A Medal, a Fall, and the Kindness That Got Me to the Finish Line
There’s something incredibly special about the running community—something I was reminded of in the most personal and unexpected way just a few miles from the finish line of my recent race.
With less than three miles to go, after navigating most of the course with determination and energy, I tripped. It happened so fast—one second I was running strong, the next I was face down on the pavement. The fall was hard. I felt the jolt run through my hands, my knees, and worst of all, my face. Blood was pouring from a gash near my eyebrow, and I knew immediately this wasn’t just a graze I could brush off.
Dazed but conscious, I sat up and tried to gather my thoughts. Runners streamed past, many slowing to ask if I was okay, offering words of support or a hand to help me up. To every single one of you who showed even a flicker of concern: thank you. It meant more than you know.
The St John Ambulance volunteers were quickly on the scene. Calm, kind, and reassuring, they cleaned me up, assessed the cut, and gave me a choice. I could stop right there, or—if I felt up to it—they’d let me continue so long as I walked the rest of the way. I didn’t have to think twice.
I didn’t come this far, train for this long, and push through this much just to stop with a few miles left. So I walked. Slower than I ever imagined I would near the finish, with a bandaged face, a throbbing headache, and tears stinging the corners of my eyes—not just from pain, but from a strange combination of frustration, gratitude, and pride.
As I shuffled past cheering spectators, I could feel their concern, confusion, and then encouragement when they realized I was still going. Some even clapped louder, shouted that I was brave, strong, and nearly there. And I believed them. Because in that moment, I wasn’t just finishing a race—I was finishing a personal story about endurance, resilience, and community.
Crossing the finish line was surreal. I didn’t sprint. I didn’t throw my arms in the air. I just kept walking until a volunteer placed a medal around my neck. And despite the pain, the swelling, and the worry about my face, I smiled. Because I did it.
Later, I went to A&E at St Thomas’. The team there were as brilliant as the St John’s Ambulance crew had been. Efficient, patient, and kind, they cleaned the wound, assessed the bruising, and glued the cut on my eyebrow. The nurse even asked about the race, and we laughed when I told her I still had my medal in my pocket. My face may have taken a beating, but my spirit hadn’t.
Now, as I look in the mirror at my excellent new black eye and the tender bruises along my cheekbone, I don’t see a disaster. I see a memory etched in more than just muscle. I see strength. I see a reminder that even when we fall—sometimes literally—we can still find the will, and the kindness, to get back up and keep going.
So to the runners who stopped, to the volunteers who patched me up, to the staff who glued me back together, and to every person who shouted “You’ve got this” as I walked to that finish line—thank you. I truly did have it, because of all of you.
