May 11

5:30 p.m. – I'm really tired. More so than I expected to be. I walked 9.5 miles today – walking time was 3 hours and 49 minutes. Today's contemplation was about my mother – I thought it was fitting since today is Mother's Day … recalling memories and thinking about which of her traits I want to carry forward into my next chapter. Her calm demeanor, love of travel, standing up for herself, and her "go with the flow, what's the worst thing that could happen?" attitude.

That excerpt is from my journal entry on May 11, 2025 — the day I took my first step on the Portuguese Camino de Santiago, committed to walking solo from Porto, Portugal, to Santiago, Spain. It also happened to be Mother's Day.

Today is May 11, 2026, and I find myself smack in the middle of a very different journey, and though this journey didn’t start on Mother’s Day, it is still deeply tied to my mother and I wanted to write about how these two May 11ths compare because I am once again reminded of the power of saying yes — the power of following your intuition, the power of self-love, the power of taking risks — and how it all folds back into the power of being truly present in one’s life.

In 2024, my dear friends Lori and Jay suggested we walk the Portuguese Camino together. Jay had walked the Francés trail earlier that year, and he and Lori invited me to join them on this new adventure. Unlike the Francés trail where you cross the Pyrenees, the Portuguese Coastal trail doesn't have significant elevation, so with my lung capacity issues I thought my body could handle it. With Jay leading the charge, I felt comfortable going, like there was a built-in safety net.

Before airline tickets were purchased and plans were firm, Lori called to share that a shoulder injury would keep her from going, and suggested we revisit the trip in a year or so. Completely understanding how health issues can get in the way, we took the trip off the table.

Here's what's curious, though — before Jay's walk, I had never even heard of the Camino de Santiago. And yet, suddenly, I found myself unable to stop thinking about it.

The next thing I knew, I was sending a text to Jay and Lori: "I am considering doing the Portugal trip on my own." Jay responded enthusiastically, and that sealed the deal. I planned the trip and off I went. By the end, I had walked 176 miles over 18 days — 72 total hours of walking. Though I met several wonderful people along the way, I walked solo, and I wouldn't change a thing. That trip profoundly changed me.

Now let's fast forward to today, May 11, 2026. Today is day 20 of 30 proton radiation treatments, and six days after my second round of chemotherapy.

On March 17 of this year, I was diagnosed with lung cancer for the fourth time in 21 years. I could easily make this essay about how misunderstood this disease is and the impact it has had on my family — six of us have received a lung cancer diagnosis — but there is plenty of time for that in other writings.

What I want to share today is one of the first thoughts that came to mind when I found out about my diagnosis: I am so grateful I walked the Camino. I am so grateful I said yes and made that journey on my own. I am so grateful I didn't let fear get in my way.

I was proud of myself. Some might think the pride I felt came from the physical accomplishment. My previous lung cancer diagnoses resulted in three lung surgeries and radiation, so my lungs are pretty beat up — and yet I walked nearly 200 miles. But that's not what I'm most proud of. What I'm most proud of is my spirit. That inner voice that says go. The one that wonders: Why not? What if?

It's the same voice that, when I found out I had six weeks of chemoradiation ahead of me, told me I wanted to laugh my way through it — and so I asked my friends to send me funny videos. Why? Because belly laughing feels good. Have you ever noticed that when you're really laughing, there's not much room left over for pain?

Don't get me wrong, it wasn’t like “Oh, I have lung cancer — I want to laugh.” There were terrifying moments. Moments when I was frozen with fear. Moments when I couldn't hold back tears, wondering about the side effects, whether the treatment would work, and how sick I'd be. All of the unknowns swept over me as I was working toward a treatment plan I had never experienced before. But once the decisions were made, my fear quieted, and I decided I wanted to pass my time during these six weeks in the best possible way — whether that meant laughing, playing in my art studio, or writing. I just wanted to be present for all of it. After all, isn't that really all we have? This exact moment in time.

I've written before about how this disease has profoundly changed the way I live my life, and once again, here it is, front and center, reminding me: Go live the hell out of your life. Do it while you can. Do it while your body still works well. Do it now. Not from a place of fear, but from a place of wanting to enjoy this life.

My treatment started on April 13 of this year. When you're lucky enough to have access to cutting-edge technology at one of the best cancer centers in the country, you're given your schedule, and you make it work. When I saw that date, I froze — and then I had to consciously choose how I wanted to feel about it.

You see, exactly 15 years earlier, on the afternoon of April 13, 2011, my mother passed away from lung cancer after a five-year valiant journey with the disease.

I chose to look at that date as a nod from her — an invitation to go forward, to take advantage of every medical advancement available to me, and to bring her spirit along with me. Every single day during my treatment, I wear something of hers to keep her close.

I started writing this essay for myself, to process what I was feeling. Somewhere along the way, I realized I wanted to share it, and I asked myself why.

I have often felt — and said out loud — that I've had the strange luxury of experiencing life-threatening illnesses without them actually taking my life, and that it has profoundly changed how I choose to live. If sharing my thoughts and experiences inspires even one person to take a step toward something they've been putting off, then this little essay has done its job.

We never really know what's around the corner. So please — go do the things that your heart and soul desire. Even if it's just one small step toward that thing. One step can turn into one mile, and one mile can turn into 176 miles over 18 days on a path you'd never even heard of — and it just might become one of the most profoundly beautiful experiences of your life.

Why not… What if…