One of the first images taken after arriving in Boston. The weekend, much like this image, was full of uncertainties. The general outline of what was to come was clear but the details were very much still up in the air. So many questions yet to be answered, or even asked.

There are few moments when Nell is not conducting herself as a professional and an athlete. Her understanding of the camera and her responsibility to it, was always on full display, albeit for this one image taken on one of her shake out runs along the Charles River. Raw exhaustion, frustration, confidence, and a bit of coyness all exist within this image, and the honesty of the moment is undeniable.

Athleticism tends to live in the macro, not the micro. Societally we are able to look at imposing humans and agree in their abilities. A faulty test, to be sure, but what if we were to look closer, under the skin and close to the heart to find the source of achievement coursing throughout.

Walking a few feet behind her, you could consistently hear the whispers of "Isn't that Nell Rojas?" When in the journey of the professional athlete does the need for privacy disappear, or is there always a desire for some anonymity?

Navigating relationships is a lifelong endeavour. However the brevity of the coach/athlete relationship will never compete with the father/daughter relationship. Nell and her father must navigate both.

Meet Rick once, and you feel as though you've known the man for years. His personality is larger than life, but genuine. As a runner himself, with countless accolades and imprints on the running landscape through his athletic career, his transition into Nell's coach is compelling.

Nell is creating her own mark on the sport, blazing her own path, and motivated by something deeply personal. Her story is only partially told, but written in bold, dramatic, and unique typography.

This image is a representation of these collaborative personalities. While it may be Rick who dominates the frame, larger than life, but slightly out of focus, it is Nell whom you can see, crystal clear and utterly unwavering in her determination.

Society loves a Failure, almost as much as they love a Success and so the focus remains lazer sharp, checking for signs of either, leaving a small margin for someone to exist, without either label. The small oasis of "self" in an ocean of judgement.

There are 30,000 runners in the Boston Marathon. 30,000. On top of that there are spectators, vendors, reporters, security...it goes on and on. Add to a population of 700,000 blockades, reduced routes for traffic, and race day restrictions, the ability to remain calm in a crowded city should be a prerequisite to the marathon. Nell navigated through the city easily, seemingly ignoring the chaos and cages surrounding her.

Having experienced this specific race before, and countless others before it, each moment becomes a single frame, linked together by time, eventually playing back in the movie of one's life. How many race day preparations? How many hotels? How many finish lines?

They all come together in the story of her life.

It's race day and there's nothing left to do but race. It's the time in which the countless hours of training and sacrifice and joy and repetition come together in one harmonious expression of effort. One would assume with stakes as high as they are, nothing would be left to chance, but at five in the morning, there's only the consistently disappointing reliability of Starbucks.

If you've never had the opportunity to support a loved one as they try to achieve greatness, in any context it's hard to explain the tightrope of expectations one must walk over a chasm of potential disappointment and sabotage.

To see it done well makes the tightrope look like a sidewalk and everyone around Nell did just that. Not once did tensions boil over into arguments and idiosyncrasies that could derail the mental focus needed for a weekend event were laughed off and forgotten.

As Nell left the main lobby, she left behind the bedlam which is Patriot's Day in Boston. Once she turned the corner, it was a short hallway of total silence and solitude that led her to the staging area for the athletes in the professional classification. She walked alone carrying all the symbolism and expectations and fears and hopes and sacrifice and pressure on shoulders that would not waver under it all.

It was over, but far from processed. The steady adrenal drip that had likely begun on Friday, that turned into a hose on Monday morning, was now running like a faucet. The come down would arrive, but not today, not in this moment. There would be no processing or analyzing or scrutiny, only the joy shared by two athletes. A father and a daughter. two dreamers who had formed a partnership and carried it through a rainbow of emotion and arrived at the end, joyful.

She seemed almost surprised to be receiving a medal, which is a testament to her motivations.

How quickly can one process an achievement or failure? How soon after the effort can we contextualize what had occurred? Are we faulty narrators to ourselves? Is the moment after crossing the finish line the most honest of representations, or is it the moment that is allowed oxygen and begins to burn brightly?

Still covered in sunscreen from over two hours ago, water bottle long since emptied, and shivering in the cold Boston wind, the smile across Nell's face was unshakable. Only a few feet from the entrance to the hotel, which held recovery massages, drug tests, family, and warmth, she stopped for anyone who wanted to share in her experience. This was consistent throughout the weekend. There was no conversation that would be cut short, no interaction that wasn't of the utmost importance. If you stopped her, she would take the time, no matter how long. In this moment of elation, when she had every reason to continue walking past, Nell wanted to interact and carry the responsibilities of being a professional athlete, that many athletes shy away from, with pride.

The first thing she did was apologize for her poor Spanish. The next thing she did was flawlessly navigate the entire interview in Spanish. While it was the interviewer asking the question, it seemed that Nell was talking to a larger audience. Not the woman in front of her. Not the people within earshot. But to those who look at her as a beacon of representation and achievement. She was speaking to an entire community of runners, young and old, and she spoke boldly. And she spoke in Spanish.

There is no time between your success or failure and the need of reporters for information. Questions steeped in drama or technique and the pressure to deliver appropriately could be as challenging as the race itself. To fail to achieve in this realm could very much influence the impact of your actual effort. Nell bobbed and weaved casually, like a seasoned boxer, seemingly unfazed by the attempts to draw her into gossip. She shined brightly and it was clear to everyone in the room.

If there's an after after party, there's an after after press room. On the third floor of the Fairmont, hours after the race had ended for Nell, and as countless others continued to cross the finish line, Nell held her own press conference in her hotel room.

Packed tightly into the small room, she recounted the technical aspects of the race and shared her own personal moments in a room bereft of judgment. Sometimes laughing loudly, sometimes listening intently, this audience, like any she has, was in the palm of her hand.