Crossing the Finish Line: Inside My First Marathon Experience

For months, the marathon consumed me. Not just my training or my weekends, but my thoughts, my routines, even my dreams. It wasn’t just about the finish line; it was about what crossing it would mean to me.

Would it validate the months of sacrifice? The missed Friday night dinners? The tired mornings where lacing up my shoes felt like a Herculean effort?

Or would it, somehow, leave me questioning if it was all worth it?

Now it’s two days later, and I’m still unpacking what it meant — what it means. I thought I’d know exactly how to feel or express myself by now, but instead, I’m stuck trying to put words to something that still feels too big and too personal to capture.

Maybe that’s why I keep replaying it all, moment by moment, as if the answers are tucked away in the details.

Pre-race Jitters: Rain, friends, and Quiet resolve

The morning didn’t exactly scream perfect race day.

It dawned wet and unwelcoming, with rain pouring as if the weather gods were playing some cruel joke on us. “Great!,” I muttered under my breath while tying my laces, my nerves already tangled tighter than the shoelaces themselves.

But I wasn’t about to let the rain dampen my mood — not today. If anything, I felt oddly defiant. Today was my day, I told myself, rain be damned.

Walking to the starting line with my husband, my running buddy, and a friend, all of us drenched, felt like a scene from a dramatic underdog movie. The air buzzed with collective anticipation, conversations punctuated by nervous laughter and shared glances of “Can you believe we’re actually doing this?”

And then, as if the universe was rooting for us, the rain stopped. Fifteen minutes before the gun went off, the sky cleared just enough for a glimpse of optimism. The world felt fresh, renewed, like a blank canvas waiting for our stories to be painted on it.

Unlike my previous race starts — where nerves ran riot in my stomach — I felt eerily calm this time. No mental catastrophes about DNF’ing. No inner monologue spiralling into disaster scenarios. Just me, standing at the start line, fully present.

The announcer’s countdown in Greek, which even locals seemed to struggle with, was oddly comforting in its chaotic charm.

I waved at my friend Robin as the gun went off, making some exaggerated gesture that I hoped translated to “See you at the finish line, buddy!” (It probably looked more like “I’m a wacky inflatable tube man,” but hey, intent matters.)

The early Miles: Finding my rhythm

The countdown began — Greek numbers shouted with varying levels of enthusiasm — and suddenly, we were off. The first few kilometres were electric, the energy of the crowd pulling me forward like an invisible rope.

It’s easy to get caught up in that excitement, to let your pace skyrocket as you chase the thrill of the starting gun. But I’d learned from past mistakes and my previous failed attempts at the full marathon. This time, I was sticking to my plan.

I kept my heart rate in check, pacing myself with the kind of patience that doesn’t come naturally to me. The mantra in my head was simple but effective: “Relax. Find your rhythm. Enjoy the moment. Breathe.” I repeated it like a lullaby, keeping the chaos of the race at bay.

Around 5km in, I noticed a woman running just ahead of me. Her stride was steady, her pace deliberate. She looked like she knew exactly what she was doing; calm, composed and annoyingly unbothered by the distance ahead. So naturally, I decided to let her lead — my unspoken pacer, my North Star, whether she knew it or not.

For the next 10km or so, I followed her, letting her calm efficiency guide me through the early stages of the race.

But somewhere along the way, a thought crept in: “Am I running my race, or hers?” It wasn’t a bad pace, but it felt too easy, too safe.

Breaking away from her pace felt like an act of rebellion, a statement that this journey was mine and mine alone. I sped up, fuelled by the thrill of autonomy and a not-so-gentle reminder from my stomach that caffeinated gels are both a blessing and a curse.

The Middle Miles: Pain, Pride, and the Unexpected

If the first half of the marathon is about strategy, the second half is about grit.

By kilometre 25, I could feel the subtle shift in my body. My legs, once springy, were beginning to stiffen. My stomach, not exactly known for its cooperation during long runs, started sending warning signals. And my caffeinated gels? Let’s just say they were more of a gamble than a guarantee.

By this point, the novelty of running had worn off, and the reality of how much was left began to sink in. My legs felt heavier, my breaths more laboured.

But I kept going.

This was the part I’d prepared for, the part where mental toughness takes over when physical strength begins to waver. The crowds along the course helped, their cheers cutting through the quiet struggle unfolding inside me and spectators yelling, “Bravo! Bravo!” as to suggest it’s just another run in the park.

Kilometres 30–35: The Emotional Gauntlet with a Side of Digestive Drama

They say the marathon truly begins at 30km, and I’d always thought of it as a metaphor, but I’ve learned from previous experience that it’s not.

By kilometre 30, I was no longer thinking about pacing strategies or mantras like I had hoped — I was just trying to keep my body moving in some semblance of forward motion. My legs were tired, my energy dipping, and then… my stomach decided it was time to join the rebellion.

I’d had my suspicions earlier, but by kilometre 32, it was clear: the caffeinated gels I’d been banking on weren’t playing nice. My gut began sending messages that couldn’t be ignored, and suddenly, “gut check” took on a very literal meaning. I slowed my pace, hoping things would settle. They didn’t.

For a fleeting moment, I thought about walking (again). Not out of necessity, but because, well, walking sounded fun in that moment. Imagine that, I thought. Just strolling for a bit, no pressure, no discomfort. But I know myself. A leisurely stroll can easily turn into a long detour of self-doubt, so I pushed the idea aside and kept moving.

And then it hit me. My digestive situation was escalating. Quickly. A full-on gel-induced gastrointestinal emergency — imminent.

I scanned the course desperately for a solution, and like an oasis in the desert, a porter-loo appeared on the horizon at kilometre 33. I could have wept with gratitude.

Honestly, porter-loos are no runner’s paradise, but in that moment, it might as well have been the Taj Mahal. I made a beeline for it, threw etiquette to the wind, and prayed it was unoccupied. It was — small mercies.

Let me tell you, those few minutes inside were humbling. There’s no dignity in porter-loos, only survival. I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say it was a quick and efficient operation. A true pit stop that would have impressed Formula 1 teams.

When I emerged, slightly lighter (both physically and spiritually), I felt renewed.

Not exactly refreshed — this wasn’t a spa day — but ready to keep going. I picked up my pace again ever so slightly, grateful that the crisis had passed to give me a break and determined to put those caffeinated gels behind me. Literally and figuratively.

Kilometre 34 greeted me with a sign that read “Pain is temporary. Pride is forever.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Pride? Not sure if porter-loos fit into that equation. But pain being temporary? Absolutely.

Soft whispers of victory made an appearance at the 38 kilometre mark, the motivation I needed to see me through to the finish line. And with my gut issues (mostly) sorted and the end almost in sight, I was back in the game.

Author’s Personal Images

The Final Stretch: My Own Battle Won

The last few kilometres weren’t just a test of endurance — they were a complete unraveling of everything I thought I knew about myself.

My body screamed at me to stop, my legs felt like they might give out at any second. I had nothing left, and yet, somehow, the last few moments were met with a welcoming burst of energy, fuelled by a crowd cheering runners on as if it was the Olympics.

When the finish line finally came into view, I was flooded with so many emotions that I didn’t know what to do with them. Relief? Yes. Pride? Absolutely.

But there was also something deeper, something almost primal, surging up from the very core of who I was. I could feel the tears welling up before I even crossed the line, but they weren’t just tears of joy — they were tears of release.

For months, I had carried the weight of this marathon on my shoulders: the self-doubt, the pressure, the quiet fear that I might fail again. Crossing that line wasn’t just about completing a race — it was about setting all of that weight down and finally letting myself feel free.

I don’t remember the exact moment my foot hit the other side of the line. It’s a blur of sound and movement, of faces cheering and bodies collapsing all around me.

What I do remember is the overwhelming sensation of being whole, of proving something to myself that I had doubted for so long and hearing my family and husband shouting on the sidelines “Go Nadia!”

Of knowing, deep in my bones, that I was stronger than I had ever believed.

The Aftermath: Reflection, Gratitude, and What Comes Next

Now, two days later, the emotional weight of that moment still lingers, as vivid as if I were crossing the line all over again.

My legs are sore, my appetite is insatiable, and my medal hangs neatly around my dressing table mirror, like a quiet monument to everything I overcame.

No one’s asking me what’s next. But I am.

The question has been ringing in my ears since the moment I crossed that finish line, as if the race wasn’t the end but the start of something bigger.

And I know exactly what I want: I want to be the best runner I can be. Not just a person who runs marathons, but someone who chases down her potential with the same fire that got me to that starting line.

I’ve already set new goals. Faster times, bigger races, tougher challenges.

They’re written in the margins of my notebooks, swirling in my thoughts during quiet moments. But it’s not just about the numbers on the clock or the finish-line photos. It’s about becoming the kind of person who doesn’t settle, who doesn’t stop when it gets hard, who finds a new version of herself every time she laces up her shoes.

But right now, I’m living in the space between that marathon high and the quiet crash that follows.

The part where I’ve proven to myself that I’m capable of more than I imagined, but the glow starts to fade, leaving me with sore legs, an empty calendar, and a restless hunger for whatever comes next. It’s bittersweet — like finishing a great book and not knowing how to start the next one.

So, while I’m giving myself time to recover, to reflect, to feel the full weight of what I’ve accomplished, the fire is already there; burning quietly, waiting for the next race, the next run, the next opportunity to see just how far I can go.

The best version of me is out there, somewhere, waiting at the end of another long road. And — I’m coming for her.

Ps. A special thanks to my husband for his patience with my camera demands and capturing the most epic moments, and my running buddy, Robin, for living this exceptional experience with me.