On Monday, someone tried to rob us of the joy that marks a lifetime achievement of qualifying for and running in the Boston Marathon. In a few seconds' time, a celebratory running event turned into one having nothing to do with sport or running -- it became about feeling secure on our own turf.
I crossed the finish line about 40 minutes before the two blasts occurred, and was a block parallel from the explosions. Three days later, I'm still not sure how to react and I'm struggling to gather my thoughts. It's impossible to describe the exact way I'm feeling. At first, I was really angry. And I can't stop replaying everything I saw in those moments in slow-motion in my head. I feel sad, and I'm haunted by the photos and videos I've seen in the media coverage. How easily could one of those runners or spectators hurt or killed have been me? It hurts to imagine the pain and not-knowing that families, friends, and the injured themselves are experiencing right now.
I am well and so thankful to come home to my family. I'm taking in every step, every chore, and every conversation like it's a privilege. The one thing I can do is keep running.
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