The crowds along the course blur into a mosaic of color and sound; cowbells, cheers, pep bands, aid stations; slick pavement strewn with crumpled cups, the rhythmic slap of shoes on asphalt. As the miles dissolve into crushed cups and gel wrappers, when fatigue sharpens its arguments, I breathe the words that have ferried me through training, loss, and doubt: “Puedo hacerlo.” I can do this.
But this running of my 55th marathon is not solely mine. I am running for two hearts that beat stronger than my own, my brother‑in‑law and my coach/president of my running club, both of whom suffered strokes in recent months. Each mile becomes a dedication, a meditation on resilience, and a reminder that recovery; whether physical, emotional, or spiritual, demands endurance of a different order.
The Marathon as a Mirror
People often imagine marathons as solitary pursuits, yet they are mirrors reflecting the communities that lift us. My brother‑in‑law, a man whose laughter fills every room, now measures progress in moments; a clearer sentence, a surer grip, a steadier step. My coach, who has guided and supported me and so many local and international athletes, now faces his own finish line; one defined not by the clock, but by tenacity.
On long, exacting training runs, I carried their stories with me. Some days, the weight of them slowed my cadence; other days, it quickened my pace. The road, like recovery, insists on patience. You cannot rush healing any more than you can skip miles on a course. Every stride counts.
Running in Translation
Continuing to learn Spanish this year often feels like its own endurance event. Each verb conjugation, each new phrase, asks for the humility of a beginner’s mind. It recalls my brother‑in‑law learning to speak again, and my coach retraining muscles to move. The mantra “Puedo hacerlo” grows beyond language practice—it becomes an affirmation of kinship.
In Spanish, the phrase carries warmth; it is both a declaration and a hope. Inked as a temporary tattoo on my forearm, and whispered aloud in the quiet stretches, it steadies me. I am not merely convincing myself; I am channeling all of us who are trying, faltering, and trying again: the runner, the patient, the learner, the teacher.
We all have our marathons.
The Spiritual Mile
Around mile twenty‑two, the world begins to shimmer; the body rebels, the mind bargains, and the heart must lead. I picture my brother‑in‑law in physical therapy, his jaw set with effort, his eyes unyielding. I picture my coach, ever the analyst, watching, still offering quiet counsel. I recall summer training in Johannesburg, dawn runs along the Cape Town shoreline, the humbling hills of Woodstock, New York, and the dark, cold mornings in New York City.
And I remember how the human spirit refuses to capitulate, even when the body does.
That is when the tears arrive—not from exhaustion, but from gratitude. Every step becomes a prayer. Every breath carries a message to those who cannot be out there with me: You taught me how to continue. This finish line belongs to you as well.
Crossing Together
When I cross the line, I do not raise my arms in triumph. Instead, I touch my chest twice, once for each of them, and whisper, “Lo hicimos.” We did it.
Because we did. Every long run, every small comeback, every day spent believing that progress remains possible; that is the true marathon.
In the end, “Puedo hacerlo” was never a solo declaration of capacity. It is a promise to keep faith with those still fighting their way forward. To keep learning. To keep translating pain into purpose. To keep running; not away from struggle, but toward hope.
Reflection
If the road teaches anything, it is that endurance is not measured in miles but in meaning. Each time we choose to keep moving, to keep learning, to keep loving through difficulty, we remind ourselves and each other: we can do hard things; together.
Whether you are recovering, rebuilding, or relearning, may you find your own mantra. And may it remind you, just as mine did, that “Puedo hacerlo” is less about perfection than persistence, less about speed than purpose, a cadence shared by human resilience.
Author’s Note:
This 55th marathon was dedicated to my brother-in-law and my coach; two men who continue to redefine what strength looks like. Their courage, like the road itself, has no finish line.
Tucked into my go bag the morning of the marathon was a note from my wife:
“It always seems impossible until it is done”
…Nelson Mandela