After a four-year fight with ovarian cancer, my cousin Kim passed away this summer. She was 52, a loving wife and mom. On back-to-back days, I drove 16 hours from Philadelphia to Beverly, MA, for her funeral. Somewhere along those long, quiet miles, I felt a deep pull, a need to do something more. I want to carry her name forward in a way that reflects who she was: strong, full of light, and an absolute fighter. Within hours of getting home, I applied to join the National Ovarian Cancer Coalition’s Boston Marathon team. I was thrilled to be one of the eight runners chosen and am deeply honored to run in her memory.

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Training for this marathon through one of the hardest winters in recent memory has tested me in every way. But grief is heavier. Losing someone you love, watching Kim’s daughter lose her mom, is harder than any mile, any snowstorm, or any doubt. This run is for Kim. For her fight. For her light, and for the courage she showed every single day.