In March 2013, I lost my maternal grandmother to Alzheimer’s.
Four years later, my mother-in-law Nancy began showing signs of memory loss and was eventually diagnosed with Vascular Dementia.
Then in July 2023, my mother Sue was diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia.
Three women who helped shape my life have faced — or are facing — diseases that slowly steal memories, personalities, and independence.
Those who have walked this road understand why dementia is often called “the long goodbye.”
You watch someone you’ve shared a lifetime of moments with slowly become someone you no longer recognize — and yet you love them just the same. It is heartbreaking in ways words never fully capture.
Over the last 13 years, caregiving has changed how I see life.
I’ve learned that things don’t matter — experiences and the people who create them do.
In December 2024, I had a wild idea: train for my first 5K.
I ran it on January 25, 2025 — my parents’ 56th wedding anniversary.
As a lifelong non-athlete, finishing that race changed me.
I didn’t just finish — I found something I needed. Running.
Since then, I’ve run nearly every week, completed my first 10K, and now I’m training for my first half marathon on April 26, 2026 in the Maui Half Marathon.
Running has become therapy — physically, mentally, and emotionally.
Every mile is a way to honor these women, care for my own health, and fight for a future where families don’t have to watch the people they love disappear.
I’m running to help end Alzheimer’s and dementia.
Your support helps fund research, care, and hope for families walking this path right now.
A future without Alzheimer’s is possible.
Let’s get there together — one mile at a time.
Mahalo from me to you.
Tribute Updates
The Race That Was Never Just About Running
July 25, 2026. 2:29:29 finish time. I completed the Volcano's 'Ohi'a Lehua Run.
I can now officially say I am part of the roughly 2% of people in the United States who have completed a half marathon in their lifetime.
With a 57-degree start, rain falling from the moment the race began until I crossed the finish line, and rolling hills that never seemed to end, I reached one of the biggest milestones of my life. But this race was never just about running 13.1 miles.
It was about love.
It was about loss.
And it was about honoring three incredible women who have shaped my life in different ways.
After losing my mom this past April to Lewy Body Dementia, my determination to complete my first half marathon grew even stronger.
But she wasn't the only one I carried with me.
I also ran in honor of my late grandmother, who lost her battle to Alzheimer's disease in 2013, and my mother-in-law, Nancy, who continues her journey with Vascular Dementia. Three women. Three different stories. One disease that has forever changed our family.
Around mile six, something happened that I'll never forget.
A beautiful rainbow appeared across the Hawaiian sky.
Maybe it was simply the perfect combination of sunshine and rain. Or maybe it was exactly what my heart needed in that moment. I'd like to believe it was my mom reminding me she was there. Smiling. Cheering me on. Telling me to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
So I did.
Every hill.
Every puddle.
When I finally crossed the finish line in 2:29:29, I was overwhelmed with emotion. There were tears, hugs, gratitude, and an incredible sense of accomplishment. Not because of the time on the clock, but because I had kept a promise to myself—and to the women who inspired every mile.
After I crossed the finish line, I held up a small astronaut and took a picture.
If you know me, you know exactly why.
My husband Darren has jokingly called my running journey "Space Camp" from the very beginning. If you don't know the reference, it's from the show "The Big Bang Theory". After Howard Walowitz goes to space, he comes back and never stops talking about being an astronaut. This is me with running. I talk about it. Non-stop. The astronaut has become a symbol of this adventure—of chasing goals that once felt impossible and discovering that we're capable of so much more than we believe.
This race reminded me that grief and joy can exist at the same time. That our loved ones never really stop shaping us. And that sometimes the best way to honor someone is simply to keep living boldly in their memory.
This medal will always remind me of 13.1 miles.
But more importantly, it will remind me of three extraordinary women whose love carried me much farther than my legs ever could.
This one was for you, Mom.
And for everyone whose life has been touched by dementia: I see you. Never stop fighting. Not until we find a cure.
A Beautiful Goodbye, A Faithful Finish
This is not the follow-up post I had planned to share with you all, but in its own way, it feels just as beautiful.
On the morning of April 13th, my mom left this life to begin her eternal one.
She had taken a steep decline in the three weeks prior while my husband and I were in Hawaii. I stayed in close contact with my dad and hospice, praying for some level of improvement, while also quietly preparing myself for the possibility that there was a greater plan unfolding.
When I received word that we were getting close, I made a quick departure from Kona to Dallas. Before leaving, I knew that running the April 26th half marathon in Maui would no longer be possible. So I made a quick decision to honor my mom in a way I knew that I could.
I ran a personal 10K by the ocean and dedicated all 6.2 miles to her.
Less than two weeks prior to this, my husband and I had both been recovering from COVID, so physically I was still rebuilding. And yet, I ran some of my best splits from my many months of training. I’d like to believe my mom was with me—running every step.
When I arrived at her memory care facility on the morning of April 13th, my dad had spent the night by her bedside. Around 7:40 a.m., I walked over to her, placed my hand on her arm, and told her I was there, that I loved her.
I pulled a small Bluetooth speaker from my bag and began playing quiet hymns. My dad and I sat nearby, sharing breakfast and conversation. But as the minutes passed, something in the room shifted.
I could feel it. Her presence was beginning to slip away.
The music stopped playing, and when I tried to reconnect it, even the Bluetooth option had disappeared from my phone. I stood beside her, noticing her breaths slowing, and I knew it was time.
I placed my hand over her heart, told her I loved her one last time, and gave her permission to go.
She took her final breath and passed so peacefully at 8:20 a.m.
It was so clear to both my dad and I that she had waited—for the right moment, the right time—for us to be there with her, alone. In my heart, I believe she needed the assurance, the permission, to know we would be okay without her.
My faith has carried me through some of the darkest days of my mom’s dementia journey. And it has also carried me through some of the most beautiful ones.
Monday, the 13th, was one of those beautiful days. It was also her late father's birthday, and her late father in law's birthday. How profound.
Even in the sadness, the grief, and the loss, I knew she was finally free.
Yes, I still plan to run a half marathon in honor of my mom, my grandmother, and my mother-in-law. I’m already looking for the right opportunity before the end of the year.
But for now, I believe I can say this:
I helped my mom finish her race… in a deeply personal way… just days before she left this life.
Cheers, Mom.
Every mile has always been for you.
And every mile ahead will be yours, too.
