Since Monday, April 15, I have been at a loss for words. That morning, I was in Florida watching the marathon on my iPad feeling very far away but excited, nonetheless. My girls were on a Disney Cruise with my parents. My husband and I were getting ready to spend four days together sans kids for the first time in years and we were giddy. And then the bombs went off and everything shifted. First, I panicked. Many of my close friends, some of the girls on my high school track team, and several of my fellow coaches were running or watching the marathon. I spent hours trying to track each and every one of them down via phone, Facebook, email, etc. "Where are you?" "Are you okay?" "Did you make it home?" Fortunately, every single one of them made it out safely and unharmed. Though, many of them were at the finish line watching or had just finished when the explosions went off and were in a state of total shock and disbelief when I spoke to them. I couldn't begin to imagine. Later in the day I was numb. I was sad. I was angry. And, strangely, I really wanted to be back in Boston. I wanted to see my friends, to hug them, to talk to them. I wanted to hug my own children but they were on a boat in the Bahamas. My only consolation in that was that they were far away from the events that had just unfolded. My husband and I watched and listened to the news. Non-stop. In our hotel room. At the hotel bar. At restaurants. On our phones, as we sat by the pool and tried to relax. Tried. And then four long and restless days later we scooped up our girls and flew back home to Boston. I was so ready to get home and I was insanely nervous about the trip back. Our flight home was on Friday night. Watertown, Belmont and Cambridge, all next door to Winchester (our town) were on lock down as law enforcement tried to put an end to all the chaos. We watched CNN on the plane for 2 and a half hours while our girls watched Nickelodeon. Fortunately, we were able to get a ride and made it safely back to our house. We put our girls to sleep and watched as the city celebrated outside on the streets. They finally caught him. It was over. On Saturday we woke up and picked up where we left off. My husband did lawn work. My girls biked with their friends through the neighborhood. I went running. Back to normal. But, not really. Everything had changed in this one week. Maybe not for my kids. But for me; as a mother, as a runner, as a person in general. Nothing will ever be the same. I have never wanted to run the Boston Marathon more than I do at this moment in my life. I will do whatever it takes to get to the starting line in 2014. I want to experience all that is right and good about our city and this country again. Do I want my girls (ages 6 and 8) to be there, too? I want to say, "yes", but to be honest, I don't know. I just don't know. I have some time to think about it. In the meantime, every time I head outside for a run, I will think of this event and all of those who suffered in any way on that horrible day. Each run will be a reminder of what took place on that Monday in April. Each run I will feel a little sad. Each run I will feel a little grateful. Each run I will feel.