I was three years old when my mom, Sue Ellen, was first diagnosed with breast cancer.

I didn’t understand what it meant then—only that something had changed.

Years passed. Life moved forward the way it does.

And then, in 2019, it came back.

In April 2021, we heard the words no one is ever ready for: Metastatic Stage IV.

From that moment on, everything was measured differently—time, hope, fear, strength.

She fought in ways most people will never see. Through treatments that took as much as they gave. Through pain she rarely spoke about. Through moments when simply getting through the day was its own kind of victory.

But cancer was never the whole of who my mom was. She was strong long before she ever had to prove just how strong she could be.

In 2013, my mom decided to train for her first half marathon. At the time, I was living thousands of miles away in the UK. Watching her take on that challenge inspired me to sign up for my own first half marathon. We trained on opposite sides of the world, each putting in our own miles.

And then, somehow, our races fell on the same day.

My mom and I completed our first half marathons together—a world apart. I don’t think I could have known then just how much that memory would come to mean to me.

She inspired me to take those first 13.1 miles. Now, more than a decade later, she is the reason I’m taking on 26.2.

In June 2025, we lost her. Not because she stopped fighting—but because cancer, and the toll of fighting it, finally took more than anyone could give.

Her name was Sue Ellen.

She was my mom and she deserved more time.

This isn’t just her story.

My aunt fought this disease too. My grandmother—my mom’s mother—died after breast cancer spread to her colon.

This is a thread that runs through my family—quiet, persistent, devastating.

So I’m running.

26.2 miles through New York City.

This time, I won’t be running a world away from my mom while she completes her own race. But she’ll still be there.

I’ll carry her with me through every mile—carrying everything I wish I could say, everything I wish I could change, and everything I wish we hadn’t lost.

I’m running for Sue Ellen. For her strength. For her laughter. For the life she should still be living.

I’m running for the people still in the fight. For the ones who are scared right now. For the families learning how to live with the unimaginable and I’m running because I need to believe this can end differently for someone else.

Now, I’m making one final push.

My fundraising campaign ends at the end of September, which means there are only a few weeks left to help me reach my goal.

If you’ve thought about donating, this is the moment. If you’ve already donated, sharing this page with someone else can help carry this mission even further.

Every contribution, no matter the size, helps support the research, care, advocacy, and hope that families facing breast cancer need.

Because another three-year-old shouldn’t have to grow up knowing what breast cancer means.

Another daughter shouldn’t have to hear the words “Stage IV.”

Another family shouldn’t have to wish they’d been given more time.

And another runner should get to cross that finish line knowing her mom is waiting for her on the other side.

In 2013, my mom inspired me to run my first 13.1 miles.

This November, I’ll run 26.2 for her.

For Sue Ellen. For more time. For a different ending.

I’ll carry her with me—every mile, every step, every breath.