Anne Mahlum never planned to start a nonprofit.
That kind of ambition wasn’t in her head on the day she first ran past the homeless shelter in Philadelphia.
Running was her therapy, her way of processing a childhood shaped by her father’s addictions.
It was also her escape—a place where she could quiet her mind and outrun the memories of growing up in a house overshadowed by chaos.
Every morning, Anne laced up her shoes and passed by the same men sitting outside the Sunday Breakfast Rescue Mission.
At first, she barely noticed them.
They were part of the background, like the cracked sidewalks and the sound of cars honking.
But over time, something shifted.
The men began to nod at her as she passed, a silent acknowledgment of her presence.
She started nodding back.
It was a small thing, this exchange. But small things can grow.
One day, Anne had a thought she couldn’t shake:
What if running could help them, too?
It wasn’t just exercise to her; running had been a lifeline.
When her father went into rehab for drugs and alcohol, Anne learned early that addiction doesn’t vanish.
It shifts. For her dad, it became gambling, and later, fishing.
Anne understood addiction’s pull, but she also knew the power of channeling that energy into something positive.
Maybe running could be their way out of the spiral.
The First Mile
Anne reached out to the shelter’s director with her idea.
She envisioned a running club for the residents—a way to build discipline, self-respect, and confidence.
But the response was tepid at best.
These men, she was told, had bigger problems.
They weren’t interested in running.
Anne didn’t give up.
She persisted until the shelter agreed to let her try.
Nine men signed up for that first run.
Anne made sure they had what they needed: new shoes, socks, shirts, and shorts—nothing secondhand.
She didn’t want them to feel “less than” before they even started.
On that first morning, they ran a mile.
For some, it was easy.
Others, like George, struggled with every step.
But Anne made a rule that day: No one finishes alone.
When George lagged, the group went back for him.
Together, they crossed the finish line.
Something had shifted—not just for the men, but for Anne, too.
This was more than running.
It was about showing these men they were capable of more than they’d been told.
Structure Brings Dignity
Anne didn’t coddle the runners.
If they were going to participate, they had to commit.
She asked them to sign a contract, agreeing to show up three times a week, on time, with a positive attitude.
The rules weren’t negotiable, and the men responded.
For many, it was the first time in years—or maybe ever—that someone had held them to a high standard.
They rose to meet it.
The group grew.
Word spread. Local media took notice.
Soon, it wasn’t just a running club; it was a movement.
Volunteers joined, and corporate sponsors got involved.
Marriott, for instance, became a major employer of the participants, not out of charity but because the runners proved to be some of the hardest-working, most reliable employees.
Healing Through Purpose
Anne’s drive to help others was deeply personal.
Growing up with a father who struggled with addiction had left scars.
Running, she said, helped her heal in ways nothing else could.
With Back on My Feet, she saw a chance to offer that same healing to others—and maybe, in some small way, to the parts of herself that still needed it.
“It made my life make sense,” Anne said.
“All the pain, the chaos—it wasn’t for nothing.”
But there was a cost.
Her mother worried about her safety.
Her friends questioned her judgment.
When Anne decided to leave a six-figure job at Comcast to focus on Back on My Feet full-time, people thought she was making a huge mistake.
She had no savings, no safety net. But she had conviction, and that was enough.
The Underdog Effect
The success of Back on My Feet wasn’t just about the runs or the rules.
It was about the people.
Stories of participants like George and Mike made headlines.
These were men who had been written off by society but were now rebuilding their lives, one mile at a time.
Anne believed in them before they believed in themselves.
She advocated for them with employers, telling companies, “If you need people who are hardworking, reliable, and resilient, you won’t find better candidates than these men.”
It worked. These men weren’t just given jobs; they were given dignity.
The Bigger Picture
Over time, Anne handed over the reins of Back on My Feet to new leadership.
The organization had grown beyond what she’d imagined, with chapters in cities across the country.
She had built something that could stand on its own, and it was time for her to move on.
But the lessons of Back on My Feet endure.
Anne’s story is proof that pain, when channeled with purpose, can become a powerful force for transformation.
It’s about recognizing that even the deepest wounds can be the foundation for building something extraordinary.
It’s about turning personal struggles into fuel to uplift others, finding strength in vulnerability, and using that strength to make a difference.
And above all, it’s about transforming pain into passion—not just for personal growth but for creating a ripple effect that inspires others to believe in their ability to change their own lives.
This post was inspired by Anne Mahlum's interview in The First Million podcast.