I train for the LLS because it's personal for us, and the longer I'm involved, the more patients and survivors I meet, which only makes it more personal. I also respect the LLS as an organization. Here are the 30 facts they released (one a day) in September for Blood Cancer Awareness Month.

1 - For over 60 years LLS has invested more than $875 million in developing better cancer treatments.

2 - In 2012, 300 LLS-supported research projects represented a total commitment of nearly $236 million around the world.

3 - Last year alone, LLS invested over $68 million in cutting-edge research.

4 - LLS annually reviews about 700 proposals for new research funding through a highly competitive vetting process.

5 - Last year overall LLS funded 280 research grants and 20 research partnerships.

6 - Since the early 1960s, the survival rate for many blood cancer patients in North America has double, tripled, or even quadrupled.

7 - In 1964 a child's chance of surviving ALL, the most common form of childhood leukemia, was 3%. Today about 90% of children survive.

8 - Hodgkin Lymphoma patient survival rates have more than doubled to 86% since the 1960s.

9 - The survival rate for myeloma patients more than tripled in the past decade.

10 - Nearly half of all cancer drugs newly approved by the FDA since 2000 were first developed for blood cancer patients.

11 - Recent studies show that more than 90% of newly diagnosed early stage chronic myeloid leukemia patients can expect to survive long-term.

12 - Critical cancer treatment innovations such as multi-drug chemotherapy and stem-cell transplantation started with blood cancer therapies.

13 - LLS helped advance Gleevec for patients with a specific form of leukemia; it is also now used to treat patients with rare types of stomach and skin cancers and showing promise against other cancers too.

14 - LLS helped advance Velcade for myeloma and lymphoma patients; it is being tested for patients with cancers as diverse as lung, brain, breast, colon and prostate cancers.

15 - LLS partners directly with leading biotechnology companies to more quickly develop the next round of potential blood cancer therapies.

16 - In the last reported year, over 251,000 individuals participated in LLS national telephone or web education programs.

17 - In 2012, a record-breaking 7,763 customized clinical trial searches were conducted using LLS resources.

18 - In 2012, LLS's co-pay assistance program provided more than $44.2 million helping almost 14,000 patients.

19 - LLS provided direct financial aid to 30,603 patients in 2012.

20 - 1,077,533 educational materials were distributed by LLS in 2012.

21 - In 2012, more than 12,100 individuals attended family support groups offered by LLS across the US and Canada.

22 - LLS collaborations brought programs to 23,153 cancer patients from underrepresented populations across North America.

23 - LLS helps patients every day including community-based education programs for 43,282 patients and caregivers last year.

24 - Last year LLS advocacy pushed legislation in 10 states to provide equitable insurance coverage of orally-administered cancer treatments.

25 - In 2012, LLS advocacy pushed federal legislation that can accelerate FDA drug approvals and address drug shortage issues.

26 - LLS's Team in Training continues to be the industry leader in charity endurance training programs, with well over half a million participants trained to date.

27 - To date, LLS's Team in Training has remarkably raised more than $1.32 billion to support blood cancer research and patient services.

28 - In 2012, LLS's Light The Night Walks raised over $51 million.

29 - Last year kids in LLS's School & Youth Programs raised a record-breaking $29 million to fund blood cancer research.

30 - In our last reported year, 78.1% of monies raised by LLS went to research, patient and community services, advocacy, and education.

It’s been a long time since I posted anything. I’m sure no one but me noticed my radio silence, but to me that silence was deafening because I knew that silence was fear.

Shortly after my last post I suffered a hip flexor/groin injury. Even worse, I injured myself while teaching someone how to aqua jog (or “pool run”). For those who don’t know, aqua jogging is a no impact form of running in the deep end of a swimming pool – exactly the kind of thing you do to keep up your training despite an injury that would otherwise ground you. Except, since I got hurt while in the pool (undoubtedly due to some pre-existing tightness or weakness or overuse), I really was grounded for a month while I recovered (and stretched and iced and did some targeted strength training). When I was able to run again, the team was running eight miles and climbing, and I was starting at three. My stamina was mostly gone. My confidence was totally gone. I had a long, tearful conversation with Javier in which he assured me that we still had time … that I would regain what I had lost and I would have plenty of time to catch up to where I needed to be. With his reassurance, I officially registered for the full marathon, even confidently stating on the form that I wouldn’t need extra time to complete the race.

Little did I suspect that just a few weeks later a cold I picked up while on vacation would turn into bronchitis. The antibiotics helped immensely, but the first run back, I found myself out of breath before I reached the top of the hill (the first of two times I’d climb it). I’d planned to run 12 miles (the Team was running 16) and instead I barely got through 11. I also developed a new pain in my left arch that limited my walking the remainder of that day and the next week. Did I mention the popping sensation in my Achilles tendons? It was back to ice and rest and hunting down recommendations for a podiatrist. Fortunately, he was confident that with additional stretching, new insoles, heel lifts, and strategic rest, I could finish my race.

My chest, my groin, and now my feet all hurt, but what was really hurting was my mental state. I had started this training season doing everything right: getting in all my midweek runs, strength training twice a week, foam rolling nearly daily to protect my problematic iliotibial (IT) bands, running my long runs at conversational pace. Now I was getting alarmingly close to my race and everything had fallen apart. I would compose entries for this site in my head to talk about scheduling mission moments for each practice or about the spirit of the Team or even just the basic mechanics of using a foam roller to prevent injury. But once I was actually in front of a computer, I didn’t want to write anything here because that would mean confronting the giant cloud of doubt that was growing larger each day. Anyone who has trained for an endurance event knows how important it is to protect your confidence. One of the truest things I was ever taught (and have repeated ad infinitum) is that everyone has a bad run; good runners just forget them more quickly. You have to know how to minimize pain, but you also have to trick yourself to run through it on the days you just aren’t feeling quite right. I could still make myself run, but there was a nagging voice growing louder in the back of my head.

I finally vocalized my fear in an email to a former coach (when scheduling a mission moment – I really should tell you about those one of these days). Tears streamed down my face as I typed the words, “This has been a rough training season for me because of injury and illness, so I'm having a hard time staying out of my head about what my goals were early on. Now I just hope I can finish my race.” What I meant was, “I’m scared I won’t finish.” I take my responsibility to run these races very seriously. I could train on my own, but I choose to run them with Team in Training. I choose to ask you for your hard earned money in exchange for my time and effort. I know most of you would donate regardless, because The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society is an important organization doing good work, but I really have felt like I am letting down the donors listed on the right hand side of this page and the blood cancer patients and survivors who depend on LLS for support, co-pay assistance, educational materials, and research funding for more effective treatments. (It turns out I’m pretty good at putting pressure on myself.) My coach replied, in part, “You will finish cause you have a big heart!” He has no idea what those words meant to me.

Three weeks before race day, right on schedule, I ran 20 miles with the Team. It was an ugly run. Three miles into it, I was in my head and melted down on the side of the road. Four miles in, I was able to refocus. Eleven miles in my legs started to feel really heavy. With five or so miles left, I had to change my pace and my intervals pretty severely because my left knee felt like it was going to explode. It took me way too long to finish, but I did. As I sat in my recovery ice bath post-run, I realized that there was a perfectly logical explanation: that my legs hadn’t yet recovered from my 17 mile run less than a week before. Since that moment, it has been a constant battle to keep myself focused on that explanation and not on everything that went wrong.

I am doing my best to forget that bad run. I am doing my best to focus on the part where I did 20 miles and 20 miles is the longest I ever run before a full marathon. I’m icing and stretching and taking time for my knee to recover fully before the race. And I am doing my very best to believe that even though I’m held together these days with what seems to be string and paper clips, I also have a big enough heart to get me through 26.2 miles on October 14. Sure, this isn’t ideal race preparation, but as long as I throw fear out the window, string, paper clips, the names I carry on my back, and sheer force of will should be enough to get me across the finish line.

It’s been a tough few weeks in the Burnson/Rivera household, with Javier having all four of his wisdom teeth extracted, our refrigerator deciding that was the perfect time to break, and Javi learning with his longer and harder than expected recovery from surgery that sometimes the thirties are not the new twenties. We’ve also had a few family issues arise—things that need longer term care and attention to remedy but that tend to creep up in the middle of the day or late at night to poke you in the side and say, “Hey! I’m still here, so think about me a little bit more, even though you’re trying to do that other thing right now.” Did I mention Javier also just changed jobs? So it’s been a little bit of putting out fires (or cleaning up cartons worth of melted ice cream) and a little bit of in-depth strategizing and a lot of remembering to breathe.

It turns out breathing has been something of a challenge for me as I get back into running. When I first started out again and was finding myself gasping for breath, I assumed that was just because I was out of shape. In retrospect, I was probably right. After a few weeks of running, my legs felt stronger and I wanted to run faster, so when I started getting a stitch in my side, I assumed my lungs were just a week or so behind my legs, but they’d catch up any minute. It was definitely either that or I was going out too fast, but I was pretty sure it was the lung thing. It wasn’t the lung thing. That first time, it might have been that I was going out too fast, which I’ve been known to do on occasion especially if I’m in need of a good therapeutic run (see, tough few weeks, above), but the side stitch keeps happening, weeks later, even if I’m running at a comfortable pace.

I know now that it’s my breathing. The other evening I noticed that even though my breathing was regular, it was shallow and a little bit more hurried than it should be. The side stitch—the more times I type that, the cuter it sounds; let me assure you that it is not cute but painful, and I call it a “stitch” instead of an “ache” or “cramp” merely to try to convince myself that it doesn’t hurt when I’m trying to run through it—started to develop pretty quickly after I made that observation. So I really focused on getting my breath not only even (in for 2-3 steps, out for 2-3 steps) but just a little bit deeper, on pulling the air down into my lungs and even into my belly instead of leaving it there at the top of my chest and in my throat. The ache (now that we’re being honest) started to dissipate. For the next ten to fifteen minutes I continued to really pay close attention to my breath, and I ran without pain. It was fantastic. It was so fantastic that my mind wandered to something fascinating or stupid or somewhere in between and suddenly, there it was again: my right side felt like I was being knifed (or what I assume that might feel like). I was still breathing in for two steps and out for two, but my breath was back at the top of my chest.

For a few minutes I felt absolutely defeated. I’d gone out for a thirty minute run through our neighborhood, and I couldn’t make it without this agonizing pain that I’ve been battling for nearly two months ruining even that short outing. Twice! How was I going to keep adding distance on our Team long runs on Saturday mornings? Last Saturday I made it through six miles at our fourth practice, but how I was I going to handle the coming increases to eight or twelve or more! And then I stopped myself. Literally. Physically. I stopped on the sidewalk. My mind was spiraling out of control, and my breathing was only getting worse. The only good thing about this terrible pain was that I had the tools to stop it. After a minute or two, I started running again, and this time, I paid close attention not only to my breath but also to my form. The last seven minutes of my run were the easiest precisely because I wasn’t doing anything out of habit. I was running a constant checklist through my mind about every part of my body; I was noticing every breath. It took more mental energy than I’m used to but a lot less physical energy. It was the perfect reminder that sometimes when things are challenging, it’s because we’ve been doing them the hard way.

I’ve never had breathing issues before, but I know how to get past them. I just have to focus. Over the next few weeks, during both my shorter midweek runs and my long runs with the Team, I need to pay close attention to my breath. While I’m at it, hopefully I can create good running habits in terms of my form and foot turnover as well. It’s my fifth time training for a full marathon with Team in Training, and I’m going back to basics. One foot in front of the other. Breathe in. Breathe out.

The night before the Boston marathon this year, our friend Gretchen posted a picture of her race jersey on Facebook with the following caption: “This is all the inspiration I'll need for tomorrow, my heroes and angels will push me through to the finish!” On the back of her jersey were the names of her honored teammates – blood cancer patients and survivors that the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society had invited to be part of the Boston Team in Training program – as well as other names that she had added. We knew at least two of the names: Javier’s mother and my cousin, Emma. The rest were mostly strangers to us, but we knew that they meant the world to someone, and that they would indeed help Gretchen run 26.2 miles into the city of Boston in 88 degree heat, the same way that they had helped her train in the Boston winters.

Carrying the names of loved ones is a Team in Training tradition. Sometimes it’s just one line – “For Mom” or “For You” or “Love you Dad” – and sometimes it’s what looks like at least one hundred tiny ribbons fluttering in the breeze, each with a name. When you go to enough events with a lot of Team in Training participants, you never really get used to seeing the names, but you become accustomed to the tradition. During really rough moments on a course, you might even seek out some inspiration from the names or stories someone else is carrying.

When I ran the Mayor’s Marathon in Alaska, there were not many Team in Training participants (not surprising, since there were not many runners at all) so the telltale purple jerseys were sometimes few and far between. At one point, though there were at least ten other runners around me, none of them were from Team in Training. A young woman caught up to me and said, “I’ve been staring at your back for a while now. Do you really know that many people with cancer?” I told her that the answer was more complicated than either yes or no. I knew a lot of the people, yes. And the ones I didn’t know personally were people who were the mothers or fathers, aunts or uncles, grandparents, or friends of my friends and family. I told her that when I started training, I knew one person with one type of lymphoma, and now I knew or knew of dozens of people with many different kinds of blood cancers (or other cancers), only some of whose names were on my back. I told her that the names were there to remind me why I was running and to remind them that I was fighting with them. After a while we separated, but simply talking to her about the people I was running for made the next ten miles or so left in the race mean that much more.

It has been an honor and a privilege to carry the names of your loved ones on my back in prior races, and I will be continuing that tradition in October. It is a small gesture, yet simultaneously a powerful reminder of why we all fight. Please, whether or not you make a donation, let me know if you would like me to run in someone’s honor or memory. It means so much to me to be able to do so, and I hope it means something to you as well.

Whenever Javier and I talk to people about training, it seems inevitable that someone will share that they could never do what we do because they hate running. It seems to be a common idea: that you are a runner or not, that you love it or hate it. We have friends who are, under this theory or any other, true runners: they were born to run. They get anxious if they have to go a day without running, and they almost seem happiest the days they can get two runs in. We are not those people. When we first started dating back in October of 2004, Javi really did swear that he would only ever run on the basketball court or if he was being chased. I was content to run three or four miles two or three times a week – just enough to clear my head and get a little bit of exercise – but if I went a few weeks (or months) without running, it wasn’t that unusual.

When Javier started training with Team in Training in January 2007, it was the first time in his life that he was running with any regularity. Those early runs, even for just thirty minutes, when he was running for two minutes and walking for a minute, were excruciating at times. I’m not sharing this to be mean or judgmental, but to be honest. When he started running that January, I was also coming off of a few months of not running with any regularity. During his mid-week runs, I was often struggling alongside him. I’m sure we were not a pretty picture on the streets of Beverly Hills, which seemed to be full of especially fit runners. But he kept at it. And on the weekends he trained with the Team on long, slow, distance runs. Soon, while I could again run three or four miles without stopping, he could run ten or twelve miles. He began to refer to running as his therapy, both for the physical benefits of the exercise, but also for the time it gave him to clear his head and to be around people who were training with the same goal. By race day, he was able to run 26.2 miles. Now he’s completed six half-marathons, eight full marathons, and has become a head coach for Team in Training marathon teams. (He’s also done three triathlons, a century ride, and completed a season with the hike team.)

I do not know if Javier considers himself a runner. I do know that about two months ago, I was asked if I am a runner. In perhaps typical fashion, I hedged my answer. I explained that I have trained and completed two marathons, that I’ve run marathon distances while mentoring other people on two other occasions, but that I’m not someone who needs to run, so I don’t often run with any regularity if I’m not training. The woman I was talking to looked at me incredulously. She told me I am definitely a runner. I didn’t believe her. I see runners all the time in Los Angeles. They look graceful and relaxed. They might be working hard, but they don’t seem overtired or too taxed. They are faster than I am. Even when I’m in training mode, I only feel that way some of the time.

But here’s what I do know: I get out there. I tie up my shoes, and I put one foot in front of the other. For now, while I’m getting my running legs (and lungs) back, I don’t go very far. I’m not gonna lie. It’s pretty ugly some days. But I get out there regularly. And it’s already getting better. The other day, I ran three miles, and I felt like I could keep going. Seeing as the week before, I wasn’t sure I was ever going to properly breathe again (and might have announced that I was dying when I walked in the door), that’s definite improvement. Right now, it’s about building a base, not about distance. It’s about consistently getting outside and hitting the pavement. And in a few weeks when I meet the rest of the Team for this season, I’ll be ready to help them build their base, and then we’ll all be ready to go the distance. Runners or not.