Before I had children, before I met my husband, before I moved to New York City, before I graduated from high school, I was a runner. I didn't plan to become a runner, but I became one all the same. It was the fall of 1997 as I trained for my first marathon, when I first thought, "What if I could qualify for Boston?" Back then, it was a dream, an aspiration. Qualifying would be confirmation of talent and skill I wasn't sure I possessed in high school. It wasn't until 2007 that I actually attempted to qualify and beat the cut-off of 3 hours 40 minutes and secured a spot in the 2008 Boston Marathon. I was ecstatic, proud, over-joyed and somewhat shocked that I had done it.

Three of my siblings came to cheer me on, as did my mother and my husband-to-be. The night before the race, my family pulled out maps and, with the precision of a military tactical team, planned where everyone would be on the course to cheer me on. A good friend of mine was running the race with me and she and her siblings laughed at my family's overly-careful planning. My friend and I ran the whole race together, spotting our families and friends along the course. When we turned onto Boylston Street we pushed for a strong finish and raised our arms triumphantly as we crossed the finish line. We were tired, we were sore, but we finished and went on to celebrate with our loved ones.

Five years later, I watched the race coverage as women and men sped through the course. I cheered for the Colombian runner Yolanda Caballero, a widowed mother who led the women for miles, and for the Ethiopian woman who won. I watched as amateur runners crossed the start line and as elite runners of all ethnicities raced past the flags to cross the finish line. Then I turned off the screen and headed to the kitchen to make lunch. 

It was almost three hours later that my husband texted me with news of the bombing. As I distractedly played with the children outside, I used my phone to search for news to learn of the dead and injured, devastated for the runners and their families. 

I am tempted to say, "That could have been me. That could have been my family." I recognize where those bombs went off. I remember the flags, now forcefully pushed down so first responders could get to the injured. But it's not about me. It's about an evil soul who had a goal to injure, to maim, to kill and dismay us. More importantly though, it's also about those first responders. It's also about untrained volunteers rushing to help. It's about watching that awful blast over and over again and focusing on the number of people running towards the blast instead of away from it. 

It's also about the runners whose journeys to the Boston Marathon are varied and unique. It's about how fatigued they were by the time the bombs went off. About distraught runners still on the course who were not only unable to fulfill their dream of crossing the finish line, but filled with dread and concern for their loved ones. Tired, cold and in shock, those runners likely felt sadness, disappointment, fear and anger within seconds of being stopped and herded off of the course. 

The scenes from the coverage--the chaos, the debris, the blood--remind me of 9/11. Back then, I was living in New York City, and, like many folks in Boston today, devastated for my city, deeply saddened by the loss of two friends, and humbled by the courage of the firefighters who ran into the two burning buildings while others ran out. That year I was also running the NYC Marathon, though ambivalent about the months of training involved. After the towers fell, I was galvanized and decided to race the course with pride and courage. Fear was not going to stop me. As I stepped to the starting line that November, I discovered I was not alone. I was surrounded by Australians, Peruvians and people from all over the world who had braved two of the world's biggest concerns: flying and NYC. They came to stand alongside 23,000 fellow runners and prove that terrorists were not going to cow them out of their race. As I ran mile after mile, I passed dozens of firefighters along the course and bowed down to them and thanked them. What an honor: here were the real heroes, dressed in full gear, cheering me on.

I learned something from that race. I learned heroism takes many forms. Those runners from around the country and around the world came to my city to support New Yorkers and the U.S. They faced their families and said, I'm not afraid, I'm going. Some probably said, I'm afraid AND I'm still going. And they did. They ran. They cheered. They finished. The NYC Marathon in 2001 wasn't just a race, it was a revolution.

Today, less than 24 hours after the explosion in Boston, it's time to lead our individual revolutions. It's time to run toward Boston, not away. We must go to Boston, not to gawk, but to give. We must honor the victims and help them heal. We must remember those who lost their lives. We should seek justice, but not revenge. We should seek understanding, not hate. We should let this lesson permeate through our lives and give time if we have time to give and money if we have money to give. And, given the opportunity, we must inspire others just because we can.

With its storied history, the Boston Marathon has never been just a footrace. The Boston Marathon has been a goal, an aspiration, a dream, a story. This year's story has added a tragic chapter, but not a tragic end. The Boston Marathon is about triumph as it will be once again. Not today, not this month, but that finish line will one day, again herald joy and there will, once again, be families rushing in to scoop up their runners, their heroes. 

As I've mentioned in the past, I used to be runner. I started running in middle school when my twin sister and I decided to be managers on the track team. The track coach took one look at us scrawny 7th graders and decided we should be long-distance runners, so we ended up running the 1600 meter race and instead of "managing" the team peacefully from a distance, each week I'd spend the entire meet feeling nervous and nauseous until after the race. Four years later, my twin convinced me to run again. I ended up running track for three years and even got suckered into cross-country my senior year. I remember thinking that 3.1 miles was a very long distance to run, but as it turned out, I enjoyed trail running.  In addition, I loved the fact that anyone I wanted to beat was right in front of me instead of in a different heat or on a different leg of a relay.

I ran off-and-on through college and I remember being one of the few female runners in Spain when I studied abroad in Seville. It wasn't until I moved to Chicago and met a bunch of people who had run marathons that I decided I wanted to run one myself. Removed from the pressure of being on a competitive track team, I began to enjoy running more than I had in high school. Despite the pressure and nerves I had felt as a student, it was all those years of running with a disciplined track regimen that helped me recognize which pace to run, when to push myself and how to finish strong--skills that made me a decent age-group runner.

By the time I got pregnant with Monkey, I had done several marathons and triathlons and lots of running around the soccer field. It was a sad day when I concluded I needed to hang up both my soccer cleats and my running shoes during my pregnancy. It was then that I realized that even though I was a mediocre triathlete and soccer player, being a "good runner" was a huge part of my identity. 

Because of a separated pelvis diagnosis after I had Monkey, it was about a year before I could run consistently and train for my first post-baby half-marathon.  It was great to get outside, make time for myself and get back into shape. On race day, I felt like I was back in high school--nervous and sick to my stomach wondering how I would do. How much slower would I run than I used to? Would my finish time be embarrassingly slow?  Would I know how to pace myself anymore? I didn't feel like I really knew my body anymore and I'd only done two races since Monkey was born. In addition, this race wasn't on my familiar stomping grounds of Central Park and I wasn't sure what to anticipate on such a flat course. I started out fast, struggled a bit with uneven pacing in the middle and hit a wall around mile 11. Encouragement from my speedy brother-in-law got me through the last 2 miles and I finished within five minutes of my best half-marathon time ever. Seeing my husband and Monkey at the finish line was incredible and I felt a huge sense of pride and an even bigger sense of relief. I was so happy that I could come back from incubating a baby and recover from a separated pelvis and still be a good runner. 

I did a few more races before getting pregnant again, but this time I was able to run in the first few months of my pregnancy and start running again six weeks after Munchkin was born. I've had a hard time finding more than 30 minutes to run, but as Munchkin sleeps better and gets older, I'll aim for another half-marathon. My latest source of pride is the 10k mud run I did a few weeks ago with three other mothers. Despite our varied experiences as runners and varied levels of training, we had a great time tackling obstacles and getting muddy. Getting out of the house for a few hours without the kids renewed my sense of individuality, reminded me that I was capable of physical feats that did not involve my children (can you hold 55 lbs of squirming children in your arms?) and that I was still a decent athlete.  

Tomorrow I--along with many other parents--will be running a local 5k and Monkey will not only be cheering for me, but I'll be cheering for him. He'll be running his own race (his second race ever) and this year he is old enough to understand the goal and he is already excited to be a part of it. He and Munchkin are young, but I hope that with time, they'll get the same sense of accomplishment and pride from running that I do. It does a body good.