It was my freshman year of high school.

Like everyone, I had big dreams. Well, mine were destroyed in a matter of months, and I had no control over it.

Some people believe in miracles, and some people think certain events happen only by coincidence. I believe in miracles, and that my life is a living miracle.

I grew up in a running family where my mother ran marathons and my father competed at West Point for cross-country and track. Running has always held a special place in my heart, and I thought it defined who I was. I even had the opportunity to compete in the Junior Olympics the summer before everything went downhill.

It was a chilly evening and I had track practice. I had 200 meters left on my 1500 meter repeats. My heart was pounding. I was so close to being done with the workout. Then, everything went blurry and my legs turned to jello. I woke up in the hospital.

Two months later, we still had no answers. After months and months of blood tests, labs, MRIs, and visiting more than 10 doctors, they told me there was nothing wrong with me. In fact, the doctors said to just take Ibuprofen for the pain. With how persistent my mother is, she continued to find new doctors who might be able to help me. At this point, I could barely even walk without pain.

Miracle number one then happened. My physical therapist, who also happened to be a family friend, sent me straight to Oregon Health and Sciences University after working on me for only five minutes. OHSU is the only hospital in the world that could have discovered what was happening to me. Miracle number two — strangely enough, we had just moved to Oregon and were originally supposed to be stationed in Germany instead. We moved to the only state that could cure me. The long two-hour MRI was the most nerve wracking test, and I was terrified as my surgeon looked at the results.

“You have an extremely rare arachnoid tumor on your spine. The surgery is risky and the only other woman who had this surgery done, died on the table. However, if you don’t remove it, you will be paralyzed by next month.”

Either option left me with not being able to run anymore. The race was finished. My dreams were shattered. I broke down sobbing in the middle of my surgeon’s office.

“Mom, I can’t get this surgery. I won’t make it out, there’s no possible way.”

I had lost all faith that I could ever finish the race. Everything that had ever made me happy was taken away from me. My mom saw it in a positive light and made me get the surgery. I still said goodbye to my whole family, thinking I would never make it out. The last thing I remember is the smell of my mom’s perfume and the sight of my twin with tears streaming down his face.

I woke up in my hospital bed, alive. Miracle number three. The doctors have no idea how I made it through, as the tumor was bigger than they previously thought. My vertebrae were now metal, and my body was no longer my own. My scar was so horrendous to look at. I hated myself.

Four months not being able to walk, four months not being able to even use the bathroom. The nurses pitied me; they brought in a new therapy dog every day and talked to me like I was a 10-year-old. I didn’t even recognize myself in the mirror. I bawled my eyes out every single night, while my parents slept soundly on the couch next to my hospital bed. All I wanted was to feel normal again, and to run again. There was a little boy in the room next to me — leukemia — and he was a ray of sunshine every morning. I needed him, but I didn’t know it. In my fifth month, my nurses tried to get me to walk. I couldn’t even get out of bed.

“McKenna, you’re doing so good. You have made so much progress already.”

No, I haven’t. If I can’t even walk, how will I ever run again?

The little boy ran up behind me. “Kenna, it’s okay to not be strong,” he exclaimed. He was six.

Running to the finish line was not something I ever envisioned for myself after this surgery. Every time I got close to the end of the race, I would collapse all over again, just like the day I found out. It has now been three years since the day I got surgery. The end of the race still isn’t even in sight, but I can run toward it now. The pain I feel, the constant check ups to see if the tumor is back, the never-ending lab results that never look good — it all holds me back from the finish line. My faith in miracles hasn’t changed. I believe my life is a miracle.

Some people don’t believe in miracles. Not explicable by scientific laws, a miracle is considered to be a surprising event and therefore is considered to be the work of a divine agency. There was absolutely no medical way that I could have made it. The doctors have no idea how I can run. They have no idea how I am so content through the pain I endure on a daily basis. Living in chronic pain often always leads to depression — but not when you have faith in a higher power. My faith in God got me through the hardest trials of my life.

While miracles might seem made up to some, it has defined my life. I was even born three months early — with the tumor. I had this tumor on my spine for more than 16 years, and it’s just a coincidence that we found it a MONTH before it could have killed me? We happened to live in the one state with a hospital that has experienced this type of tumor before — when just weeks before, my dad decided to not go to Iraq again, leading us to retire in Oregon. I was on the path to run in college, to run professionally like my dad. Just like in a marathon, there are aid stations along the way: OHSU was my aid station to get me to the finish line.While I’m nowhere close to being completely healed, I know I will continue to see miracles and I can now help others who are running to the finish line.