It was late 2013, six months after I had run the Boston marathon – the year two men detonated two bombs near the finish line, killing three people and injuring hundreds. Back in Germany, my home country, I had been struggling with my mental health for months, but I was determined to complete another marathon and maybe make it back to Boston. I had signed up for that month’s Frankfurt marathon, but told nobody except Christina, my therapist.
I went to the starting line only a couple of minutes before the race started. For the first half or so, I felt good. The sun was shining. My mind was empty and I was running faster than ever. Then I felt a breakdown coming on. I could no longer run. I walked the rest of the way, crying. People kept stopping to ask if I needed help, or to comfort me. I knew their intentions were good, but I felt as if I was in a different world. All I could think was: why am I here, running, when others were killed and many more had been injured and could never run again?
