I thought I had already lived through my fair share of “oh sh*t” moments—the kind where your stomach jumps into your throat while everything else feels like it’s falling apart at the same time. But nothing could ever compare to September 13, 2014. That was the day we were told our 1-year-old baby, whose first birthday we had celebrated just weeks earlier, had a spinal cord tumor.
Izzy is our only child. We had just marked her first year of life filled with the same hopes every parent carries—dreams of first steps, first words, and watching her grow into toddlerhood. In an instant, those dreams were replaced with terrifying questions about whether she would even live to see her second birthday. None of it made sense. For days, I felt like I was floating outside my body, watching life happen to someone else. Soon after, Izzy was rushed into the hospital, where she underwent a 10-hour open biopsy on her tiny spinal cord—through her soft baby back, tender muscles, delicate vertebrae, and into the most fragile place imaginable.
After ten agonizing hours, her neurosurgeon finally came to us and said the surgery had gone well. He explained that he had closed her up the moment he lost signal on the right side of her body, but he had been able to safely remove enough of the tumor to get answers and determine the next steps. When we were finally allowed into the PICU, we walked into a room filled with blaring alarms and were quickly ushered back out as nurses rushed in. Our 1-year-old had decided that after such a serious surgery, she no longer needed intubation. I overheard a nurse say she was a fighter. At the time, I had no idea how deeply true that would be.
That night, the neurosurgery team came in every couple of hours, gently poking Izzy’s feet, searching for any sign of movement. When her right foot finally wiggled the next morning, my husband and I could feel the heaviness lift from the room. From there, everything felt like it was moving both painfully fast and unbearably slow. Our baby, who had been developing typically—scooting around adorably on her bottom—was suddenly limp, unable to sit up on her own. She couldn’t eat solid foods because sitting caused her too much pain, so I continued making baby food, clinging to small routines that felt familiar.
Izzy began chemotherapy on November 7, 2014. Forty-two infusions stretched over fourteen long months, alongside physical and occupational therapy. Even once she could finally sit up, chemo had wreaked havoc on her gastrointestinal system, and she still wouldn’t eat on her own. My husband and I would sing, dance, and distract her while one of us carefully fed her tiny spoonfuls, hoping she wouldn’t vomit. She needed nourishment to grow, and we needed her to survive those grueling months as strong as possible.
We held tightly to hope, even when we felt completely alone. Izzy’s tumor and its location are so rare—one in thirty million—that there was no roadmap, no one else we could find who had walked this exact path before us. I felt lost in motherhood, desperately searching for reassurance, Googling late into the night for anything that might offer light. Her prognosis wasn’t bleak, and maybe we practiced a bit of willful blindness about what her future might hold. Still, hope became our lifeline. I found strength in sharing our story and letting others know they weren’t alone.
While our journeys may not be the same, many of us know what it’s like to watch our children endure brutal medical treatments. I’ve battled depression and anxiety for as long as I can remember, so loneliness wasn’t new to me. But I believed that if I could help even one person feel less lost, I could transform tragedy into something meaningful. I also wanted Izzy to grow up seeing her parents act on inspiration—to know her story isn’t one of sadness, but of resilience and a little girl determined to live without limits.
That year, my husband and I turned to running as a way to raise awareness and funds for childhood cancer research. In November 2015, we ran our first 5K for Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation and raised more than $12,000. We shared Izzy’s story and highlighted the stark lack of funding for childhood cancer compared to adult cancers. We were angry that children endure toxic treatments because there are no better options, and that more than two-thirds of survivors live with lasting effects. Still, we felt immense pride in honoring Izzy and the many children who became part of our journey.
On January 14, 2015—the day before her final chemo infusion—Izzy took her first eighteen independent steps during physical therapy. She still lives with the tumor in her spinal cord, but it has remained stable since January 15, 2015. She has endured endless therapies, MRIs, hospital stays, and procedures. She lives with chronic pain, and in June 2019, she underwent halo gravity traction therapy to help straighten her spine. Afterward, she wore a body cast for nearly six months.
Just as life began to feel lighter and her cast came off, the world shut down due to COVID. School closed, routines vanished, yet Izzy continued to smile and find joy. She lights up every room she enters. Despite muscle weakness on her left side and spinal deformity from surgery, her spirit remains radiant. Recently, she used the word “disability” for the first time. When I asked how she felt about it, she calmly said it didn’t change who she is—it’s just a word.
She inspires me endlessly. Wanting to give something back to her, we founded Izzy’s Infantry to raise funds for childhood cancer research and support families with mobility equipment. While fundraising paused during COVID, awareness never stopped. Running also became my meditation—my way of processing, growing, and showing Izzy that strength lives beyond limits. We’ve run countless races, including the New Jersey Half Marathon, all to support families like ours.
I don’t know what it’s like to parent without medical complexity. I don’t know motherhood without therapy schedules and hospital visits. But I do know this journey shaped a confidence in me I never would have found otherwise. Training for my first marathon—postponed but not canceled—I’ll run the New Jersey Marathon on October 17, 2021, carrying Izzy’s story with every mile.
Watching a child battle cancer changes you forever. I’ve seen Izzy, at just sixteen months old, vomit from chemo and then return to smiling moments later. Life is messy—clean it up and keep going. Sadness still sits deep in my belly, but my heart overflows with gratitude, strength, and optimism. Nearly seven years later, that day still hurts, but I run on—celebrating every victory, big and small, and believing that even in adversity, hope can carry us forward.
