The morning air was filled with anticipation, music, and the sound of hundreds of voices. Everywhere I looked, there were people wearing pink, carrying signs, hugging one another and offering words of encouragement. Some were walking. Some were running. Some were pushing strollers or walking hand in hand with loved ones. And some, like me, were simply grateful to be there. Eleven years ago, I stood among them as a breast cancer survivor, although I wasn't quite sure I was ready to call myself that yet.
It had been only fifteen months since my diagnosis, and cancer was still very much a part of my everyday life. Fifteen months may sound like a long time to someone standing outside the experience of cancer, but to someone who has heard the words "You have cancer", fifteen months can feel like both an eternity and the beginning of a completely different life. Cancer changes the way you look at time. Before cancer, I had taken ordinary mornings for granted. After cancer, an ordinary morning could feel like a gift. Waking up, getting dressed, walking outside, breathing deeply, and laughing with my husband- these simple things carried a different meaning. I was learning that survival isn't always a dramatic moment. Sometimes it is simply waking up and realizing that you are still here.
That morning, however, I had decided to do something that felt much bigger than simply getting out of bed. I was going to walk a 5K, 3.1 miles. On paper, it didn't seem like an extraordinary distance. But to me, those miles represented something much greater than a race. They represented everything I had endured, everything I had feared and everything I had prayed for since hearing the words, “You have cancer.”
Before the race began, I stood quietly and prayed. I asked God to give me a verse to hold onto that day. I wanted something I could carry with me when I became tired or discouraged, something that would remind me that I wasn't walking those miles alone. Instead of giving me just one verse, He brought several to my heart. The first was from Psalm 26: “Vindicate me, O Lord, for I have walked in my integrity, and I have trusted in the Lord without wavering. Prove me, O Lord, and try me; test my heart and my mind. For your steadfast love is before my eyes, and I walk in your faithfulness.” Then came Philippians 4:13: “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength.” I tucked those words away in my heart. I had no idea just how much I would need them.
At seven o'clock that morning, a pancake breakfast was held for the cancer survivors. There was something comforting about being surrounded by people who understood a part of my story without my having to explain it. We all had different stories, different diagnoses, different treatments and different scars, but we shared something that morning. We had survived. Then the survivors were called to the stage.
One by one, we made our way forward as Rachel Platten's “Fight Song” played loudly through the speakers. The crowd erupted in cheers. People clapped, shouted and celebrated as though they knew every battle we had fought to get there. As I walked toward the stage, I felt a little overwhelmed. I'm not an “upfront and center” kind of girl. I've always been much more comfortable in the background, and I don't particularly enjoy being the center of attention. Yet suddenly I was walking onto a stage with hundreds of eyes watching me.
Then a survivor's medal was placed around my neck, and something happened that I will never forget. It hit me: I was a survivor. Until that moment, the word had seemed almost like a title that belonged to someone else. I knew I had survived cancer, but somehow, I hadn't allowed myself to fully embrace what that meant. Standing on that stage, with the medal resting against me and the crowd cheering, I suddenly understood. I was still here.
The tears came before I could stop them. They weren't tears of sadness. They were tears filled with gratitude, relief and emotion. In that single moment, fifteen months of fear, uncertainty, appointments, decisions, prayers and tears seemed to converge. I thought about where I had been, and then I looked at where I was. I was standing on a stage surrounded by other survivors. I was alive.
At nine o'clock, the race began. The runners took off first, followed closely by the walkers. There were people everywhere, and the energy was almost electric. The course wound through the area with hills going up and down, and before long, I realized that 3.1 miles was going to require more determination than I had anticipated. But I also discovered something beautiful: people were kind. Strangers encouraged strangers. People smiled at one another. Participants cheered for those who were struggling. Nobody seemed concerned about who was finishing first. The focus was on moving forward together.
Along the course, Mercer University students held enormous signs that said things like “U R BEAUTIFUL” and “U R AWESOME.” They smiled, waved and cheered as we passed. Those young people probably didn't realize what those signs meant to someone like me. Cancer can change the way you see yourself. It can change the way you see your body. It can make you feel vulnerable and uncertain. There can be days when you look in the mirror and see everything cancer has taken instead of everything that remains. And there I was, walking past young people holding signs reminding me that I was beautiful and awesome. Sometimes encouragement arrives in the simplest forms.
Every mile marker became a small victory. One more mile. One more hill. One more step. I began to understand that the race wasn't really about reaching the finish line. It was about continuing to move toward it. That distinction has stayed with me all these years. Cancer taught me that life is rarely lived in giant leaps. More often, we move forward in small increments. We get through one appointment, then another. We wait for one test result, then another. We get through one difficult day and wake up to face the next. One step, then another, then another.
As we approached the final stretch of the race, I could see the finish line ahead. Cameras were snapping photographs, and local radio personalities were announcing participants as they crossed. The cheers grew louder. I was tired, but I kept walking. When I finally crossed that finish line, I could almost hear God whispering to my heart, “You pressed on toward the goal. You've fought a good fight.” I was proud of myself. Not because I had completed some great athletic accomplishment- I wasn't a runner, and I wasn't trying to set a record. I simply wanted to finish. And I did.
But I didn't do it alone. My friends and family had prayed for me. People I had never even met in person had prayed for me. I felt those prayers. I carried them with me that morning. There is something incredibly powerful about knowing that other people are lifting your name before God when you are facing something you cannot control. Their prayers became part of the strength I carried with me.
And beside me was my sweet husband, Phil. He held my hand every step of those 3.1 miles. When I became tired, he encouraged me to keep going. When I doubted myself, he told me he knew I could do it. There was something deeply reassuring about having his hand in mine. Cancer can sometimes make you feel as though you are walking a lonely road, even when you are surrounded by people. But that morning reminded me that I wasn't alone. God was with me, my loved ones were with me, and my husband was literally walking beside me.
Looking back, I realize that those three miles changed me. They weren't simply three miles on a race course. They were three miles through fear, faith, gratitude, and hope. They represented the distance between the woman who had received a cancer diagnosis and the woman who finally stood on a stage and accepted the word "survivor."
Cancer changed me in ways I never expected. It taught me not to take ordinary days for granted. It taught me to appreciate the simple things- the quiet mornings, the people I love and the opportunity to make plans for the future. It taught me that there is extraordinary beauty in simply being alive. It also taught me that survival isn't always a dramatic moment. Sometimes survival looks like getting out of bed. Sometimes it looks like showing up for another treatment. Sometimes it looks like crying in the privacy of your own home and then drying your eyes and facing another day. Sometimes it looks like accepting someone's hand when you are too tired to walk alone. And sometimes, it looks like walking 3.1 miles with your husband beside you and a crowd of strangers cheering you toward the finish line.
As I reminisce, I can still see it as clearly as though it happened yesterday. I can see the stage. I can hear the music. I can hear the cheering. I can feel the medal around my neck. And I can see my husband's hand reaching for mine. Most of all, I remember the realization that brought tears to my eyes: I was a survivor.
If you are facing cancer today, I wish I could sit beside you for a few minutes and tell you something I learned on that 5K course. You don't have to know how you're going to walk the entire journey. You only have to take the next step. Some days that step may be toward treatment. Some days it may be toward healing. Some days it may simply be getting out of bed and deciding to face another morning. Take that step. And then take the next one. Let people walk beside you. Let them pray for you. Let them encourage you. Let them hold your hand when you're tired. And if you need to rest, rest. Resting doesn't mean you've given up. It means you're human.
That day in September 2015, I started walking without knowing exactly how I would feel when I reached the finish line. I didn't know what the coming years would hold or how much my understanding of survival would continue to change. But I kept going. And somewhere between the starting line and those final few steps, I learned something I have carried with me ever since: the finish line isn't always the greatest victory. Sometimes the greatest victory is simply discovering that you had the strength to keep walking. Through every mile, every hill, every tear, and every triumph, God has been faithful. He was faithful then. He is faithful now. And I am still walking.
It’s 2026 now, and I never dreamed I’d be a twelve-year survivor of breast cancer. As the walks for breast cancer awareness fill the month of October, I pray for all the participants. I pray especially for the first-timers. It’s scary, exciting, and humbling. For some, it’s a personal goal, and for others, it’s not only to bring awareness but to help raise funds to fight cancer; either way, it’s significant. It reminds us never to take a day for granted.
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