There’s this memory that comes to mind for me often: It’s like a dream, both vivid and murky, but I know it takes place sometime in the months after the accident when I was still relearning how to walk. I’m about five blocks from a restaurant where I’m heading for a date with a longtime crush, who finally kissed me one night in the hospital, well past visiting hours.

I’d left my dorm room in my nicest dress — pink and brown and floral, a beloved Anthropologie sale rack find — confident that I could walk to the restaurant. But now I’m late, and I can’t move any faster: I’m in too much pain. I don’t remember how, but I must have gotten there eventually. What I do recall is that, later that night, at home, when I pulled off my prosthetic leg, my stump was bleeding. I was devastated. It was only a few blocks.

Nearly 12 years on, I’m training for the New York City Marathon.

I started running as an amputee seven years ago, when, on a whim, I swung by a running workshop for lower leg amputees held at Chelsea Piers in Manhattan and organized by the Challenged Athletes Foundation. I didn’t know what to expect, but what awaited me surpassed even my wildest expectations: Little boys bounced forward on their blades, stumbling over themselves with unadulterated joy and determination, and strong, fit adults, men and women alike, who’d even gone on to participate in Ironman triathlons.

In my flats and my regular prosthesis, I was totally unprepared, but it didn’t matter: I was welcomed, encouraged to join. So I did, pushing my everyday prosthetic leg forward, languid and heavy like it was under water. It wasn’t ideal, but it was enough. I ran like that for months, until I got my running blade.

It’s lighter than a normal prosthesis, which can be weighed down with a cover that makes it look more like a flesh-and-blood leg: Its top component, a cup of sorts that holds my stump, was built to fit snugly, so I don’t kick it off. Its knee locks, unless I push the blade back at a certain angle, signaling it to bend. The blade itself is like a pogo stick, made of carbon graphite, propelling me forward with every beat on the pavement.