It’s difficult to tell someone you’re a cancer survivor. They always look at you different. There’s suddenly pity and sadness where once there was simple, chipper conversation. I understand-- cancer is a difficult ordeal-- but I’m still me. Nothing has changed except that now you know what I’ve been through.

I don’t think telling someone I’ve been in remission for 3 years helps them understand me any more than they already would have. I’m the same loud, vivacious, energetic, talkative, 21-year-old. I’m still a pun-enthusiast. I’m still an English major who loves being an English major. I’m still me. Just because you’ve reached a Level 5 friendship and have unlocked my Tragic Backstory^TM doesn’t mean it changes anything. You simply know of something that happened to me, something I had to endure.

That look, the “Oh-my-god-I’m-so-sorry!” look that so many people have to deal with (and roll their eyes and scoff at) on a regular basis, that is why I Relay.

I’ve been attending the Relay for Life in my hometown since June of 2014, a mere 4 months after my final chemotherapy. I didn’t participate much. I did the Survivor lap, my Mom joined me for the Caregiver lap, and I went around gathering up a couple of free-for-Survivors goodies. I also signed Christine, the pale pink firetruck in honor of breast cancer (pictured). I had a good time, but I didn’t do a whole lot. The year after, 2015, I did about the same thing. I walked a little more, I gathered a few more goodies, and I went home.

It wasn’t until last year, at Relay for Life 2016, that I really, truly participated. It was the first year I wasn’t alone. My Aunt Deb, a recent breast cancer survivor herself and the widow of a cancer patient, walked the Survivor lap with me. My Mom and Dad walked the caregiver lap with us. Then, when my dad went to do yard work and my mom headed off to her Saturday personal training, Aunt Deb stayed. We walked for a while, then she had to go.

I kept walking, gathering another bead for my lanyard each lap I walked. As I continued around the track I saw the tent for American Sikhs For The Cure, my neighbors’ team. Susie, the matriarch of their household, told me that however many laps I walked, she would match it. I took this as a challenge. Soon, I had walked 9, then 18, and suddenly I had managed 40 laps around the quarter-mile track. Susie had cut off her match at 8 miles, but I hadn’t wanted to stop. A total of 10 miles, I’d walked. 40 beads, 30 purple, 10 white (my mile markers) were strung on the lanyard around my neck. That lanyard currently hangs around the rear-view mirror of my car, reminding me of what I can accomplish. But soon it will be replaced with another.

On June 24^th, 2017, the day I wrote this, we had the most recent Relay for Life in my hometown. Last year I felt so proud and so excited about how many miles I’d walked that I had made a vow to myself: every year, I would walk more than the year before. This year, I had set my goal for 15 miles, and this year, I came prepared. I brought a cooler filled with water bottles, half frozen, half refrigerated, to share with my team. I wore my favorite yoga pants, so I would be able to stay positive and cool all day. I made sure my phone was fully charged and left my battery pack at home to charge before I left. I was ready.

At 9am, the Opening Ceremony began. A few Survivors gave prepared speeches; then, as the registered Survivors were making their way to the starting line, I spotted my Aunt Deb. We began our Survivor lap together when suddenly the announcer asked the caregivers to join us. My mom in her flouncy sunhat caught up to us, my dad, carrying my purse yet still somehow managing to look uber-masculine, followed shortly behind. We walked our lap; my dad left for yard work, my mom and Aunt Deb to the gym, and I was left to begin my 15 miles.

I walked continuously, though not always around the track. I picked up beads in rainbow colors when I finished a lap, complete with white mile markers, and grabbed the Survivor goodies when I could. I texted my boyfriend, who was moving out of our apartment to go home to SoCal for the rest of the summer, and told him to drive safe. I sent him all the pictures.

All. The. Pictures.

Soon, I had finished 7 miles, and I was starting to get hungry.

My mom, who usually winds up being my errand-runner during the Relay, brought me my fully-charged battery pack, a hair tie, and a tea/lemonade concoction, as well as my lunch, around 2:00 in the afternoon. Looking back, it was the only time I actually sat down at all during the Relay. I meandered through the Multipurpose Room of the middle school where the Relay took place. Inside, they had two long tables with goodies, baskets, and other such awesomeness for the silent auction. I wrote my bid on a couple items, then meandered back onto the track.

By mile nine, I didn’t think I was going to make it. I thought for sure that I would die before I was able to complete even 10 miles, let alone 15, but I pushed through. At mile 12, I made the executive decision that, while I would walk 15 miles, I would run one final mile. I made this choice for a few reasons. As you can see above, my lanyard was made up of a red-orange-yellow-white-green-blue-purple-white pattern. In order to complete a rainbow, I needed to finish two more miles. This meant that my mild obsessive-compulsive tendencies would only be satisfied by an even number of miles. So, as there was no way I’d let myself go fewer than 15 miles, I decided to go 16. The reason I chose to run was for two reasons, the first being that it was faster. The second reason was that I had told my parents and my boyfriend my goal of walking 15 miles, and I was going to do exactly that.

But I had never said how many I would run.

9 hours after first arriving at the Relay for Life 2017, I finished the final lap of my 16^th mile at 6:07 PM. I made my way back to my belongings, gathered them up and made my way back to my car. I was terrified that if I sat down, I wouldn’t be able to get back up, let alone want to.

I walked 15 miles, I ran 1 mile, and I accomplished in total, with the walks to and from the Multipurpose Room, a total of 19 miles in that one day. I’m invariably proud of this feat.

You see, I’ve never felt the need to be anyone different than who I am just because someone doesn’t like me. But when every single person looks at you the exact same way when you tell them a fact about yourself, you start learning to hide it. The Relay for Life is a place where I can proudly wear my Survivor t-shirt and, rather than feeling like an extraneous entity, I feel understood. Nobody gives you the “Oh-my-god-I’m-so-sorry!” look at Relay. Nobody thinks you’re special or someone to be pitied at Relay. At Relay, being a cancer patient/survivor is normal, and I feel normal when I’m there.

Relay for Life may have its own issues, as may the American Cancer Society, but I don’t care about that. I don’t Relay for them. I Relay for every person who has ever felt pitied, or felt like they brought down the mood of a conversation by mentioning their cancer. I Relay for those who Survived, and for those who did not-- may they rest in peace. But mostly, I Relay because it is the only place that anyone, man, woman, or child, any race, any age, any religion, can come together to feel normal, to fight for a cure, and to be recognized for this thing they had to go through, without feeling pitied or sad.

I went through 8 bottles of water, 9 hours, 16 miles, and 64 beads on my lanyard because I believe so wholeheartedly that the Relay for Life is an amazing thing.

Next year, I’m going to walk 20 miles. Just you try to stop me.