Show Up

Running has always been part of how I understand the world.

I am a survivor, and running played a part in that—but I don’t experience it as something heroic. It’s simply how I move forward.

Two months after I finished radiation—after chemotherapy and after my double mastectomy—I stood at the start line of the Berlin Marathon. That race mattered in a way it never could have before. Berlin was my sixth Abbott World Marathon Major. The “Six Star” means you’ve completed all six majors—Tokyo, Boston, London, Berlin, Chicago, and New York. It’s a milestone runners work toward for years.

If I had finished it before cancer, it would have felt like an athletic accomplishment.

Finishing it after cancer felt like something else.

It felt like closing a chapter cancer tried to rewrite. It felt like completing a mission my body had every reason to abandon. When I crossed that finish line, it wasn’t about the medal. It was about knowing treatment hadn’t taken away who I am. I finished the journey. Cancer didn’t stop me.

That doesn’t mean I’m fearless. I’m not.

Anyone who has lived through cancer understands that fear lingers. It shows up before scans. It whispers in quiet moments. It lives in the awareness that recurrence is possible. But I try not to let fear control the direction of my life. I acknowledge it, and then I take the next step anyway.

That’s the same instinct that led me into medicine. As a CRNA, I care for people at some of their most vulnerable moments. My job is to make them feel safe when they are placing enormous trust in strangers. I don’t think about it as extraordinary; it’s simply part of who I am. Show up. Be steady. Be kind. Help someone through something hard.

Running feels similar.

During the “red devil” stage of chemotherapy, there were days I could barely move. I had lost my hair. One afternoon, I tried to lift Henry and couldn’t. That moment scared me more than any diagnosis. Aaron sat beside me and promised that when I got through treatment, we would run the New York City Marathon together. That promise became something I held onto. It wasn’t about 26.2 miles. It was about believing I would still be here to run them.

This year we’re running for Sharsheret. Cancer has touched our family deeply. My father died of cancer at 57. My mother is a breast-cancer survivor. Aaron’s mother died of lung cancer. None of this is abstract to us. Community matters when you are walking through uncertainty. Support matters. Knowing someone understands matters.

I don’t always see myself the way others describe me. I don’t wake up thinking I’m inspiring. I wake up thinking about my patients, my kids’ schedules, whether I can squeeze in a run before work. Perseverance feels normal because it’s necessary.

What matters most to me is my family.

Henry and Stella fill our house with noise and questions and laughter. Over Presidents’ Day weekend in Palm Desert, they both ran the kids’ 1K. They were so proud to share that with me. They know I love running. They also like to remind Aaron that I’m faster than he is.

And I think about Gabrielle, too—watching her grow into her own person, finding her own path. As a mother, you learn that some lessons can’t be taught with words. You try to live them instead. You hope your children see perseverance, kindness, and faith in what you do, and carry those things with them in their own way, in their own time.

I hope all of my children learn the same lesson from running: that setbacks don’t define you. That hard seasons end. That grit and determination matter. That you can finish what you start—even if the path looks different than you imagined.

When Aaron and I line up in Staten Island, I’ll be thinking about that couch, about the day I couldn’t lift my son, about the promise we made. I’ll be thinking about my dad, about my mom’s resilience, about the women still in treatment wondering what their future looks like.

And I’ll run.

Not to prove I beat cancer. 

Not to pretend I’m not afraid. 

But to live fully in the life I fought to keep— 

for my patients, for my husband, for Henry and Stella, for Gabrielle, and for every family who needs to believe there is still a road ahead.