2026 Komen Columbus Race for the Cure

I found a lump in my left breast in April of 2023. I checked that breast so many times I’m pretty sure it considered filing a complaint. Eventually, I took a breath and reminded myself I had my annual mammogram scheduled for the very next week.

Then—plot twist—I learned that because I’d found a lump, I needed to reschedule. Cue the longest two weeks of my life. I told no one. Not a soul. I carried it quietly, bravely, and with a lot of internal pacing.

When I walked into the Katherine M. Cyran, M.D. Breast Center, something shifted. From the very first moment, I felt cared for. Supported. Seen. I wasn’t just surrounded by brilliant, committed women—I was wrapped in a circle of trust and compassion that I didn’t even know I needed yet.

A few days later, I got the call.

Yes, it was cancer.

Yes… it was cancer.

I was alone when I heard the words, and again, I told no one. Not family. Not friends. I needed to understand the next steps before I could say it out loud. Thankfully, a neighbor I barely knew shared her own cancer journey in our neighborhood Facebook group. I reached out, and she met me with grace, honesty, and a loving roadmap for what was ahead. Thank you, Melissa Henry Sweet—you were a gift exactly when I needed one.

The rest of that month became a blur of appointments, tests, emotions, and an imagination that refused to stay quiet. I took what felt like a grand tour of OhioHealth facilities across Central Ohio, all in preparation for chemo. Along the way, Sarah Johnson Lathrop did everything she possibly could to help—steady, kind, and quietly holding things together when I couldn’t.

I’ll be honest: I was not my best self at work or at home. Fear sat loud and uninvited, and isolation tagged along like it had nowhere else to be. Some days were heavy, some were foggy, and all of them required more courage than I realized I had at the time—but I kept showing up. And then… kindness showed up again.

One day at work, a colleague—who at that point was really just an acquaintance—invited me to attend a food event. I declined via Teams. Minutes later, she appeared in my office with a plate of food. She closed the door, looked at me, and said, “You are not yourself. How can I help?”

That moment changed everything.

Lori Householder Sauer went from acquaintance to full-on cancer warrior in record time. She showed up—at treatments, at meals, and in those quiet, wobbly moments when I needed someone to gently (or not so gently) remind me to eat, breathe, laugh, and keep going. We shared everything, and my gratitude for her presence is forever and deep.

And then there’s my sister, Rhonda Spychaski—my steady ride to chemo, my constant, my anchor. Together, we brought truth-telling, honesty, and a whole lot of laughter into those chemo appointments. I’m fairly certain Columbus Oncology and Hematology—and Dr. Shabana Dewani—were never quite the same after us. And honestly? I hope that’s true.

Three years later, I am cancer-free.   To all of you who provide meals, support, cards and fun, I appreciate you.

On Saturday, May 16, I will join fellow survivors, supporters, friends, and families for the 2026 Komen Race for the Cure 5K. I’m asking for your support—not just for me, but for every story like mine.

I’ve set a modest goal of $500. But if you love me just a little extra, every dollar beyond that is a celebration of hope, community, and our shared commitment to a cure.

Thank you for walking this journey with me—then, now, and forward.