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 2022, 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 where simply getting through the day was its own kind of victory.

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, carrying everything I wish I could say, everything I wish I could change, 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.

Right now, fundraising like this matters more than ever. Funding for research, treatment, and patient support is being cut again and again—at a time when people need it most.

We cannot afford to slow down.

If you’re able, please consider donating.

Your support helps fund research, care, and hope—the kind of hope we held onto for as long as we could.

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