Four years ago, my sister found out there was going to be a 5K race near her home in Illinois that was raising money to go toward multiple myeloma research. My whole family showed up to participate.

I’d walked a few 5Ks, and while I always made an effort to exercise regularly – usually walking a few miles on a treadmill or going to a strength-training class at the gym – I hadn’t run a single step since eighth-grade gym class.

Walking was permitted in this race, of course, but I was determined not to walk this one. I knew I was probably one of the few myeloma patients participating, and I was healthy enough to run. So, I wanted to run, dang it. This race was important to me.

I was scared. It seemed impossible. Running was simply not my thing. I was a chubby kid who got straight C’s in gym class all through school. I was always picked last for teams. I never played any sports.

I became more active when I was in my 20s, but running? That would never be for me.

But I ran this race. Slowly. I walked a few times when I got tired.  My husband, a marathon runner, greatly reduced his normal running pace and jogged next to me and offered words of encouragement. As I ran across the finish line, I thought I was going to collapse or throw up or both. Fortunately, I didn’t do either. I had conquered 3.1 miles. I felt triumphant.

That race – a race I ran only because I have multiple myeloma – sparked my love for running.

I ran a few more 5Ks in the next couple of years, and soon I was able to get through them without stopping to walk. Still, I figured I would never run any further than a 5K. Anything longer than that seemed physically impossible.

Until I ran my first 10K in 2011.

‘But this is as far as I’m going to go,’ I thought. I knew anything farther than 6.2 miles would be physically impossible.

Until I ran my first half marathon in the fall of 2012.

After my second half marathon last spring, I knew nothing was impossible anymore and that I had to go for it.

On October 19, I ran 26.2 miles and crossed the finish line of the Kansas City Marathon. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life, but also one of the best things. As I write this, my legs are aching and I can’t climb stairs without wanting to cry, but I would do it all over again.

My eighth-grade gym teacher had a saying: “You don’t have to; you get to.” He was a very strict man, who scared the living daylights out of me, and he would usually yell this at us while we were running laps or doing a zillion pushups. At the time, I thought he was just trying to torture us; it took me almost 25 years to figure out what he meant.

I didn’t have to start running after my myeloma diagnosis, but I’m lucky that I got to.

I’m not the best runner or the fastest runner, but running makes me feel more powerful than the cancer. Even though some cells in my bone marrow betrayed me, the rest of me is strong.

I used to view exercise as a chore, but now I know it’s a gift. As a myeloma patient, I know that gift can be taken away at any time. Right now, I’m incredibly lucky that I’m healthy enough to run a marathon, my myeloma has not become aggressive, and Revlimid ^[1] (lenalidomide) continues to keep it at bay.

As long as I am able, I am going to keep on running. I don’t have to; I get to.