There are a lot of things I hope my children learn as they grow up. How to be kind. How to stand up for what matters. How to recognize when someone needs a little extra love. How to show up for people, even when showing up isn’t particularly convenient.
And apparently, how to participate in a 5K with a mother who has the knees of a 100-year-old woman.
We spent a sweet October morning supporting the Marshall Milkmaids at their annual 5K Run/Walk, and while I certainly won’t be receiving any awards for athletic achievement, I walked away with something far better.
A reminder of just how much this past year has changed our family.
Especially our kids.
Five People, One Experience
When breast cancer entered our lives, it didn’t happen to just me.
Yes, I was the one receiving the diagnosis, going to appointments, undergoing five surgeries, and learning an entirely new vocabulary I never wanted to know.
But there were five of us living through it.
Five people adjusting to a reality none of us had anticipated. Five people learning to live with uncertainty. Five people discovering that ordinary life can change in an instant, even while homework, football practice, laundry, and grocery shopping carry on as usual.
The kids were twelve when all of this began. An age when they were supposed to be concerned with friends, sports, school, and whatever questionable things twelve-year-olds find entertaining.
Instead, breast cancer became part of their world, too. Not because I wanted it to. Believe me, I would have gladly spared them every bit of it.
But life doesn’t always ask our permission before changing the story.
And somewhere along the way, I’ve watched something beautiful happen. My children have become little advocates.
A Different Kind of Awareness
Before this year, I don’t think breast cancer meant much to the kids beyond something they’d heard about. It was a disease that happened to other people, something adults discussed, something represented by pink ribbons every October.
Now they understand that there’s a real person behind every ribbon.
Someone’s mother. Someone’s wife. Someone’s daughter. A woman with a whole life happening around her, full of people who love her and ordinary days she’d very much like to keep having.
They understand that a diagnosis doesn’t affect only the person sitting in the doctor’s office. Its ripples reach into kitchens, classrooms, family calendars, and the quiet spaces where people worry about the ones they love.
I wish they hadn’t needed to learn those things so young.
But I’m proud of the way they’ve responded.
They notice more. They care differently. They understand why organizations like the Marshall Milkmaids matter and why supporting women in our community is about so much more than wearing pink.
And perhaps my favorite part is that they don’t need some grand speech about making a difference.
They’re learning that sometimes making a difference simply means showing up.
The Great Family 5K
Which brings us back to that October morning.
We gathered with so many wonderful people to support the Marshall Milkmaids, and our family participated in our own very characteristic fashion.
Sadie and Matt completed the entire 5K.
Henley made it one lap farther than I did, walking alongside Nana and Papa.
And Jase? He made an appearance for the family photo opportunity before heading off to his very last football practice as an eighth grader.
And me? Well, my knees decided they had contributed quite enough to the cause, thank you very much. I did not finish. I would like to point out, however, that I arrived with enthusiasm, participated willingly, and retired with dignity. Mostly.
But what mattered to me wasn’t who finished, who walked the farthest, or who had the most cooperative joints.
It was that our family understood why we were there.
This wasn’t simply another event on our already overflowing calendar. It was an opportunity to support women whose lives have been touched by something we now understand on a deeply personal level.
And watching my kids take part in that meant more to me than I can adequately explain.
What I Hope They Remember
I’ve thought a lot about what this past year will mean to my children when they’re older.
I hope the difficult parts fade a little. I hope they remember plenty of ordinary afternoons, ridiculous family conversations, football games, and all the things that made life feel like ours.
But I also hope they carry forward what they’ve learned. That compassion isn’t just something you feel. It’s something you practice. That communities become stronger when people look after one another. That you don’t have to personally experience someone’s hardship to care about what they’re going through.
And that even when you can’t fix something, you can still do something. Show up. Listen. Give. Walk a few laps. Stand beside somebody.
Small things, perhaps. But small things have a way of becoming something much bigger when enough people do them together.
I never would have chosen breast cancer as a lesson for my children. There’s no beautiful explanation that makes the hard parts necessary, and I won’t pretend otherwise.
Still, I can recognize the good that has grown alongside the difficult.
My kids are more aware of the world beyond themselves. They have seen what it means for a community to care for its own. And they’re beginning to understand that they have a place in that work, too.
That makes me incredibly proud.
More Than the Miles
I’m so thankful for the Marshall Milkmaids and the work they do for women in our community. For the organizers, volunteers, donors, participants, and everyone who gave part of their October morning to something that matters.
There’s something powerful about seeing a community come together, especially when you know firsthand why that support is so important.
But when I look back on this particular morning, I think what I’ll remember most is my children.
Not the miles they walked, but the people they’re becoming.
Three kids who have experienced a difficult year alongside their mama and come away with a deeper understanding of compassion, community, and caring for others.
Three little advocates who may not fully realize yet how much their presence matters.
And one very proud mother, hobbling along behind them, watching their hearts grow.
My knees may have quit early.
But my heart? My heart was all in.
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