6 minutes of readingIt was my 18-mile run, the longest distance I had completed so far during my New York City Marathon training, when I felt anxiety creeping into my ankles. Central Park was full of life and happiness, but I was suddenly acutely aware of every mile, every pain, and every vulnerability that I couldn’t outrun. “I could stop right now,” I thought.
A year earlier, I was on active treatment for breast cancer at 32 years old. I had undergone chemotherapy, a mastectomy, and reconstruction, and I was still learning to recognize my new body. Now I was preparing to run 26.2 miles, completely topless, with my scars visible.
But I overcame my fear: that’s exactly why I chose to come forward in the first place. Not because I’ve overcome everything or have nothing left to hide, but because I’m learning to show myself as I am: uncomfortable, imperfect and always moving. I’m running like this in hopes that my story can help save another woman’s life. If seeing me and learning about my journey helps her express herself or examine her own breast cancer risk, that race becomes bigger than me.
In 2023, I left my career as a wealth management associate at Merrill Lynch to raise my son. Six short months after my resignation, everything changed.
I found a lump. My gynecologist told me I was too young to have a mammogram. An ultrasound came back benign. It was a third doctor, a breast surgeon, who finally took me seriously and sent me for a mammogram, a biopsy and an MRI. She saved my life.
I was leaving the gym on a regular Thursday when the call came. I had breast cancer in both breasts: stage 2 triple-negative cancer on one side and stage 1 ER/PR-positive cancer on the other.
The world went blurry and every sound was muffled. Was I dying? My son only had one. I couldn’t leave him without a mother, and my husband without his partner. I had so much more life to live and so much more to do. How had the first two dates missed this?
My husband, Elio, and I assembled my care team at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center, and together we developed a plan: chemotherapy, immunotherapy and surgeries. Every decision I made along the way helped me feel a little more in control.
One of the hardest parts of treatment was realizing how much my body had changed. When I finally had my mastectomy, I prepared myself to be horrified when the bandages came off. I shed a tear. It struck me that things would never be the same again and that a part of my body that I had linked to my femininity and sexuality had been changed forever. I was faced with a choice that no woman should have to make. For me, it was that or face my mortality.
But the moment that still touches me is not the one in front of the mirror. It was the afternoon my son, then two years old, saw my chest.
“Mom, do you have a boo-boo?” He asked. “Are you hurt? Do you need to go to the hosminal?”
I had tried to keep my son from knowing what I was going through: no two-year-old should have to learn about cancer before learning the alphabet. But he could still tell that something was wrong. I was proud of his sympathy and conscientiousness, but at the same time I was heartbroken, he remarked. I was afraid to tell him about my cancer diagnosis, especially given my BRCA diagnosis and the uncertainty of whether I had passed it on to him.
Later, while changing in a gym locker room for the first time since surgery, I flinched, covering my chest as I took off my sports bra. I would never have done this before cancer. Was I ashamed of the scars? Nervous about looking different? Probably a bit of both. I gave myself grace for this knee-jerk reaction, but I also promised myself to no longer let shame determine how I felt about my body. My scars are proof that I lived. They represent tenacity, resilience and courage – traits I want my son to have and how I want him to remember me.
During treatment, I set a goal to run my first half marathon a few months after my mastectomy. It kept me focused and gave me something to look forward to, something beyond appointments, medications, and the uncertainty of treatment. Crossing the finish line felt powerful. I thought about all the work I had put in to get there and the many workouts I had chosen to show up to each day.
But soon after, I was disappointed to learn that I would have to continue oral chemotherapy to reduce the risk of recurrence. This pushed back my recovery time and meant I had to wait longer for my reconstructive surgeries. So I set another goal: If I could run 13.1 miles, I could run 26.2 the following year, when I was done with treatments and surgeries.
I decided I would also run topless, exposing exactly what I had sworn I would never hide. No shirt, no bra. To prevent chafing and provide makeshift support, I plan to use a special style adhesive tape offered by NOOD.
I would do this for women who might have questions for their doctor, who feel like something is wrong but continue to downplay their concerns. And I would do it for the other survivors too. I hope that by seeing me run, they will also feel more comfortable in their bodies, scars and all.
I set my sights on the New York City Marathon, running with Fred’s team, charity partner of Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. I even created a subteamTeam Laklaknamed after the beauty brand I co-founded during my cancer journey, offering scientific makeup but still full of color and fun. I am proud that we have raised $45,000 so far for the hospital that saved my life. It feels like it has come full circle that the beauty company I dreamed of while sitting in treatment chairs there can now give back to other women in this way.
I’m not the first woman to run a marathon topless, but I will be the first in New York. In 2024, Louise Boucher also ran the London Marathon, showing scars from her mastectomy and flat closure reconstruction for similar reasons. I chose to rebuild with implants – and I don’t know if people will find my race more taboo or sexualized because of it. They shouldn’t. Louise and I faced the same illness and underwent similar treatments.
On November 1, I will finish my 26.2 miles in Central Park, the same park where I once thought, “I could stop now.”
My story is about more than learning to embrace my body after cancer. It’s also about what can happen when women are fired, when they question their instincts, or when they think they’re too young to take a risk.
Breast cancer does not discriminate by age. Approximately one in eight women in the United States will be diagnosed during their lifetime, and a diagnosis can occur well before the age that many women associate with routine screening. I was lucky to find a breast surgeon who listened to me and did more thorough testing, but not all women know what questions to ask or who to turn to when something is wrong. A risk of breast cancer An assessment tool can be a good starting point. Although it cannot diagnose cancer or replace a doctor’s medical advice, it can help women better understand their personal risk and discuss whether further evaluation or screening is appropriate.
Whether we’re battling cancer or chasing the finish line of a marathon, we will all have times when we want to stop. We may not feel fearless or ready. We may not know exactly what comes next. But we can take the next step, ask the next question, and learn to trust ourselves along the way.
I run topless because I don’t want to hide my scars anymore. I run because I am still here and because I can. But mostly, I do this in the hopes that another woman feels a little more empowered to take charge of her own story.
Lauren Spiezia is a breast cancer survivor, BRCA2 mutation carrier and founder of Laklak Beauty, a clean cosmetics brand built from her experience as an oncology patient. More on laklakbeauty.com/run.
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