Tenacity Personified

It is the weekend of the Boston Marathon.

Living in the heart of Boston, this is something you can’t really ignore. It announces itself. Streets close, helicopters hover, and crowds pour into the city as if drawn by something magnetic. The usual rhythm of Boston life pauses, and for a day, everything shifts—louder, kinder, more open.

Before I lived here, I didn’t realize the Marathon was actually a series of races. I assumed it was one race, one start, one finish. But the very first group to take off from Hopkinton, MA isn’t the professional elites—it’s the Wheelchair and Para Athlete Division.

Athletes with physical, visual, and intellectual impairments gather at the starting line—some with guides, some in racing chairs—all aiming for the same finish line. They move with strength and purpose, uphill and down, past roaring crowds and silent moments, across 26.2 miles that don’t make exceptions for anyone.

These athletes defy physical limitations, push the boundaries of human performance, and often do so without the same level of recognition as the able-bodied elites—yet they consistently inspire spectators, fellow runners, and the broader sports world. Witnessing them race is witnessing the embodiment of pure discipline and determination. There’s something about watching someone push their body against every obstacle—and still keep going.

They cross the line with the same quiet power they began with. There’s no speech at the end. No spotlight. Just the sound of the crowd rising as they pass, marveling at these incredible human beings.

Saying that I’m moved by these extraordinary people is akin to saying that the ocean is damp and root canals are mildly irritating. It’s hard not to be changed by it, even a little. They don’t just show me what’s possible—they reveal how much strength lives quietly within.