The low early morning sun glistened on the rippling bay, bouncing light across the water as I made my slow, steady run around Castle Island. Other runners passed by, nodding and smiling—either in shared camaraderie or in silent pity for my less-than-graceful pace. I nodded back anyway.

As I ran, I realized I was happy. It was a perfect morning—crisp air, clear skies, the kind of day that makes you feel, for just a moment, that all is right with the world. I felt a small, fleeting peace. The kind that sneaks up on you and settles in your chest like a quiet reassurance.

Then, just as quickly, it vanished. A pang struck me, and I began to cry—deep, unrestrained, unashamed sobs. How could the world feel so beautiful when, at the same time, it could hold such unspeakable horror? How could a morning like this exist when, just two weeks ago, that same sun had shone down on something so terrible?

Two Weeks Ago

At work, we had a pedometer challenge going—500,000 steps in 12 weeks. I liked a challenge. I’m competitive by nature, and this was just the push I needed to move more. To hit the goal, I needed an average of 7,200 steps a day, and I was doing well.

Then, that Monday, everything stopped.

I was working from home, catching up from vacation, with the Boston Marathon playing in the background on TV. I watched as the first bomb went off. Then the second. My heart stopped. The whole world knows what happened—I don’t need to repeat it.

I went into action mode. For a week, I focused on the safety of our office, of our people. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t cry. I didn’t process. That Monday, my pedometer read 743 steps.

I’ve lived through this before. Manchester. London. 9/11. Each time, I was unscathed. My family was safe. My friends, for the most part, were safe. But I was never untouched. The emotional pain was like a punch to the stomach—hard, sudden, breath-stealing.

And yet, we move on. Our minds let us. They allow us to function, to continue, to live without being weighed down by past pain. It’s a mercy, really, that we don’t truly remember pain.

Sitting With It

I don’t understand evil. I don’t understand how someone can intentionally hurt another human being. When I let myself think about it too much, I start to shut down. But that morning, after my run, I sat on a bench for 30 minutes and let myself feel it. I let myself be angry. Then grateful. Then guilty. Then deeply, heartbreakingly sad.

I’m crying again now—for the people I don’t know, for the ones who lost so much, and even for myself. For being safe. For holding back my grief as if I had no right to it. I see now that I needed to cry more than I ever imagined.

Maybe I’m naive, but I want peace. I liked the feeling of it, however brief, on that small stretch of Castle Island.

By the end of my run, I had already hit 10,000 steps. It felt good. And it felt unbearably sad. But I want to be as strong as my city.

So, I’ve decided that for the rest of my pedometer challenge, I’m going to collect donations for the One Fund with my office. It’s something small. But it’s something.

Tracey