Boston Bombing – My Story

10 Years Later – Boston

Ten years since the Boston Marathon bombing.
Ten years of returning to run the Boston Marathon.

April 15, 2013. Patriot’s Day in Massachusetts.
A perfect day for a run.

Boston is unlike any other race—30,000 runners moving as one, carried by the energy of the crowds. Backyards filled with BBQs and music, strangers cheering like they’ve known you forever, little kids reaching out for high-fives. At mile 13, the scream tunnel at Wellesley lifts you when you need it most. Then come the Newton Hills… and Heartbreak Hill, where your body starts to give in, but something deeper keeps you going.

You turn onto Boylston Street, and it’s deafening layers of cheers pulling you forward. You see the finish. Your legs somehow find more. 26.2 miles. Arms up. Smile for the camera. Another year earned.

I walked through the finish chute like everyone else—wrapped in exhaustion, pride, and that quiet disbelief of what your body just did. Medal around my neck, heading for dry clothes, thinking only about what was next.

Then everything changed.

I went back toward the finish to watch others come in—to cheer, to celebrate them the way strangers had just done for me.

And then the ground shook.

A blast.
Smoke rising down Boylston.

At first, confusion. Fireworks?
Then people running toward me.
Faces I will never forget.

“Bomb.”

My brain couldn’t catch up to what my eyes were seeing—blood, chaos, screaming. Runners being pulled from med tents. Sirens closing in. And me… frozen. Completely still in the middle of it all.

Until arms came around me from behind.
A National Guard soldier lifted me and carried me away. Set me down somewhere safer. Asked if I was okay.

I nodded. That’s all I could do.

Then I was alone again—wandering into Boston Common, surrounded by people but completely lost. Phones not working. No way to find anyone.

Then my phone rang.

My daughter.
She had heard.

I told her I was okay. I don’t even know if I believed it yet—but I needed her to.

Eventually, I found my friends. We didn’t say much—we just held onto each other and cried. Back at the hotel, the city was locked down. We watched it unfold on the news, over and over.

Trying to understand something that didn’t make sense.

The next morning, I stepped out to cross the street for coffee.
A line of Boston Police Department officers stopped traffic and waved me across.

I was wearing my 2013 Boston Marathon shirt.

They nodded.

And that was the moment it all hit me.

Not the explosion.
Not the chaos.
That moment.

These people had been out there the day before—on their holiday—cheering us on, lifting us up, celebrating something good. And in an instant, that was taken from them… from all of us.

I was angry.

Angry for the lives lost.
Angry for the families forever changed.
Angry for a city that showed nothing but love.

Even though I wasn’t physically injured, I wasn’t untouched. The healing took time—months of processing, leaning on family, friends, and therapy. Nights waking up, replaying that finish line in my dreams… only for it to turn into something else.

I didn’t know if I would run another marathon.
Or come back to Boston.

But here I am.

Ten years later—still running these streets. Still grateful. Still in awe of this city and the people who define it.

Because Boston didn’t break.

It came together.

Boston Strong.

This day will always stay with me—not just for what happened, but for what it taught me:
To be grateful for every mile.
Every finish line.
Every single day we get to keep going.