Nobody is a Stranger at the NYC Marathon

The New York City Marathon is several days away and already I am emotional. 

I’ve been a distance runner my whole life—or at least since the summer before seventh grade when I started running timed miles around my backyard, my dad or brother in the driveway with a stop watch. I ran cross country and track through high school and college and in 2017 was given the incredible opportunity to run the New York City Marathon, nearly two years after I’d moved to the city. 

Now, I have the honor of serving as one of the charity managers for the group of runners who fundraise on behalf of the nonprofit I work for, raising funds in exchange for guaranteed entry to the race. This last fact is why on a Wednesday afternoon, I was sitting with a hundred or so other nonprofit professionals in the NYRR Pavilion in Central Park, eyes watering as they showed b roll of runners of years past.

Yesterday, I went for a run across boroughs, on some of the same paths that the runners took today. I watched people smile and wave. I saw “good lucks” exchanged. I felt the energy grow in the park and the bridge and the sidewalk. 

Sunday morning, the first thing I do is turn on the local news station, broadcasting pre-event stories—listening to moving moments of resilience on the big screen while deep diving into the elite runners’ histories on my phone (before they even took the start line).

I get so lost watching the professional athletes, I almost forget I have plans to cheer with my colleagues and before I know it, my handmade signs and I are en route. I don’t know why I bothered with a book. The subway car is filled with stories. 

I see people holding signs and noisemakers. I meet two sets of parents who are both cheering on their daughters. One is from California. The other is from North Carolina. “It’s my daughter’s first marathon,” the first mother says with pride. “And she’s 41-years-old. Just got into it!”

When I get to my first transfer, an above ground station towering over the course, I can feel the vibrations of cheers. I peek over the tracks and see the sidewalks lined already. When I get to my second transfer, I see strategy. A group of friends rushes past me, “if we catch this train, I think we’ll make it there before him!” Someone is staring at the tracking app on their phone. Someone else is out of breath from a broken escalator and laughter.

I’m the first to arrive at our designated meet up spot, conveniently in front of a local bakery that I swear passed out hundreds if not thousands of donut holes to the runners. It’s only been thirty minutes and already my throat feels gone. I am grateful when a colleague returns from the donut shop with a cup of tea. It is that tea that allows me to scream for hours more.

There is a group of friends across the street from us who have mastered the art of chanting—whether they know the person or not. There are two girls next to us who explode in energy when their friend runs by. Someone is kissing their partner. A son is surprised by his parents. We talk to the people on either side of us. We smile at each other’s signs.

After our last runner passes, my final friends leave but I’m not ready yet. I stand there as the runners thin out, as the race dies down. I watch as some of the sweeper vans and emergency vehicles begin their slow crawl up the course. We are just past the 12 mile mark.

I read people’s names, duct taped or safety-pinned to their shirts. I shout for them. I notice birthday sashes and tiaras. There is a moment where I sing Happy Birthday with a group of women next to me. I hold my double-sided sign. The front is cheeky—”On a scale of 1 – 10, you’re a 26.2” (a reference to the number of miles they will run that day). On the back is a story.

When I ran New York in 2017, I, naturally, started much too fast. It was my first marathon and I was all adrenaline. By the time I hit Central Park, around mile 24, I was feeling it. In a rare quiet corner of the park, I had slowed to a walk, hands gripping my knees, the last two miles suddenly feeling devastatingly difficult. 

Then, an older man appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and said slowly, calmly, “Young lady. You have worked way too hard to give up right now.” 

No matter how many times I retell the story—or retype it, apparently—it brings me to tears. In that moment, it was everything. I wasn’t really going to stop there. But I certainly wasn’t going to pick it up and finish as strong as I did without that sudden burst of belief and inspiration. 

The back of my sign pays homage to that. Because I was cheering from near the halfway point, I wrote, “You’ve worked way too hard to doubt yourself now.” 

And as the crowds started to dissipate, I stood there with my sign, making eye contact, cheering by name, making sure every runner knew that someone was rooting for them. That they could do it. That whatever voice in their head made it feel impossible was wrong.

At some point, runners started taking pictures of the sign. “I am doubting myself now!” one woman joked with a laugh. “Don’t!” I replied. “You got this!” 

An older man came up to me a bit later and stopped. There weren’t many people left cheering. “I don’t know much English.” he grabbed my hands, ‘But your words. I know they are good.” We stood there for a moment as I mimed out some sort of “you are good!” and he was off. 

And so I stayed. I stayed until the sweeper car. I cheered until my throat felt raw. When I said they could do it, I meant it. When I said I was proud, I was. On the train ride home, when runners would appear in their orange ponchos, medals around their necks, someone would shout, “Hey; Congrats!” And the whole cart would cheer.

When I was watching solo toward the end, a man from Philadelphia, visiting his brother for the weekend, struck up a conversation with me. He was, in his words, a casual runner. I told him I was running my third marathon in 13 days. We exchanged running paces and workouts, lamented over knowing we should stretch more, and talked about Philly’s race scene.

It’s the best day to be here, I told him. Best day in New York City. There’s really nothing as special as this.

The New York City Marathon brings out the best in us. There is nothing so unifying as watching people achieve lifelong dreams. Nothing so special as seeing people overcome together. Nothing as holy as the way strangers become friends, the way a high five can change a mile, the way someone’s words can stick with you for eight years. 

You have worked way too hard to give up right now.  

Congratulations to everyone who participated in the 2025 TCS NYC Marathon. Thank you for inspiring us all.