My phone started ringing in my arm band as I was jogging down the side street which led to my house.

“Hey!” I answered seeing my friend Kate’s number on the screen.

“Erika. I can’t find Trev or Meg,” Kate said breathlessly into the phone.

“What? What do you mean? What happened?”  I asked my heart rate rising even though I was standing still on the side of the road.  The beeping from my heart rate monitor pierced through the air as it alerted me my heart rate was getting too high.

“The Marathon…something happened.  Explosions.  Trev crossed the finish a half hour ago and Meg just finished seventeen minutes ago.  I think he went to find her…”  Kate’s voice was cut off as she started sobbing.

Still on the phone I jogged across the street cutting through neighbors’ backyards to get to my house.  Once inside I turned on the TV quickly clicking to the closest news station.  And there it was.  The Boston Marathon Bombing.

“We’re receiving reports from Boston that a series of explosions…” the news anchor reported.

I hung up the phone promising to check back later.  My then husband at the time came upstairs from his workshop to find me crying in the living room.

“Look,” I said pointing to the TV and explaining Kate’s phone call.  Things were tense between us at the time as we were in the talks of divorcing.  “People can’t do this. People can’t take this away from those athletes…their families,” I stopped talking again as my words hung in the air, “What now? We’re supposed to be scared to go to public places because of crazy people?” I yelled hands in the air, tears in my eyes.

Though I was certainly not a professional athlete I had always enjoyed running. There had always been something about running that felt so freeing for me and this attack felt so oppressive.  Even in the early hours it was clear to see how much it took away from athletes, their families, friends, the city of Boston.  It happened so fast. It seemed so wrong.  Breaking the heavy silence once again, I announced, “I’m running it. I’m so mad. I’m running it.”

“You’re seven months pregnant,” my soon to be ex-husband said stating the obvious.  I shot him a look in response, “But I mean…if you want to do it. You’ll do it,” he said back peddling.

Dear Erika,

Thank you for your interest in joining our 2015 Boston Marathon charity team.  We regret to inform you that you have not been chosen…

Sighing I fell back into my pillow.  I didn’t need to read the rest of the email.  So far three charities had denied me a bib number with reasons ranging from lack of previous full marathon experience (I had only run half marathons to date) to concern over my ability to raise funds for their organization.  I put my phone on the night stand leaving the email open.  So, far this was shaping up to be a rough first Christmas Eve divorced.

I got out of bed to shower and check on my son who was sleeping in the next room.  I’m not sure why but as I made my way back to my bedroom I suddenly felt the urge to read the rejection email in its entirety.  I needed a reason. I had been training by myself and with members from Greater Lowell Road Runners as if I were going to run Boston. I was prepared.  I wanted to know why I kept getting stamped with a big fat ‘R’ for reject.

Picking up my phone I saw the banner notification that I had a new message in Facebook Messenger from someone named Marie. I tapped the message to open it.

Hi, I hear you’re chasing a marathon bib.  I have one available for my charity if you’re interested, it’s yours.

‘Could it really be this simple?’ I thought to myself, ‘is this a scam?’  I quickly Googled her charity to see if it was legit.  Sure enough, the charity came back as a registered non-profit. I typed so fast my thumbs flew across my phone keyboard while tears filled my eyes.  I knew it, deep in the pit of my stomach, I knew I was going to do this for everyone else who couldn’t anymore.

Yes! This is true.  Absolutely, I would love to run for your team!

I stepped out the door of my condo complex to pouring snow.  It was snowing out so hard that as soon as the plow cleared the street it was covered minutes later.  This is how most of my training runs had been in the winter of 2014 leading into 2015.  That winter the city of Lowell had a record snow fall of 108.6 inches of snow.  I couldn’t remember a time when I had seen snow banks so high they covered the roof of my car.

I didn’t mind the snow or the cold much; it was therapeutic for me. Every mile I ran I felt different than the one before.  Stronger. Clearer. I was rebuilding myself, remembering who I was before I was married or divorced.

I ran in the snow, sleet, freezing rain, on sunny days, windy days…I just couldn’t be stuck on a treadmill.  My fellow runner friends always joking that I had a gym membership with warm, dry treadmills.  It just wasn’t the same for me.  I never felt I got anywhere running in place.

Months later I found myself running in the rain once again, but this time it was Marathon Monday. I took off my arm band after crossing the finish line tears pouring down my face as fast and hard as the rain falling outside.

I made my way over to the John Hancock Tower with my finisher medal and silver thermal blanket hoping to get out of the rain.  My phone had taken a beating in the elements and I feared it would shut off.  I sat once inside the tower, my muscles had hit a wall, and were in need of rest.

As my phone came back to life a new notification came across the screen in Facebook messenger.

I think I caught you crossing the finish! My friend Krystal had written attaching a picture of me wiping tears away as I crossed the big blue and yellow line.  A smile broke out on my face so wide I’m sure the marathoners who had taken shelter alongside me thought I was crazy.  It finally hit me—I had run the Boston Marathon. I did it.

I tried to pick myself up off the floor too quickly, my legs felt like concrete, and I found myself heading toward the ground again.  I tried once more, slowly this time successfully making my way to my feet still beaming with satisfaction.

I moved to the side to let two runners pass me on the sidewalk which was narrowed from the melting snow. It had been a little over three and half years since I first ran the Boston Marathon motivated by a mixture of wanting to run it for all those who couldn’t and rebuilding myself one mile at a time.

I found myself once again in a place where I needed to reconstruct both my body and mind.   I was walking faster now, moving fluidly, without pain at my incision site.  I reached around my back to feel the healing scar on my spine beneath my fingertips.  Sometimes it didn’t feel real, the constant pain which served as a reminder had vanished after my surgery.

It still felt like a really bad dream that in reality sometimes haunted me at night.  I’d wake with a start feeling as if I’d been dropped on top of the bed from high above, my heart racing. The same feeling I experienced in a waking nightmare when an SUV crossed the double yellow line from the opposite side of the road slamming into the driver’s side of my car months earlier.

It happened the same way every time I dreamt of my accident. Once I woke I would be covered in a cold sweat.  I would sit up in bed terrified I’d be doubled over as I was after my accident expecting deep pain to be shooting down my back, glutes and legs.  Trying to calm myself I’d cautiously put one foot on the floor at a time relieved to not feel the pain course through my body as it had before I was operated on.

“You can maybe try a mile in six months to a year, but I would advise you to not distance run anymore,” my surgeon had said at a post operative appointment. I nodded, glancing at my new husband, who I coincidentally (or maybe not) met the day after I ran the 2015 Boston Marathon.

There was a part of me that couldn’t wait to try a mile when my body was ready, but I was also petrified by doing so I would somehow undo what had been reconstructed during surgery.

It seemed so cruel to have an outlet which I always found to be so freeing suddenly a source of fear for me.  I was dedicating myself to physical therapy exercises and low impact cardio.  I wondered if I’d ever find the courage to run again? The thought lingering in the back of mind every day especially when I saw someone running on the side of the road looking so carefree.

As I was pulling on to our road one afternoon one of our neighbors was out for a run.  I slowly passed him in my car feeling that gnawing feeling of loss in my stomach.  I backed my car into the driveway just in time for him to pass.  His shirt advertised one single word- Run.

‘Of course,’ I thought to myself about to shut off my car as a message popped up on dashboard screen.

You have an unread email.  Read now?

Not knowing that was even an option in my car I exited out of the message but opened my phone to find an email from Marathon Sports.

Get your Boston Gear Now! the subject line read followed by the signature yellow and blue Boston Marathon hearts.

I exhaled, “I won’t be needing that,” I said feeling sadness creep in.

I did think it was a bit synchronistic that a Boston Marathon email and Run t-shirt sported by my neighbor would happen simultaneously.  I didn’t want to read too much into it. I was already in a daily war with my mind and my body.  I didn’t need to add fuel to the fire.

I decided to take a hot shower and clear my head.  Reaching for my towel I noticed my phone light up with a new text message from my husband.

Check out the plate, he had written. The picture message attached was a vanity plate from New Hampshire which read RUNMORE.

“Oh my god!” I exclaimed zooming in on the plate one more time to be sure I had read it correctly.

Maybe running hadn’t been taken from me entirely, maybe it was there, waiting for me whenever I was ready.  I didn’t have to chase it, in time, it would find me.  As with any hard times or obstacles we face in life it’s important to remember– it’s a marathon, not a sprint.  I turned in the mirror to see the scar down my spine and smiled, this scar marked a new beginning, not an end.