I was born to run the Boston Marathon.

(I am not trying to brag . . . you’ll see.)

"It all starts here" in Hopkinton says it all.

It’s one of the few instances in life that make me actually believe in destiny.

If you’ve ever run it, you’ve passed hedges on your left as you approached the start line in Hopkinton. Just on the other side lies a small, unremarkable apartment complex. This is where my parents used to live.

Marathon Monday (an actual holiday called Patriots’ Day) in Massachusetts is a big deal.

The Commonwealth shuts down while thousands of runners make their way from Hopkinton to Boston. It’s the oldest - and most prestigious - marathon in the world.

It was the first marathon to allow women to compete and was the first to introduce a wheelchair division to the world majors.

With its net downhill and infamous Heartbreak Hill at mile 20, the course itself is one that can make or break an athlete.

On the 96th running of the marathon on April 20th, 1992, this posed a curious issue for my family.

Almost on cue, the start gun went off and my pregnant mother went into labor. Chaos ensued as a police escort helped traverse the runners on the way to the hospital.

Panicked, I’m sure.

I was born that afternoon before the final runners crossed the finish line.

A year later,

The picture hanging above my desk.

my mother strolled through the apartment complex with me in tow. It was hard not to. In those days, the elites purportedly warmed up anywhere they could find, including our parking lot.

Imagine dozens of elite East African athletes descending on your quaint suburban paradise on a Monday morning. Marathon magic.

One particular man noticed my mom with her infant and jogged over. He waved at me as he smiled and spoke to my mother in broken English. He had a 2 day-old back home in Kenya and missed him desperately. It was hard to tell if he had yet to even meet his son.

But he had a job to do. The potential to earn enough prize money to change their lives back home forever was calling. He was running for him that day. For his future.

My mom turned on the news later and yelped. The friendly man was Cosmas Ndeti, the winner of that year’s marathon. His first of three consecutive victories.

This is only the beginning of my history with the race.

My family makes the absolute best signs. The day before my 30th birthday (2022)

I started running marathons and like many others, dreamed of making it to Hopkinton.

I didn’t know how I would, considering the qualification times were beyond anything I could imagine for myself.

Luckily, a friend who works at the Boston Athletic Association (BAA), the organization who puts on the race, gifted me a bib so I could run it on my 23rd birthday.

(Thank you, Mary!)

As my love of running deepened, my paces dropped. Maybe my dream was within reach?

My first real attempt at the necessary sub-3 hour time fell short by 10 minutes. I had one shot at New York to make it happen and was clearly in over my head.

Heartbreaking.

On my next attempt, I ran a 2:55, surpassing my wildest expectations.

In the end, it didn’t mean much considering only the fastest runners in your age group actually get the bib.

I didn’t make it past the buffer that year and sat on the sidelines, even more heartbroken.

But if you watch the Boston Marathon on any given year, you will see nothing but determination and resilience, even through blistering heart or buckets of rain.

The message is clear: keep going.

Thank you to Casey Photography for getting the best photos EVER! (2022)

So I worked diligently, developed as a runner, and secured bibs for the next three years. Hell yea!

I managed to set huge PRs in two of them, building my confidence on a notably difficult course.

However, as we know with any marathon, anything can happen.

The third time, my race went south quickly. The heat (I think?) got me and I crawled to the finish in just shy of 4 hours.

Not only did I have the worst run of my life, but without another marathon under my belt that year, I lost my qualification.

Didn’t see that one coming. Gutted.

That's why I'm running the Boston 5k on Saturday this year and cheering on Monday instead.

Possibly the most iconic race photo ever. Dave and I ended up in the med tent during the worst marathon of my (both of our?) lives. But that’s a whole other story. (2024)

I literally can’t stay away.

Between the fast qualification times, the notorious Newton hills, and the 128+ years of history, there is no question that Boston is legendary.

I’ve seen every side of triumph and failure both while running it and trying to make it to the start line.

Thankfully, I have my qualifying time this year and intend on making Boston 2026 one of my greatest races yet. Especially so, considering it will be on my 34th birthday.

Whether through destiny, heartbreak, or breakthrough, I’m going to keep adding to my story there. One marathon at a time.

Again, thank you Casey Photography (2023)