English Channel (June 21-30, 2026)
Catalina Channel (planned September 2026)
The swim itself has been years in the making.
I started endurance sports after a life-changing illness and hospitalization in 2023. I was not fearless after that experience. If anything, I became more aware of how fragile life and the body can be. But I also realized I had come very close to dying without ever truly going after the things I had always wanted.
Swimming has always been the thing I came back to. As a kid, I read Swimming to Antarctica and loved the way she talked about swimming. It was like she understood me, and that book became my comfort. When I stopped college swimming, I knew I was not done being a swimmer. I wanted more from the sport, but for years I let fear convince me I was not strong enough, brave enough, or capable enough to chase the bigger dreams that stayed quietly in the back of my mind.
Getting sick changed the way I understood those limits. At first, endurance sports were a way to rebuild my health and trust my body again. Then they became a way to stop waiting. I ran my first marathon, moved into triathlon, found my way back to swimming, and eventually let myself say the thing out loud: the English Channel was my Everest. It was the dream I had been too scared to chase, and now it is a challenge I am deeply grateful to be healthy enough to attempt.
Along the way, I’ve spent countless hours training in pools, lakes, rivers, and the ocean, preparing for the physical and mental challenge of crossing one of the world’s most iconic stretches of water.
As my English Channel window approached, I found myself doing my first intentional night swim.
It was Memorial Day weekend in Connecticut. The goal was simple: experience swimming in the dark before the Channel so the first time would not be during the actual crossing.
I was nervous all day.
The weather had been questionable all week, but we found a calm evening with cold salt water and a beautiful sunset. Once I got in, the sun disappeared, the water turned black, and my mind immediately started working against me.
My shoulder still hurt.
What if it doesn’t recover in time?
What was that shadow?
I’m a mile from shore.
Why do I do this to myself?
For the first twenty minutes, I was swimming physically forward while mentally spiraling.
About twenty minutes into the swim, my crew stopped me for a feed and a check-in. They listened to my concerns, reassured me, and helped me refocus.
Later, when I stopped to clear my goggles, one of my kayakers told me to look up.
I thought I was in trouble.
Instead, she said:
“Look at the sky. Not everyone gets to do this.”
That moment changed everything. They gave me the pep talk I needed to change my perspective.
I stopped thinking only about everything that could go wrong, and I started thinking about the people who had helped me get to that moment.
One of those people was my sister.
My sister lives with ankylosing spondylitis (AS), a chronic inflammatory disease that causes pain, fatigue, inflammation, and progressive damage to the spine and joints.
Her symptoms began with severe swelling in her lower extremities, pain, and mobility limitations that made walking difficult during flare-ups. After months of unsuccessful treatment attempts, including physical therapy, she was referred to the only in-network rheumatologist available to her in Alaska. Due to specialist wait times, it took several more months before she was finally seen and diagnosed with AS. Testing confirmed the genetic marker associated with the disease, and treatment began immediately.
Since then, she has undergone multiple immunosuppressive and biologic treatments, several of which failed to control disease progression. She is currently on her fifth medication while continuing to manage chronic pain, mobility limitations caused by fusion in her spine and hips, and vision complications resulting from recurrent iritis attacks.
During severe flare-ups, the pain and stiffness became so debilitating that she often did not feel safe driving. While treatment has helped reduce the severity of her flare-ups, AS remains a daily part of her life. Because of mobility limitations related to AS symptoms and fusion in the base of her spine, neck, and hips, she is no longer able to work in the field she loves.
Just days before that night swim, she joined me for a training swim in Alaska. Getting to the lake required a long drive and a hike over uneven footing, steep stairs, and muskeg.
What I remember most wasn’t the hike.
It was seeing her happy.
She had energy.
She was smiling.
She looked like herself.
After years of watching AS take things from her, the overwhelming feeling wasn’t pride.
It was relief.
Relief that she felt well enough to be there.
Relief that she wanted to be there.
Relief that, for that moment, AS wasn’t winning.
As I floated in the dark water that night, I realized something.
I was worried about a challenge I had chosen.
One of the people supporting me has spent years facing a challenge she never chose.
That shifted my focus.
I stopped thinking only about my swim and started thinking about the people who keep going when nobody sees the effort.
People living with chronic illness.
People living with invisible illness.
People showing up despite pain, fatigue, uncertainty, setbacks, and challenges they never asked for.
That’s where “For Those Who Keep Going” comes from.
The English Channel is my challenge.
This fundraiser is for the people facing theirs every day.
More than anything, I hope this fundraiser raises awareness. I hope it helps people understand that some battles are not obvious from the outside. Some people are working incredibly hard just to keep showing up, keep moving, keep participating in their lives, and keep holding on to the parts of themselves that illness has tried to take away.
Some of the strongest people I know are not swimming across channels.
They’re the people who keep
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