2026 Komen Houston Race for the Cure

On December 18, 2023, I lost my mother, Donya Monette Perkins Taylor, to Triple Negative Breast Cancer, Stage 4. The diagnosis had come like a thunderclap; aggressive, unrelenting, and without mercy. The doctors told us there was nothing more they could do. We were advised to begin preparations for hospice. Two weeks later, my mother was gone.

Two weeks. That is all we had.

The grief that followed was unlike anything I had ever known. It wasn't just sadness; it was the silence that settled into every corner of my life. The kind of loss that doesn't announce itself all at once, but finds you in the quietest moments; the instinct to pick up the phone and call her the second something happens, good or bad, only to remember she is no longer there. It is the emptiness of her presence at holidays and birthdays, the celebrations that once felt whole now feel like something is missing from the center of the room. And then there were the thoughts about the future. The images I had always carried without even realizing it; my mother in the front row at my wedding, beaming with pride. My mother by my side in the hospital the day I give birth, holding my hand. All of the milestones I had always imagined sharing with her. Those images didn't disappear all at once; they surfaced one by one, each a quiet reminder of a future that would now look different from what I had planned. I have learned that we can dream and plan and hope, but ultimately the future is in God's hands, and sometimes, he has a different plan than the one we imagined. Processing the loss of my mother took time, patience, more tears than I could count, and a faith in God that I held onto even when it was hard to understand his plan. 

Grief is not something you get over. It is something that becomes a part of you, quietly weaving itself into who you are, always present, always felt. It never truly leaves. It simply changes shape over time. 

But somewhere in the middle of that grief, something shifted. A quiet resolve began to grow where the heartbreak lived. I wasn't able to save my mother. I couldn't rewrite those two weeks or give us more time. But what I can do is make a difference. What I can do is help others. What I can do is make sure that my pain is not without purpose. So I’ve decided, I’m going to run.

This October, I will be lacing up my shoes and taking to the pavement in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure; not just for myself, but for everyone who should never have to know this kind of pain. Because no one, no child, no young adult, no person at any stage of life, should lose their mother too soon to a disease that research can fight. No family should receive a two-week countdown. No daughter or son should have to say goodbye before they are ready.

I run for my mother. I run for the mothers and for every woman and person whose life has been touched by this disease in any way. I run for every single person who is currently fighting breast cancer with everything they have. I run for the survivors who have already won their battle, and I run for those who are still in the middle of theirs. And I run for every child, every young adult, and every person who deserves more time with their loved one. 

If my steps can help fund one more breakthrough, support one more family, or give one more mother, one more woman, one more fighter, more time with the people they love, then every mile is worth it.

This one is for you, Mom.

With love and gratitude, 

Amber Taylor

In Loving Memory of Donya Monette Perkins Taylor