A little over a year ago, I was coming up the stairs from my basement when I had to stop halfway. I remember sitting down, winded and disoriented, wondering why something so simple felt suddenly impossible. At the time, I didn’t know that a tumor was growing in my nasal cavity. I didn’t know that cancer was already beginning to rearrange my life.
That day stuck with me—not because of the physical strain, but because of the feeling that something fundamental had shifted. My body, which I had always counted on, was trying to tell me something. And from that point forward, I would learn just how much I had taken movement, strength, and breath for granted.
Fast-forward to this past weekend, when I stood at the base of Soldier Field in 96-degree heat, surrounded by people climbing for air—some in memory, some in hope, and some, like me, in a quiet battle to reclaim something that had been taken.
I wasn’t sure how I’d feel. I knew the climb would be hard. What I didn’t expect was how easy it would feel compared to everything else.
Radiation. A total rhinectomy. Eleven surgeries. Months of healing and learning to see myself differently. The climb, by comparison, was simple. It was just one step. Then another. Then another.
I climbed all 1,600 stairs once. Then twice. Then a third time. Not to prove something to anyone else—but to remind myself that the version of me who had to stop halfway is not the version standing here now.
This wasn’t about achievement. It was about ownership. For so long, cancer had dictated what I could and couldn’t do. It told me when to rest, when to fear, when to grieve. Climbing those stairs was my way of speaking back. Of saying: Not anymore.
A year ago, I couldn’t breathe. This week, I couldn’t stop moving.
I don’t know what the next chapter looks like. I still have surgeries ahead. There are still hard days, and I’m still learning what strength looks like in this new version of me. But I do know this: when I climb now, I don’t stop halfway.
