Boston Marathon Sixth Star, Before Boston and After Boylston

Boston Marathon 2026. Sixth star earned.

I planned to publish this before Boston.

I thought I would be writing about nerves, hope, and what it meant to finally head toward a race I had dreamed about for years.

Instead, I am writing this on the other side of Boylston Street, with my Boston Marathon sixth star finally earned.

Boston gave me more than a medal that day. It gave me my fastest marathon finish to date at 5:56:27, tears at the sixth-star line, eighteen little high-fives from smiling children on course, and one long reminder that some dreams ask you to keep showing up for years before they hand you the finish line.

This one was worth every year.

Why Boston Felt Different

I had technically done Boston once before, at least on paper.

Back in 2020, when the world shut down and races turned virtual, I ran the Boston Marathon from home. I pinned on a bib, logged the miles, and crossed a backyard finish line that existed because we made one. It counted on paper.

But runners know the difference.

A virtual Boston does not give you Hopkinton. It does not give you the roar that rolls through the streets before the gun goes off. It does not give you Wellesley screaming from what feels like a mile away. It does not give you the long turn onto Boylston where every tired part of you suddenly wakes back up.

Boston for real was the goal. And that dream carried enough weight to come with a time target.

My ambitious hope was to finish by 5:40:00. My practical mental checkpoint was 5:15 p.m. The official cutoff for an official time and sixth-star recognition sat at 5:30 p.m. That clock stayed in the back of my mind from the day I received my entry.

This was not a casual sightseeing run through Boston history. I was racing a dream and a deadline.

Waiting in Boston was a bouquet from my niece in New York, who could not be there in person but still found a way to send love into race weekend.

Running in Honor of Nang Gloria

There was another reason this race carried more weight.

I ran Boston in honor of my cousin, Nang Gloria, who has spent over a year quietly fighting her way through stroke recovery.

During training, I thought of her often. On race day, I thought of her even more.

Every time the course asked me to dig deeper, every time my legs dipped into one of those inevitable marathon lows, I reminded myself that my discomfort was temporary. My struggle was measured in miles. Hers has been measured in days, months, and the kind of courage that asks a person to keep going without applause.

This race became my way of carrying her strength through Boston.

Nang Gloria, this one was for you.

The Weeks Before Boston Were Not Smooth

It would be nice to say the final weeks of preparation felt clean and perfectly controlled.

They did not.

Boston training had solid hill work, Tuesday community miles, workout sessions focused on strengthening my knees, and the trust that comes from years of marathon experience. But there were also small things that started stacking up.

Three weeks before Boston, I realized the pair of shoes I had been training in was not the right racing shoe for me. My feet and knees were telling me that clearly.

So I ordered another pair.

Wrong model, wrong size, wrong color.

I ordered again from another store.

Wrong size because of unisex sizing.

Third order was the charm, and the correct pair arrived the week before Boston.

My sister was so concerned she packed one of my old retired marathon shoes and carried it around Boston in case the new pair betrayed me.

Family support sometimes looks like emergency backup shoes.

Then there was my Jeff Galloway run-walk app plan. I had trained with headphones. My headphones disappeared into airport TSA lost and found before race weekend even started.

So one of my familiar race anchors was gone too.

And because Boston prohibited the running vest I had trained with, I switched last minute to a running belt that held less and felt different.

By race morning, enough little variables had changed that I knew one thing for sure.

This race was going to be run mostly by feel.

Race morning in Hopkinton. The waiting was over.

The Course, The Crowds, and The Clock

Boston is every bit as loud as people say.

Wellesley was exactly as advertised. The spectators never seemed to disappear. The cheers followed us through neighborhoods, intersections, and long stretches where your own thoughts could have turned against you if the crowd had not stepped in first.

There were highs and lows through the race, but every time energy dipped, Boston handed back cheers.

Sometimes that noise looked like grown adults cheering my name from the bib. Sometimes it looked like a stranger holding out a hand.

And eighteen times, yes I counted, it looked like little kids with giant smiles waiting for high-fives.

Those little hands did more for morale than any energy gel packet.

There was also another quiet layer of awareness moving through the field that day.

Abbott had given those of us chasing our sixth star a special bib to wear on the back of our shirts so spectators would know this day carried extra meaning.

That same sixth-star marker kept appearing on runner after runner.

Some looked strong. Some looked like they were hanging on.

Whenever I came alongside them, I congratulated a few, offered words of encouragement, and asked if they needed anything. I knew what this day likely meant to them because I was carrying that same dream myself.

But I was racing my own clock too. I could not stay long.

So I kept moving, wishing them through as I went.

Heartbreak Hill was supposed to hurt more.

The Part That Surprised Me

I expected Boston’s hills to punish harder.

They did not.

I felt stronger than expected on the climbs, including the sections leading toward Heartbreak Hill. All those hill repeats, all those Tuesday community miles, all the knee work, all the runs where I trusted the process more than my feelings, they showed up when I needed them.

That does not mean the race felt easy. It means the body remembered what the mind had doubted.

My nieces were waiting at Mile 10 with energy gels and poster signs they had made secretly the day before.

By Mile 21, my nieces had moved over to join my sister, who had traveled 9,700 miles to get to Boston. Together they handed me more gels, dried mangoes, and those emergency old shoes she was still convinced I might need.

There is something deeply comforting about seeing your people in the middle of a hard race. You borrow strength from faces you love.

And then you keep moving.

At some point in those final miles, another realization quietly formed.

I was not only on pace to beat the cutoff.

I was on pace to run the fastest marathon of my life.

Not Chicago. Not New York. Not Tokyo.

Boston.

On Boston hills.

That thought gave me another push.

The Turn Onto Boylston

There are moments in distance running when the noise falls away and all you feel is the size of the moment.

Turning onto Boylston was one of them. At that turn, it was clear the work had been done.

The clock was no longer hunting me. The sixth star was there.

The finish line looked exactly like every Boston broadcast image runners have stored in the back of their minds, except this time I was not watching someone else cross it.

I was in it. I crossed in 5:56:27.

Fastest marathon to date. Personal record. Sixth Abbott World Marathon Majors star secured.

I cried. Not because of the time. Because of the years.

Boylston gave me the finish. Boston gave me more.

The Medal, The Walk and The Gratitude After

The family reunion area was still two blocks away, which felt like another event after running 26.2 miles.

But eventually I made that walk.

There are not many words for what it feels like to finally hold something you have spent years chasing.

When the Abbott sixth-star medal was placed in my hand, I was speechless.

Then I was in tears.

Relief, gratitude, disbelief, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing I had stayed with this long enough to earn the moment.

My family was there. My sister, my nieces, the people who tracked gels, shoes, logistics, and nerves with me all weekend.

No marathon medal is ever won alone.

The people who carried the miles with me.

What Boston Gave Me After Boston

Yes, Boston sent me home with a medal, a sixth star, and a personal record.

But those are only the visible things. What stayed with me longer were the quieter takeaways.

Some dreams do not arrive quickly just because you want them badly.

Some ask for years. Some ask for patience. Some ask you to trust your preparation while adapting when race weekend goes sideways. Some ask for prayers.

This one asked for all of it.

Boston also reminded me how much people matter in a race that looks individual from the outside.

The children with outstretched hands. The strangers cheering from sidewalks. The sixth-star runners carrying their own unfinished stories. My family stationed across the course with energy gels and dried mangoes. Nang Gloria, whose quiet fight stayed with me all day.

There were thousands of footsteps on that course, but not one of us was moving through Boston entirely alone.

That is what makes this race different.

Yes, you feel the history. Yes, you feel the energy. But more than anything, you feel carried.

The trip to Boston began with the hope of earning a sixth star.

I left Boston with a sixth star, my fastest marathon yet, and a deeper gratitude for every mile I still get to run.

Sixth star earned. Still striding.

Still growing, still striding, always grateful.