This season of life has stretched me in ways I never expected. End of my soccer season I was super sick. I was told I had to be admitted to the hospital. At the time, I had to accept that I’d miss the end of my senior soccer season — a season I had poured four years of my heart into. I sat on the sidelines, hooked up to meds, watching my teammates finish what I’d started with them. But I refused to let it end like that. For the last game, I suited up anyway — PICC line and all — and stepped onto the field for five minutes. It was short, but it meant everything. It was a reminder that even if CF tries to take things from me, it can’t take my spirit. 

Back in December, everything came to a halt — my lung collapsed, and I ended up in the hospital for lung surgery. I remember the heaviness of the oxygen tubes, the PICC line in my arm, and the way my world suddenly felt smaller like everything revolved around each breath. Running was out of the question. Even walking across the room felt like a mountain.

Fast forward a few months, and I’m now three weeks into a new medication — and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I can breathe again. Not just survive, but live. I'm back to running, training for my very first half marathon, and for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like my lungs are holding me back. Each step, each mile, is a celebration — of healing, of progress, of everything I’ve overcome.

This journey has reminded me that CF is part of my story, but it's not the whole thing. I’ve cried, fought, rested, and risen again. And now, as I look toward graduation and race day — just one week apart — I carry every setback and every victory with me. I run not just to cross the finish line, but to prove that I’m still here, still fighting, and still writing my story — one breath, one step, one run at a time.