discipline as alignment.
Freshman year tried to break me. The logbook exposed me.
But the truth is—it also rebuilt me.
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