For more than a decade, Julie M. walked the Susan G. Komen 3-Day®to honor the women in her family who had faced breast cancer. Then in 2023, she received a diagnosis of her own.
Walking for Her Mom
Julie first participated in theSan Diego 3-Day in 2010, following her mother’s breast cancer diagnosis in 2007.
“I would have walked sooner, but when my mom had cancer, I lived in Italy with my husband on his military tour,” Julie said. “When I started, my mom walked with me a few times, and I have done it ever since.”
Over the years, the 3-Day has become a major part of Julie’s life. She has participated in 22 events, and for the past seven years she has served as captain of Team Viva Las Boobies.
“The 3-Day has been a life-changing experience for me because of the camaraderie, the sisterhood. It’s phenomenal,” Julie said. “The people I walk with … we just walked this morning. We walk year-round and we have just become such lifelong friends.”
Worst News Ever
For much of her adult life, Julie M. lived with the expectation that one day she might come face to face with breast cancer.
“I’ve been getting mammogramssince I was in my 30s,” Julie said. “My mom, my granny and my aunties all had breast cancer.”
Determined to stay vigilant, Julie alternated between mammograms and breast MRIsevery six months.
In early 2023, Julie had a routine MRI that came back with clear results. The next month, she missed a scheduled mammogram because she was dealing with vertigo. Then, when she went in for the mammogram about one month later, she was called back for additional imaging. She had a gut feeling that something was wrong.
At age 53, Julie was diagnosed with stage 1 breast cancer. At the time, some of Julie’s family members were in San Diego visiting from Scotland. And both of her daughters were busy preparing for their final college exams. So, she waited before delivering the news to her family.
When the time came, Julie and her husband called both of their daughters and told them together.
“It was harder to tell my daughters than it was to tell anyone else. They were 20 and 22 when I was diagnosed,” Julie recalled,. “The first thing they said was, ‘Worst news ever.’”
Julie’s daughters and husband were a great source of support as she recovered from surgery. Just a few months later, Julie walked the Boston 3-Day and then returned home to San Diego to begin radiation therapy.
Leaning on the Pink Bubble
Throughout her diagnosis and treatment, Julie also leaned on the friendships she had built through the 3-Day.
“The Pink Bubble is a real thing. It’s truly an amazing connection that you make with people that you would never cross paths with any other way,” Julie said.
Julie said she was grateful to be able to reach out to fellow 3-Day walkers and survivors for advice and strength.
“I was able to reach out to so many people, and they shared recommendations for surgeons, what to expect from treatment paths and their experiences,” Julies said. “It was a wealth of information from teammates and so many people who had been there before.”
This year, Julie is celebrating nearly two years of breast cancer survivorship and will walk in the San Diego 3-Day in November. Her advice to those who are newly diagnosed is: “Don’t let breast cancer get you down or swallow you up. Keep moving forward, because you can still come out on the other side and live your best life.”
Cathy M. has been part of the Susan G. Komen 3-Day® for more than 20 years and still shows up each November ready to walk all 60 miles.
She has collected the names of 180 people impacted by breast cancer—names she now wears on a pink cape as she walks.
“The names are of people diagnosed with breast cancer, those we have lost and the names of inspiring survivors,” Cathy said. “I walk for them. The real heroes.”
Cathy first discovered the 3-Day while sitting at a traffic light in Southern California, where she watched a sea of walkers moving down the coast. Something about that moment stuck with her. Even though she didn’t yet have a personal connection to breast cancer, she felt drawn to be a part of it.
Years later, that connection became deeply personal when her sister was diagnosed with breast cancer, and Cathy wanted to offer her support.
“My sister didn’t even tell us about her cancer until after her surgery,” Cathy said. “After that, I got my rear off the couch and signed up.”
Cathy walked her first 3-Day in 2003 in San Diego at the age of 51 and hasn’t missed a year since.
Since then, she’s become a resource for “newbies” taking on the Komen 3-Day, even writing her own survival guide—playfully titled 60-Mile Walk Survival Guide From an Old Lady Walking— to pass along advice based on her experience. She shares it for free on Facebook.
“I like to think I get smarter with each event under my feet,” Cathy said with a smile. “The guide is just what has worked for me and my hope is that something in there could help the new walkers.”
While Cathy has never had breast cancer, she said she has spent years reflecting on what keeps her coming back to the 3-Day.
“It just puts life in perspective,” Cathy said. “It grounds me and reconnects me to the Pink Bubble. The people, the atmosphere, it’s so positive. I love meeting everyone and hearing their stories. It really is more than just a walk.”
When she’s not walking in the 3-Day, Cathy is a caregiver to her 103-year-old mother in Boise, Idaho, a role that reflects the same strength and compassion she brings to the walk every year. Her sister, Terry, is a more than 20-year breast cancer survivor, and Cathy continues to walk in her honor.
Cathy also shares her 3-Day experiences through a personal blogand has written a book inspired by her journey in the Pink Bubble. For Cathy, the 3-Day is more than an event, it’s a lifelong connection to the people and stories that continue to guide her steps.
In 2016, I was 48 years old and had gotten my annual mammogram/sonogram at the very posh and social New York City office of radiologist Dr. Miriam Levy. One of many easy, breezy routine visits where tiny, porcelain-skinned, wild-red-haired Dr. Levy would give me a clean bill of health from behind three ginormous computer screens with images of my cancer-free breasts. I left with a healthy report card in hand, excited to add that white paper scrap to my collection from prior years. I felt organized, I was taking such good care of “the girls” and I wanted to celebrate my lucky fortune. I will never really understand why I had that reaction that year, but I emailed my boss, and said I wouldn’t be returning to the office. Instead, I went to Sheeps Meadow in Central Park, one of my all-time favorite spots. I laid flat on the bright green grass and looked straight up at the blue sky and felt very, very grateful. I even took a picture of the lawn that day. It was risky to not go back to the office, but a greater voice was urging me to honor my health by grounding and thanking the universe. There are so many anecdotes to that day’s visit to Dr. Levy’s office; running into an old work friend who shared the same birthday that I hadn’t seen in years; the woman who told us she comes in every six months, instead of waiting a full year, because the waiting was too much to bear; the woman who said she always gets worried when it takes too long to see Dr. Levy after the tests because it means bad news. And it does, as I found out the very next year, when I went back in at age 49.
I didn’t run into anyone that visit, and I did wait a very long time for Dr. Miriam to call me back to her office. But I was too naive to be scared, so I just waited as we all do at busy doctors’ offices. She called me in, looking paler and tinier this year, even though her hair was bigger. She said there was something suspicious that we should biopsy, so I said, with no fear, “Let’s do it! Can I do it now?” And because it’s New York City and a posh office, the answer was yes. So, a smush, clip and ouch later, I was all done, once again feeling very organized that I was taking care of “the girls.”
It was a few days later on Thursday, March 23, 2017 and I was taking a cab down the West Side Highway to work at 1 World Trade Center. My cell phone rang and Dr. Levy was on the other line. “I’m delighted to hear from her,” I thought. That was a rookie reaction. It was not a social call; it was a call to tell me that I had cancer. I was teary-eyed in the back of a yellow taxi, speeding down the West Side Highway with my window all the way open, looking out at the Hudson River. My cell phone was pressed to my ear, the cabbie looking at me through his rear-view mirror, listening to me sob. I had breast cancer.
I was in utter disbelief. I managed to end the call with Dr. Levy, pay the cab driver, show my badge to security, remain calm in a crowded elevator, make it to the 18th floor, walk down the corridors, past offices with colleagues in them, slide my glass office door open, then shut, dial my parents at home and bawl. “I have breast cancer,” I stuttered. Four life-changing words I’d never thought I’d utter. That moment feels like yesterday, but when I look back at the selfie I took in my office that day after hanging up with my parents, I feel like I look like a baby. A lost baby, and I realize that was a lifetime ago.
That Friday, in an unbelievable turn of events, I was let go from my job. After 11 years of working with that company, the one-two punch of a cancer diagnosis and losing my job was devastating. It all felt like the end of life. Cancer is scary, especially when it happens to you, and in New York, top media jobs are far and few between. It is very hard to land one, especially at the age of 49. I suddenly felt very old and frightened, and to this day I still feel the ramifications of that one, two punch.
Treatment was with an excellent team at Memorial Sloan Kettering. My breast surgeon performed a successful lumpectomy, and out to dinner that night I went. Treatment for my stage 1, IDC breast cancer, Onco score 18, included chemotherapy, radiation and Tamoxofin. It was grueling, and I spiraled into early menopause with hot flashes, falling spells, and crying jags. My mental health crashed. Tamoxofin comes with a warning about mental health side effects which I took seriously, conferring with both my psychiatrist and my oncologist. We all agreed I should try a half dose for a month and see how it goes. I also had to stop taking my anti-depressant/anti-anxiety medication. And everything seemed OK, didn’t it? So, I moved on to the full dose, but after four months my brain chemistry changed. The trauma of the cancer diagnosis and the job loss led to a total identity crisis that was amplified by chemo-induced menopause. I was no longer just fighting breast cancer. I was also fighting for my mental health, and that has turned out to be a fight for life, and the fight of my life. I used to blame the loss of my mental health on the Tamoxofin, but the truth is, I was struggling with my life. I wasn’t happy; I was single, lonely, working very hard in a stressful job in a tough city. I didn’t have it all, and I wasn’t grateful enough for what I did have.
I wasn’t on my feet yet when a second cancer in my other breast appeared in July of 2019. I wasn’t strong enough for a brutal second round of fighting, and I was more alone than ever, having scared and alienated many friends and family. They had known me as a funny, independent woman. They did not like, nor could they handle, the scared child I had become following my diagnosis. Who was I? What had I become? Where had that old me gone? Would she ever come back? I remember sitting on a sofa in a friend’s living room, talking in a monotone voice, wondering if I would ever laugh again. Spirit and soul had left me, and I was frightened senselessly by the excruciating prospect of more chemotherapy and medication that would set me back, yet again, mentally. Following my second diagnosis, I had a lumpectomy and radiation. On the cold floor in my dark apartment in the late fall and early winter nights leading, I had many haunting dark nights of the soul when COVID came. I left New York and moved to California to reclaim my life, and it was in San Diego that I found beauty, peace, pride and love in the Pink Bubble of the Susan G. Komen 3-Day®.
A friend of mine was walking to honor a close friend of hers who had lost her fight with breast cancer, and I wanted to walk with her in November 2023. I wanted to honor her friend, honor my own fight and raise money to eradicate breast cancer. It seemed like such a terrific way to get into shape, enjoy San Diego, and raise money for a cause close to my heart. Little did I know that the Komen 3-Day would show me I was not alone, and walking would fuel me to fight again. I discovered that I had sisters everywhere around the world and we were all in this together. I had never felt that before and it gives me a reason to live. On March 27, 2024, I received my third diagnosis that months later was confirmed Stage 4 breast cancer that had metastasized to my lungs, colon and chest. I have the most glorious pink sisters along with me for this journey and I am stronger, more satisfied with my life. I was still rebuilding it, but I have come a long way, and I am eager to face and fight cancer again because the rewards are moments of exuberance and community that define the Pink Bubble.
One of my favorite memories from the 2023 San Diego 3-Day® that I’m looking forward to experiencing again in 2024 includes the rally call for survivors and those living with breast cancer to lead the walk on the first morning. It was profound and stands alone as one of the most awesome moments in my life. I was overcome by emotion as we gathered together, feeling as if we were all stars with everybody cheering us on. It was magnificent. It didn’t feel like the start of a walk, it felt like a ceremony celebrating life. Since it was my first 3-Day, I didn’t know survivors would be called out. And out of nowhere, I just burst into tears. I felt the floodgates open. And it was so cathartic. These were my people. I have people. And there they are in all their glory. It was a stunning moment. Indescribable. Time stopped still. I moved along with the crowd of survivors, humbled and in awe at the same time. It was the first time I saw beauty in the cancer world; no pain, no fear, just joy, love and laughs—the Pink Bubble. The Pink Bubble is protected from the outside world fiercely, filled with kindness, support, love and vulnerability.
I also loved seeing all the local policeman on their bikes, decked out in pink gear, radios blasting tunes to keep us moving. I loved seeing the local high school cheer squads, the wild outfits, hearing the poignant stories of why women walked. I loved learning how the organization helped those in need, and I loved the Closing Ceremony. Once again, survivors and those living with breast cancer were called to lead all the walkers, not to start the walk but to finish it. And as we held hands, we walked past friends and family, and I looked every single person I passed in the eyes. And they looked right back at me, directly into my eyes with such love and adoration, it was unbelievable. I couldn’t get enough of it. It was as though all those years of starvation for love and affection were melting away. When the days get hard now, I look forward to experiencing that again. I hope to experience that again.
As everyone cleared the lawn to return home, I jumped on the stage with my survivor rose and danced, which my friend videoed. Although I don’t love how I look in the video, I LOVE that video and I posted it on my Instagram anyway. It is me; the me who walked through fire and got to the other side, the me who is facing the fire again, but with the Pink Bubble behind her. I have never in my life experienced the level of unconditional love, support and recognition that lives inside the Pink Bubble, a 72-hour human experience packed with enough love, spirit, wisdom, humor, audaciousness and support to get the sisterhood through the hardest fight of their life. It is a 72-hour lesson in human compassion, empathy, resilience, and determination. I felt safe, loved, free, happy, and unencumbered. I felt rewarded, challenged, lucky and important. I could be myself and talk to anybody about anything. I was seen and heard. And I looked and listened. Because that is the glory of the Pink Bubble.
I need the 3-Day to survive. It is an essential part of who I have become, and I want to be a part of the end of breast cancer by raising money for the cause. I can’t wait to see everyone again in San Diego.
