This November, I’ll walk in my fourth 3-Day Breast Cancer Walk. It has been almost eight years since I first started walking—and we still haven’t found a cure. In that time, nearly 800,000 more women and men have been diagnosed, and almost 130,000 lives have been lost.

Breast cancer touches everyone I know. A family member, a friend, a colleague, a client, a high school classmate, a college friend, a mother, an aunt, a grandmother, a sister, a wife, a daughter, a friend’s spouse, your child’s teacher—and yes, men too. Life starts to feel like a game of musical chairs, and you’re just hoping to be the one left standing.

Over the years I’ve watched many friends hear the words “you have breast cancer,” and each time, I’m afraid. I know they are strong and loved, I know they’ll fight, and I know that one day they’ll look back at months of treatment as a blur—but the innocence of their lives is still taken. There is always a “before” and an “after.”

Twice a year, I feel that fear myself. My lifetime risk is 34% because of my family history and other factors. “Enhanced surveillance” is my reality, so I rotate between a mammogram and an MRI every six months. Each time I enter the MRI machine, my throat tightens and my stomach knots. Then I shake myself—this fear is nothing compared with what so many others face. How many more will have their lives upended? How many more will get a phone call that changes everything and forces them into a club no one wants to join?

They are my why.

I walk because breast cancer is woven through my family—my mother, her sister, and their mother all had it.

I walk for my sisters and cousins who share the same risk and who miss both of our moms.

I walk to celebrate Charlotte, Shannon, and Carol—your strength inspires me.

I walk in honor of Debbie, who fought hard and is deeply missed.

I walk for Suzanne’s two daughters, both fighting breast cancer.

I walk for my sister-in-law’s mother, who died too soon.

I walk for my former manager’s wife, who passed away and left young children behind.

I walk for Mrs. Abrams, one of my mother’s best friends, who I loved—and who taught us how to make the world’s best mac and cheese.

I walk for my sister’s friends.

I walk for my coworkers who are fighting while still showing up every day.

I walk for my clients and carry them with me.

I walk for the woman I have not yet met—or may never meet.

I walk because I can, and because others can’t.

I walk because I want a future where our daughters, nieces, friends, and loved ones never have to walk this journey at all.