Despite me wishing I was writing this under different circumstances, my mission to run this fall's 2025 NYC marathon hits as close to home as it could've this year. It's been 3 years since I've run an organized competitive race (and a casual 9 years since my last NYC Marathon, but who's counting?!?), and with uncommon determination this time around, I'll be running as a tribute to my first born son, Henry, who my husband Todd and I had to unexpectedly say goodbye to 3 months ago on June 23rd, a mere 3 days after he was born on the 20th. Henry's preventable passing was and remains nothing short of a tragedy, and as a result, my goal over the remaining few months of training & in completing this year's marathon is to honor him in the most meaningful ways that we know how, by doing the things that we anticipated doing with him in the 9 months we spent preparing for his arrival. Running is at the forefront of my hobbies, if and when I have the time & an event to train for, and even though we didn't get the opportunity to support Henry in his individual athletic pursuits or to watch him grow into an athlete of his own (the jury was out on whether he would be a rower/swimmer like his father or a runner/soccer player like his mother), I find solace in knowing that every stride I take in preparation for and during this year's 26.2 miles, will be for him.

My reason for and choice to run with the American Heart Association this year is simple: while my own heart is fractured from this experience, Henry's heart and heartbeat, from his very first sonogram in late October of 2024 until our very last of him on June 20th 2025, was ironically unwavering, consistent and strong throughout the entirety of his life, both in and outside of the womb. And while by all definitions his heart was perfectly healthy, I've learned through joining AHA's foundation that a staggering 116 million Americans and 46% of US adults are estimated to have hypertension or some sort of Cardiovascular Heart Disease - a statistic that's forecasted to rise to 130 million people by the year 2035. Since AHA's inception in 1924, deaths from cardiovascular diseases have been cut in half - in addition to the foundation's many other achievements, some of which include:

• 19 million high blood pressure patients helped YoY
• $6 billion invested in pioneering research leading to lifesaving breakthroughs
• 22 million people trained in CPR every year

Heart health, in its most literal sense, is mission critical to every human being, and I'm humbled for the opportunity to fund and raise awareness around its importance as I honor the strength and consistency of my own baby boy's heart for the 9 months I carried him. If you're willing and able to donate, please know that your contribution, no matter the size, helps the American Heart Association continue its work every year - and every dollar, no matter how few or many, makes a difference.

To my little man Henry: I've written, erased, and re-written my message to you here half a dozen times now - and I find myself falling into the cliché that is the struggle to find the right words to express how much I miss your company and think about you every day. I'll forever mourn the many things I looked so forward to doing with you - from listening to your first cry, to watching you take your first steps and witnessing which sports you would gravitate towards as you grew, to the many sunny days I'd get to hold you as my Gemini baby this summer. In an ironic twist of fate, I owe you the ultimate thank you for just how much you carried me over the 9 months we had together - you were my consolation on the overwhelming days of planning for motherhood, in the periods of time I questioned my ability to show up with a full tank of energy, in my lowest moments of optimism. I'm proud of you for fighting, like I knew you would, to breathe on your own and until you couldn't any longer. You were my soldier and I'm grateful for every kick and roll I felt from you as you signaled the strong and capable boy that I knew you would grow to be.

I hope to make you proud for the rest of my days on this side. This one's for you, my boy. Until we meet again.