Jaana Jokinen

THE DAY AFTER

We made it to November! And I know some of you will be happy about that — it means you’ll see a little less of me on Facebook, hahaa! No more daily updates. 

My extra 92 kilometres walked in October might be nothing compared to those who run marathons, but for me, it was still a real challenge. Getting out of the house every single day for a 2 to 5 km walk taught me discipline and tested my determination more than once.

But the biggest lesson wasn’t about fitness — it was about compassion. I’ve seen how deeply people care about cancer research, how many lives have been touched by this cruel disease, and how genuinely people want to help if they can.

I feel so touched by the love and support from my family and friends as I’ve shared my personal cancer journey. Because of your kindness, I’m thrilled to be able to donate $1,655.73 to the Cancer Council for cancer research! 

The donation page will stay open for another week or two, so if you’ve been meaning to contribute but haven’t yet, there’s still time. It would be wonderful to reach an even $1,700!

To my 27 sponsors — a HUGE heartfelt thank you!! 

A special mention to Peter’s work colleagues — some I’ve never even met — and to those who supported me from overseas, from the US and from Finland, who joined me on this journey from afar (and didn’t even get a tax deduction!). Your kindness travelled far and meant so much.

Everyone's support has meant the world to me. Each donation made me smile, or moved me to tears — sometimes both. Together, we’ve made a difference.

Cancer research is such a worthwhile cause — one that touches hearts and unites communities. Because hope is stronger than fear, and compassion can truly change the world. 

For those we’ve lost, for those still fighting, and for the hope of a tomorrow free from this cruel disease.

DAY THIRTY-ONE

Yesterday I journeyed from Wodonga back home, stopping in Yarck for my daily breast cancer walk. I was delighted to discover that so many country towns hold their own breast cancer awareness and support events — from Pink Tradies to local community fundraisers. Benalla had just hosted a wonderful event this month focused on breast cancer prevention, early detection, and support, while the Pink Ladies of Warrandyte continue to do incredible work spreading awareness and encouragement.

I’ve now reached my goal of walking 90 extra kilometres in October — so today’s steps will just be the cherry on top. I’m proud to say I walked every single day this month, not missing even one.

When I arrived back in town, I joined my son and daughter-in-law for a pink morning tea — strawberry shakes and raspberry treats shared with smiles and laughter. It felt like the perfect way to celebrate the end of a meaningful month.

Later, when I checked my Cancer Council fundraising board, I was stunned — and then overwhelmed with emotion. One of my friends had made a generous donation. I sat there for a moment, speechless, my eyes filling with tears. The kindness, the belief, the support — it all touched me so deeply. Every donation lights another spark of hope. This one caught me unexpectedly and filled my heart with deep gratitude. 

That gift has now lifted my total to $1,656, placing me 54th out of 6,793 participants — firmly in the top 1%!

To my beautiful family and friends: thank you. You have helped me raise funds for cancer research that will change lives, bring hope, and create tomorrows for so many. This has been an incredible journey — every step, every message, every act of kindness has meant the world. 

DAY THIRTY

Yesterday I drove from Canberra to Wodonga — slowly making my way back home, still trying to process all I heard and experienced at the Head to the Hill event. My heart goes out to every person whose life has been touched by brain cancer and by breast cancer.

I feel so grateful to have played even a small role in raising funds for breast cancer research, and equally privileged to stand as an advocate for brain tumour awareness and research.

On my way from Canberra, I stopped in Gundagai, NSW, for my daily half-hour breast cancer walk. I loved wandering its quiet streets, discovering a little more about this fascinating Australian country town. I found out that Gundagai had hosted a community event just last weekend — a morning tea in the gardens to recognise Breast Cancer Awareness Month. This year’s theme was “Every Story is Unique, Every Journey Matters.”

That phrase stayed with me. It inspired me to hold a little pink morning tea of my own — more on that tomorrow.

When I logged my kilometres from Gundagai last night, I discovered that one of my friends had made a donation. Each time a new one comes through, I feel a wave of emotion — gratitude, joy, and hope all at once. Every donation, big or small, reminds me that people care. They believe, as I do, that together we can make a difference. Another dear friend sent a message saying she couldn’t donate right now but wanted me to know she supported what I’m doing. Her words meant just as much.

These donations aren’t just numbers on a screen — they’re acts of love. They fund the research that gives someone another day, another chance, another tomorrow. They help doctors and scientists find new treatments, improve survival rates, and give families more time with the people they love. Every dollar raised brings us closer to breakthroughs that save lives — and that’s something worth walking for, worth believing in.

Yesterday’s donation brought my total to $1,497, placing me 67th out of 6,793 participants. I’m humbled beyond words and reminded that kindness, in all its forms — whether through giving, encouragement, or simply showing up — truly matters.

As I drove through the rolling hills, I realised this journey is about far more than kilometres walked or dollars raised. It’s about connection — the invisible thread that links every person who gives, every story shared, every step taken in hope. Each act of kindness, each message of support, becomes part of a collective heartbeat that refuses to give up. And maybe that’s what truly matters: knowing that when we walk with compassion, we don’t just move forward — we help the world heal, one step at a time.

DAY TWENTY-NINE

Yesterday’s Head to the Hill with Brain Tumour Alliance Australia was one of the most powerful, confronting experiences of my life.

The courtyard of Canberra’s Parliament House was filled with shoes — each pair representing someone affected by a brain tumour. It was a sea of stories, heartbreak, courage, and love.

But what broke me were the little shoes. Tiny sneakers and sparkly sandals belonging to children whose lives were cut short by brain cancer. Hearing their stories was almost unbearable.

Among the rows of shoes, I found mine — and my story. The moment I did, I couldn’t speak. My chest tightened, and tears came before I could stop them. My shoes sat beside those of a beautiful little girl named Zoe, who had loved unicorns, butterflies, rainbows, and dancing. She lost her battle at just five years old.

I have a four-year-old granddaughter who loves rainbows too, and in that moment, Zoe wasn’t a stranger. I could see her twirling, laughing, living her little dreams — and I could feel the unimaginable pain her family must still carry. Even now, as I write this, I can barely find the keyboard through my tears.

We heard story after story of loss and courage — each one leaving the audience in tears. I pray that the politicians listening would truly hear us, feel the weight of our stories, and respond with urgency. Brain tumour research and treatment need more funding — desperately.

By the afternoon, I felt utterly drained yet deeply certain that I had been exactly where I was meant to be. I’d travelled 1,400 kilometres to stand there — and I would do it again in a heartbeat. Later, I walked another three kilometres through Canberra’s quiet streets, trying to process it all.

When I logged my kilometres that evening, I discovered that my dear friend from Finland had made a donation. I cried again — happy tears this time. My fundraising total has now reached $1,464, placing me 69th out of 6,793 participants — in the top 1% walking for breast cancer research.

How it touches me that my family and friends have stood beside me in this. Every step, every donation, every message of support reminds me that compassion moves mountains.

As Professor Richard Scolyer reminded us yesterday, cancer research does make a difference — incredible advances are being made every year. My prayer now is that the same hope and progress will soon reach those fighting brain tumours.

Later that night, as I watched the evening news, I found myself there — walking the courtyard of Parliament House. Seeing it on the screen deeply impacted me: the shoes, the stories, the faces, and seeing myself walking there through an outsider’s eyes. In that moment, I understood that the shoes represented so much more. They symbolised every step we take together for causes that truly matter.

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT

Yesterday was a big day — both emotionally and physically — but I still managed to do my 2.6 km walk here in Canberra. To my delight, I received another donation — this time from an anonymous supporter. It was such an exciting and wonderful surprise!

I’m now 74th out of 6,794 people walking for breast cancer, having raised $1,405 so far. Every step, every message, and every donation continues to lift me up — thank you all for your constant encouragement and support.

Last night, my heart was touched in a very powerful way. It’s impossible not to be moved when you meet people from the brain tumour community — each person carries a story that lingers long after the conversation ends. I wasn’t the only one who had travelled far to be here. People had come from all over Australia — in fact, only one person I met was local to Canberra!

I met a young father who should have his whole life ahead of him, yet has been told he only has months to live. I met families who have lost partners, fathers, brothers, and sons. And I met a survivor who underwent brain tumour surgery ten years ago — each story different, each life profoundly changed.

Personally, I was grateful to be connected to a familial brain tumour study, since in my case, my brain (and spinal) tumours are hereditary. It gives me hope knowing that important research is happening in this space.

I also met an inspiring young man who had recently lost his brother to brain cancer. He has raised thousands of dollars for Peter Mac by running half marathons. I thanked him for his incredible efforts and shared my own breast cancer walk story. My efforts felt small compared to his, and I felt humbled — two very different journeys, yet the same spirit of determination and hope binding us together.

In moments like these, you realise that courage takes many forms — a step, a story, a conversation. When we share our experiences, we shine light into each other’s darkness and remind one another that even in the hardest battles, no one walks alone.

Now I’m looking forward to today at Parliament House — a day of connection, awareness, and advocacy. It’s going to be an inspiring day ahead. I believe the politicians we meet today would have to be truly hardened not to be deeply affected by the firsthand stories they’ll hear. I’m hoping — and praying — for change. The brain tumour community deserves to be heard.

DAY TWENTY-SEVEN

Yesterday I set off on my drive to Canberra for the Head to the Hill event — a special gathering happening this evening and during the day tomorrow at Parliament House as part of International Brain Tumour Awareness Week. I’m genuinely excited about this opportunity to meet others in the brain tumour community and to speak directly with politicians and senators about the urgent need for funding and research for this important cause.

I made it to Albury last night, and this morning I’m continuing my journey to Canberra. Along the way, I came across some perfectly pink kangaroos — clearly showing their support for breast cancer awareness! I couldn’t resist a photo; after all, it seems even the kangaroos know that pink rules October. 

This also marks the final week of my Breast Cancer Walk Challenge, and I’m proud to say I’ve walked 80 kilometres so far out of my 90-kilometre goal — and, more importantly, I’ve walked every single day this month. Not one day off! Yesterday I clocked 3 kilometres around Albury before settling in for the night.

To my delight, as I entered my progress for the day, I discovered that one of my dear friends had made a donation. These gestures always lift my spirits so much — I truly feel every one of my 23 friends and family members who’ve donated walking beside me in encouragement. I picture your faces, read your names on my fundraising page, and smile with gratitude.

Right now, I’m 80th out of 6,795 participants, having raised $1,337, placing me in the top 2% of all walkers — and that’s entirely thanks to your incredible generosity.

Every dollar, every step, every message of support reminds me that together, we’re stronger — not just in raising funds, but in raising hope. This journey has shown me that determination grows lighter when shared, and that small daily efforts — one walk, one conversation, one donation at a time — can create ripples of real change. 

DAY TWENTY-SIX

What has life taught me?
What has cancer taught me?
What have the difficult seasons of my life shown me that calm days never could?

It has taught me that strength doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it’s the quiet voice that whispers, just one more day, one more step, one more breath.

It has taught me that courage and vulnerability can hold hands. That it’s possible to be afraid and brave at the same time. That true strength is not about never falling — it’s about rising again, even when everything hurts.

It has taught me to slow down. To find beauty in the small, ordinary moments — the warmth of tea in my hands, the kindness in a nurse’s eyes, the sound of birds arguing at sunrise. Those simple moments became anchors in the storm.

It has taught me patience — that healing has its own rhythm, and that the body and the spirit both need time to trust life again.

It has taught me gratitude — for science, for love, for faith, for family, for the neurosurgeons and specialist breast surgeons who dedicate their lives to helping people like me, and for all those who walked beside me when I couldn’t stand on my own. For laughter that returned softly through tears, and for the steady hands that reached out in kindness when I was at my weakest.

And it has deepened my gratitude for God — for His gentle care, for the way He carried me when I couldn’t take another step, and for the quiet reassurance that I was never alone, even in the darkest hours.

Life can be hard, unpredictable, and sometimes painfully fragile — yet it remains incredibly precious. Every sunrise, every heartbeat, every shared smile is a reminder that beauty still exists, even in the broken places.

I’ve learned that it’s not about avoiding the storms, but about learning to notice the light that follows them.
And that light — that grace — makes every breath a gift worth cherishing.

DAY TWENTY-FIVE

Last night, dusk had already settled by the time I finally laced up my shoes. The day had been one of those whirlwind ones — full of good intentions but not a minute to spare. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to squeeze in my walk.

Then evening came, and my Finnish sisu spoke up: “It’s summer-time! It’s still light out there — go on, woman, you’ve got this!” So out I went. And I’m so glad I did.

The air was soft and still, except for the delicious smell of a sausage sizzle drifting somewhere nearby. But peace and quiet? Not quite. The local bird choir had gathered — and they were lively! Every one of them seemed to have a story to tell, and none of them were willing to take turns. I swear they were having the avian equivalent of a family reunion — the feathered version of my aunties at a midsummer gathering.

As I walked, the sun dipped lower, painting the horizon in layers of pink, gold, and lilac. It was one of those breathtaking endings that make you pause mid-step. By the time I got home, I’d added another 3.2 kilometres to my walking total — and my heart felt lighter.

A beautiful way to end a busy day — with sisu, laughter, and a sky full of colour (and chatter).

DAY TWENTY-FOUR

Yesterday’s weather was simply too beautiful to stay indoors. The sun had that soft golden warmth that makes you want to stretch your legs and breathe in the world. So I did — adding another 3 km to my walking total. After the drenching rain of the day before, the sunshine felt like a gift, and I didn’t take it for granted. Funny how that works, isn’t it? We rarely appreciate something fully until it’s been taken from us.

As I walked, I found myself thinking about people — the ones who’ve weathered storms and still smile, without taking things for granted. There’s a different kind of grace in those who’ve suffered and lost, yet somehow remain kind and hopeful. I’m drawn to those people. They speak from a place of brokenness, but without bitterness. I always hope a little of their light rubs off on me.

And speaking of not taking things for granted… walking itself is one of those miracles we often overlook — until we lose it. Four years ago, after my spinal cord tumour surgery, I had to learn to walk all over again. It took six long months — each small step its own victory. That experience taught me to treasure even the simplest movement; to never take for granted the feeling of your feet beneath you.

That’s why this walking challenge means so much to me. It’s more than just kilometres or steps — it’s a celebration of recovery, of resilience, and of causes that matter deeply. Having faced both breast cancer and the loss of mobility, I walk with purpose — and with gratitude.

Yesterday, I painted my nails pink with a dusting of grey sparkle: pink for breast cancer awareness, and grey for brain tumour awareness — my double mission this month. These causes matter, because the people behind them matter.

My daughter and son-in-law surprised me with a donation, and my smile matched the brightness of the day! I’m currently 81st out of 6,792 people walking this challenge, with $1,304 raised personally — and together we’ve raised an incredible $838,051 so far — and those numbers make my heart soar. Like the others, I’m walking wearing pink. I look ahead and see 80 people in front of me. I turn around, and there are 6,711 walking behind me — a sea of pink! What an image.

Every step feels like a thank you — to my sponsors, and for health, love, and second chances.

DAY TWENTY-THREE

I may have spoken about Finnish sisu a little too soon. At least, that’s what I thought when I woke up yesterday to the sound of steady rain tapping against the windows. It’s easy to be positive when the sun is shining and the birds are singing. But when you pull back the curtains and see nothing but grey skies and endless rain… well, that’s a whole different story.

My Finnish sisu hadn’t truly been tested yet.

So, naturally, I did what anyone would do — I sent a message to my friend in Florida, hoping for a bit of sympathy. Instead, she replied with her familiar heavy Southern accent and pure, unapologetic tough love:

“Pull on your purty peachy pink raincoat, grab your fancy pink Marimekko umbrella, and get out there!”

No sympathy. None whatsoever. Just a nudge — or maybe a push — toward the door.

So out I went.

The rain came down harder than I expected, and soon my shoes were making that unmistakable squelch with every step. Within minutes I was soaked through — or as we Finns say, I was like an uitettu rotta — a drowned rat. My raincoat clung to me like a second skin, the water trickling down my sleeves in tiny cold rivers, but somehow it washed away the last bits of hesitation.

Something shifted in my thinking.

I was actually enjoying this. It was… refreshing.

The air smelled clean and alive, our neighbourhood seemed softer somehow, and it looked like I was the only one foolish — or brave — enough to be walking out there. So peaceful. Well, almost.

Because just ahead of me was the baby magpie I’d seen the other day, marching behind its poor mother, squawking relentlessly for food. She looked utterly exhausted, darting about to find worms while her little one kept up its noisy demands. I couldn’t help but laugh. Some mums never get a break — not even in the rain.

Somewhere between puddles and laughter, I found myself asking: When was the last time I chose to walk in the rain? Not because I had to, but because I wanted to. It had been far too long.

My pink walk in the rain turned out to be one of the most memorable walks so far — soaked, smiling, and reminded that sisu doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it just quietly puts one soggy foot in front of the other.

Later that day, my heart was warmed again — this time by kindness. Another donation came in, on this occasion from one of my brothers. I’m not sure which meant more: the donation itself, or the message that came with it —

“I’m so proud of you, Jaana.”

With tears in my eyes, I celebrated not just the growing total — now $1,254 — or my 86th place among 6,790 walkers, but the love and encouragement that keeps me moving forward.

Because sometimes, all we need is a friend to tell us to grab our pink raincoat — and a reminder that even on the rainiest days, we’re never really walking alone.

DAY TWENTY-TWO

Yesterday I added another 3.7 km to my total, out there once again surrounded by the magnificent birdlife that always lifts my spirits. I love watching the colourful birds flitting about — rosellas, lorikeets, galahs — each one a little brushstroke in nature’s painting.

But it’s the magpie families that really steal the show. The babies make me laugh every single time! They trail behind their mothers, squawking endlessly in that unmistakable “feed me now!” tone. It’s chaos in grey feathers — loud, dramatic, and utterly adorable.

The poor magpie mums do their best, darting about the grass in a frantic hunt for worms and insects while their little ones complain at full volume. You can almost hear them sigh: “I’m coming, I’m coming — patience, please!”

As I walked on, listening to their noisy chorus, I couldn’t help but smile. Nature has such a sense of humour — and sometimes, the funniest stories have wings.

DAY TWENTY-ONE

October has been a month of walking for breast cancer — and for me, it’s also a month of driving for brain tumours. This coming Sunday, the 26th, marks the start of International Brain Tumour Awareness Week, and on Tuesday, the 27th, Parliament House in Canberra will host Head to the Hill 2025 — an advocacy event raising awareness about the impact of brain tumours and giving a voice to the brain tumour community. I will be there.

I’ll have the opportunity to meet and speak with politicians, to share my story, and to help strengthen the voice for those affected. It’s such an important chance to connect and stand alongside others who are working for change. Change begins with awareness — and awareness grows when we speak, share, and stand together.

The event is supported by the Brain Tumour Alliance Australia (BTAA), an organisation that offers care and advocacy for anyone affected by a brain tumour — whether it’s a primary tumour or a metastatic one that has spread from cancer. Their work helps ensure that no one walks this journey alone.

Not only do I have personal experience with brain and spinal tumours, but I also know that between 10 and 16% of breast cancer patients with advanced disease will face brain metastases — when their cancer spreads to the brain. For me, these two causes are deeply connected. Having faced both breast cancer and brain tumours, supporting these causes feels deeply personal — woven together by experience and compassion. They are part of the same journey of awareness and advocacy — two threads of my story that meet in one heartfelt purpose: to bring hope, understanding, and change.

Yesterday, I managed to walk another 3 kilometres, adding to my October challenge — each step reminding me why this work matters. What begins as a walk, a drive, or a shared story can ripple out in ways we may never see. And if our steps, our voices, and our actions can help even one person feel supported, understood, or given a little more time — then it’s all been worth it. 

DAY TWENTY

After a day that felt like I was dragging my feet, I woke early yesterday morning, determined to finish this race well. The world was still quiet as I walked another 3.1 kilometres — just me, the soft light of dawn, and the steady rhythm of my footsteps. Peter joined me for part of the way, and we walked side by side through the calm morning, sharing the kind of quiet that doesn’t need many words.

Reaching my original goal of 58 kilometres filled me with quiet pride, but instead of stopping there, I decided to set a new one — 90 extra kilometres for October. These are the moments when I recognise my Finnish sisu — that deep inner strength and determination that refuses to give up, even when the body or mind begins to tire.

Sisu isn’t loud or showy. It’s a quiet, steady courage that lives somewhere deep inside — the strength to take one more step when you feel like stopping, to keep believing when the path feels long. It’s something I feel in my bones, inherited from generations who faced life’s hardships - far greater challenges than a walking goal - with grit, faith, and grace.

As I made my way along the park footpath, I noticed a small shape ahead. From a distance, it looked like a leaf caught in the breeze, but as I came closer, I realised it was a tiny baby Noisy Miner bird. Its mother hovered nearby, chirping and flapping anxiously, trying to protect her little one. Just before I reached them, the baby gathered all its courage - its inner sisu - and took a short, wobbly flight to the safety of the grass. On my way back, it was still there — small, still, and safe under its mother’s watchful eye.

There was something quietly profound in that moment — a reminder of how strength can appear even in fragility, and how love and persistence go hand in hand. That tiny bird’s trembling flight felt a little like my own life journey — uncertain at times, but still moving forward, still finding courage in each small step.

As we finished our walk, I thought about how often courage looks like this — not grand or heroic, but steady and faithful. Some days it’s found in walking through weariness, and other days in simply showing up.

DAY NINETEEN

Right about now is when I start to run out of steam. I feel like I’ve been running a marathon that lasts the whole month of October.

Some years ago, we travelled north to watch my younger brother run a marathon. He’s run many over the years, but we’ve only been to one. I remember finding it such an incredible experience. I had tears in my eyes — not only for my brother but for all those strangers running beside him. I couldn’t believe how encouraging the crowd was, standing along the roadside, shouting words of hope and strength. It was as if they gave the runners their power through their encouragement.

What amazed me was how every single runner who finished was received like the winner — whether they came in first or last. Every one of them was cheered for, celebrated, and embraced for simply finishing.

Over time, I’ve come to understand that life itself is much like a marathon. It’s not about competing or winning — it’s about enduring and finishing. The race, I’ve discovered, isn’t a sprint; it’s a steady, sometimes staggering journey. What matters most is that we keep going.

It doesn’t matter whether I run, jog, or eventually drag my tired, aching body across the finish line — the point is to finish, to get there without giving up. I’m learning that whenever I think I can’t go another inch, there’s always a support team beside me — ready to catch me when my knees buckle.

There are encouragers all along the way — people who have already run their own races, now cheering from the sidelines. At every bend in the track, they’re there, calling out, “Yes! Yes, you can! You can make it!”

I’m sure if you asked my brother, he’d tell you there’s always a low point in every marathon — a moment when your strength fades, your energy dips, and you feel ready to give up. That’s the moment when encouragement matters most.

That’s where I am right now. Eighteen days done, thirteen to go. I’m needing encouragement right now, so that I can find the strength to keep going. Yesterday I walked my shortest distance yet — exactly two kilometres — but I’m still grateful I made it out there at all. Because sometimes, that’s what endurance looks like: showing up when you’d rather stay still.

Each step might be slower now, but every one still counts. I remind myself that strength isn’t in how fast I move, but in not giving up. And just like my brother out there on his marathon course, I’ll keep going — one step, one breath, one prayer at a time — until I cross that finish line. 

Because what keeps me going is the memory of the runners reaching it — one by one they arrived, rejoicing, and the crowd rejoiced with them. And I can’t help but think that’s how it will be one day, when time is no more and we have run our race — a glorious homecoming, overflowing with joy, love, and everlasting celebration. 

DAY EIGHTEEN

Yesterday, my WALK for Breast Cancer became deeply personal — almost sacred. I was invited to walk around the very same lake where I lived the year I went through breast cancer. As we circled the lake twice, memories I hadn’t visited in years came flooding back.

There I was, walking with beloved family members — ones I would never have met otherwise, both of them so loved by me. That thought alone took my breath away.

I remembered the morning of my surgery so vividly. A dear friend had given me a delicate china teacup and saucer, and I’d saved them especially for that day — a small act of beauty and comfort before facing the unknown. I’d been told I could have a cup of tea and a piece of toast if I woke early enough, so that’s exactly what I did. I sipped from that pretty cup, letting it calm me, and then I went for a quiet walk around the lake.

My mind was full that morning — fear, hope, love, and prayer all mingling together. I asked God for peace and strength for what lay ahead. I thought of my beautiful children — my youngest only 14 at the time — and my little blue-eyed, blonde-haired, mischievous grandson, just two and a half. I wanted to live. Oh, how I wanted to live!

Just a week before, a professor had told me I might not survive this cancer. Those words hit hard. I remember begging God to spare my life — to let me stay with my family a little longer.

And now, fifteen years later, I walked around that same lake, watching two black swans tenderly caring for their four fluffy grey babies. The sight brought tears to my eyes. I chatted and laughed with my loved ones, and inside I whispered a quiet prayer of thanks — God heard me.

I’m here. I’ve had the privilege of watching my children and grandchildren grow, of living more life than I once dared hope for. I’m so aware that many others don’t get that chance, and that thought humbles me deeply.

If yesterday’s walk didn’t motivate me to keep going in this challenge, then nothing ever will. Every step has been worth it — a walk of gratitude, compassion, and remembrance.

And later in the evening, my daughter dropped in with beautiful flowers. I smiled through tears. How loved I am.

DAY SEVENTEEN

Yesterday was the hottest day of spring here in Victoria so far, reaching 30.1 degrees in Melbourne — the first time we’ve felt that kind of warmth since April! It’s been a dry spell too, and the first half of October has been no exception. 

The good thing about all this dry weather is that it’s made my challenge walks much easier to enjoy outdoors. Yesterday, though, I made sure to head out early before the heat set in. I added another 2.8 kilometres to my total during my early morning walk — which means 50 done and just 8 to go!

You know what they say about the early bird catching the worm — well, that was me yesterday morning! And speaking of birds and worms, the parks were full of mother birds feeding their hungry babies. Their demanding cries made me laugh out loud. What mother doesn’t recognise that tone of voice?

Then came a rather remarkable little moment. As I was walking along the path, a baby magpie was following its mother across — and I happened to walk right between them, separating the two. Every Australian knows how fierce magpies can be when protecting their young, yet this mother didn’t swoop or panic. She simply kept a gentle eye on her chick, both of them just a metre away on either side of me.

I couldn’t help but think that I’ve walked this same path enough times that these wise magpies might actually recognise me. It felt like a small honour, as if I’d been accepted into their safe little world.

To top off an already delightful day, I received another donation from a friend — bringing my total to $1,195 raised so far and placing me at position 82 out of 6,778 participants in the challenge! I now have 20 friends and family members cheering me on from the sidelines — along with magpie mum and baby, of course.

DAY SIXTEEN

Yesterday, I made it outdoors again and added another 2.7 km to my challenge total — every step filled with purpose. As I walked, my mind wandered back to a sea of pink.

Here in Melbourne, every four years, thousands gather at the MCG for “Stand With Me at the ‘G”, part of the Breast Cancer Network Australia’s Field of Women event. Together, we form the shape of the iconic Pink Lady — a powerful image representing the 18,235 Australians diagnosed with breast cancer each year.

Standing there, surrounded by thousands in pink ponchos, is something words can barely describe. It’s raw and real — emotional yet empowering — a moment where strength and vulnerability stand side by side.

Since my diagnosis, I’ve been part of this four times now. Each time, my son has stood beside me. Last time, my daughter-in-law joined us too. When they ask all the survivors to raise their hands, I lift mine with tears in my eyes and gratitude in my heart. And when faces of those we’ve lost appear on the big screen, I cry again — for them, for their families, for all of us who continue to walk this road.

Those moments remind me why I do this challenge — for awareness, for hope, for life, and for every woman who can no longer walk beside us. 

DAY FIFTEEN

Peter and I walked another 3.3 kilometres yesterday, bringing my total to 44 kilometres.

As I walked, my thoughts turned to my grandfathers — both quite unusual men, especially for having been born in the early 1900s.

My father’s father not only baked and cooked but also cleaned the house. He was often found scrubbing the floors on his knees, making them shine. At Christmas time, he would fill the house with the scent of trays and trays of gingerbread and delicious pastries.

My mother’s father, on the other hand, wasn’t much of a cook, but he adored flowers. He bought them not only for my grandmother and for every home he ever visited — but also for himself. He loved having fresh flowers in a vase at all times. I’ve never seen so many flowers as I did at his funeral. People knew of his love for them and honoured him by bringing armfuls to his final farewell.

I realise I take after both of them. I love cooking and baking — the kitchen is my favourite place to be — but I also love flowers. In my early twenties, I studied floristry and have enjoyed creating floral arrangements ever since.

This week, Peter brought me some beautiful pink flowers — pink for breast cancer, of course. They made me think back to those early, difficult days of my breast cancer journey. So many things this month have stirred those memories. From the day of my diagnosis through the long months of tests, procedures, surgeries, radiotherapy, and treatments, I was surrounded by flowers.

During that time, I began taking photos of every bouquet and arrangement I received — and I kept doing so throughout my entire treatment journey. Some of the flowers arrived by delivery, while others were lovingly brought to my door by family and friends. It was truly amazing how many there were — sometimes several each week, and at times even one every day. Each bunch brightened my Lakeside home with colour and lifted my spirits in ways that words can hardly describe. I made a little album, with every photo carefully dated and marked with the names of those who had given them. That floral album still means so much to me.

It doesn’t remind me of the fear, pain, or despair I felt then, but rather of the love, care, and kindness that surrounded me. Those flowers were more than just petals and stems — they were messages of hope, compassion, and beauty in the midst of healing. 

DAY FOURTEEN

Yesterday began early with a hospital appointment — a procedure that took several hours and left me feeling nervous. Those kinds of appointments always stir memories of other tests and procedures from days gone by.

But as I approached the hospital’s front counter, something made me smile. In huge pink letters, I read: BREAST CANCER AWARENESS MONTH. The hospital was awash with pink — ribbons on every wall, beautiful paper ornaments hanging from the ceilings, and even pink paper-cut bras. Signs promised donations for every mammogram booked during October.

I told the staff about my Walk for Breast Cancer Challenge, and together we shared a small but powerful moment — a sense that we were all part of the same mission.

The afternoon became a gentle recovery time. Grilled cheese toasties, ice cream with fresh strawberries, mugs of hot chai, and a Christmas movie on the sofa under soft blankets — exactly what I needed.

But when the late afternoon light turned golden and the weather felt perfect, I laced up my runners and stepped outside to add another 3.3 kilometres to my breast cancer challenge.

That evening, I was rewarded in the most heartwarming way — another donation came through, from a dear friend who joined the group cheering me on. This latest contribution lifted my total to $1,145 and placed me at number 83 out of 6,757 walkers across Australia.

Each donation feels deeply personal — a symbol of kindness, encouragement, and shared purpose. I am so very thankful for every single one. 

DAY THIRTEEN

Yesterday, after church, I walked a little over three kilometres — bringing my total to 38, with 20 still to go. Each walk feels less about the distance now and more about what it represents.

When I walked through breast cancer, every day was measured in small steps too — from one appointment to the next, one treatment, one prayer, one moment of courage. Those steps back then were filled with fear and uncertainty, but they were also lined with love, support, and hope.

Now, with each kilometre I walk, I think of those days and of everyone who’s still walking their own hard roads. These steps are for them — for healing, for strength, for the reminder that even slow progress is still forward.

DAY TWELVE

Yesterday, I headed out for another walk and covered an extra two and a half kilometres in the fresh air. This breast cancer walk challenge has stirred up so many memories — not just from those dark, difficult days when I walked through breast cancer myself, but also of the love and kindness that surrounded me.

This morning, I opened my linen cupboard and pulled out my prayer quilt, the one my dear friends made for me all those years ago. When they learned of my diagnosis, they gathered together week after week — to pray for me, to sew, and to pour their love into every stitch. How special is that?

They made it in my favourite earthy tones, the kind that bring comfort and calm. Woven between the colours are words that carried me through those days: LOVE, HOPE, and PEACE. I still remember how they showed up with flowers and home-cooked meals, how they prayed together while I faced tests, oncology appointments, two operations, radiotherapy, and the long months of oral chemotherapy.

They even kept a journal of their prayers, page after page filled with words of faith and encouragement. I still treasure it — sometimes, when I read their messages, I can almost feel the warmth of those days, even through the pain.

This morning, as my hands moved gently across the quilt, tears welled in my eyes. Every stitch holds a story. Every colour carries love. And in that quiet moment, I was reminded — I would never have known just how deeply I am loved if I hadn’t walked through those dark days.

DAY ELEVEN

Yesterday’s walk could have blown the cobwebs straight out of anyone’s head — easily the windiest day so far! The gusts whipped around me, carrying with them the unmistakable, mouth-watering smell of barbecues and sizzling sausages. Somewhere nearby, someone was definitely cooking up a feast, and the scent made me smile (and slightly hungry).

Spring’s show is drawing to a close now. Most of the blossoms have already danced their final twirl to the ground, though a few stubborn petals still cling to the branches, swaying defiantly in the wild wind.

Not far along the path, I had a chat with a magpie. He swooped low enough to let me know he was on duty, protecting his little ones. Message received loud and clear — I moved along with a respectful nod to his parenting skills.

And then, the best news of the day — my cheer squad has grown by two! I like to picture them standing along the sidelines, cheering me on just like spectators at a marathon, their encouragement lifting me with every step.

As I walked, I had this whimsical thought — I imagined hundreds of pink umbrellas floating above me like a soft canopy in the wind. On both sides of the path, buildings with elegant balconies rose up, filled with familiar faces clapping, waving, calling out encouragement, and cheering me along. The whole scene felt joyful, hopeful, and full of love — exactly how this journey feels with all the support I’ve received.

My walk’s total donations have now tipped past $1000, placing me within the top 100 — currently sitting proudly at number 95! How incredible is that!? I’m walking on air — or maybe it’s just the breeze and all that cheering giving me an extra lift!

Each pink umbrella and every cheer from the sidelines remind me that I’m walking in step with so many hearts — all joined by care, courage, and hope.

DAY TEN

Good morning! Yesterday I walked another 3 kilometres at Lysterfield Lake Park, sharing the path with a few curious kangaroos along the way. That brings my total to 29 extra kilometres walked in October — exactly halfway to my goal of 58! I am halfway there!

I checked the leaderboard and realised I’m sitting at 113th place, with $929 raised so far. There are 6,736 people walking for breast cancer right now across Australia — together we’ve already raised over $660,000. That’s a lot of hearts stepping forward for hope. 

If you’ve been meaning to make a small donation, even $10, please know that every little bit helps — and every donation over $2 is tax deductible. But more than that, when your name appears on my page, it feels like you’re joining me on the journey.

There are 15 wonderful people standing beside me so far, and when I feel tired or tempted to skip a walk, I scroll down that list of names at the bottom of my fundraising page. I imagine each of you on the sidelines, clapping and cheering me on. It lifts me every single time — a reminder that none of us walk alone. 

Together, step by step, we’re not just walking — we’re making a difference, we’re honouring lives, and we’re walking toward a future filled with hope. 

DAY NINE

Yesterday’s added 4.5 kilometres took us along the Lilydale to Warburton Rail Trail — one of those places where history seems to breathe with every step. The old Wandin train station especially caught my heart. Standing there, surrounded by wildflowers and weathered timber, I could almost hear the faint echo of a steam train chugging past, carrying people through the same valleys we walked through.

There’s something special about these rail trails — once built for journeys of connection, now giving new purpose as paths for reflection, health, and hope.

When we returned from our walk, Peter and I watched an episode of a series we’ve been following about the rich and famous. In that episode, a woman — a mother of a beautiful twelve-year-old girl — mentioned she had breast cancer. Later, when I looked her up, I discovered she had passed away from the disease the year after filming. It stopped me for a moment. Then it made me more determined than ever to keep walking — to honour every story, every survivor, and every life taken too soon.

And again, the message I feel called to share is this: go get your check-up. Don’t leave it any longer. I would never have gone for my first mammogram if my mum hadn’t kept encouraging me. She said, “What have you got to lose?” By the third time she said it, I finally went — and if I hadn’t listened to her encouragement, I wouldn’t be here today.

Yesterday, as the sun filtered through the trees and birds called across the old tracks, I felt both history and hope beside me — the steam of the past and the strength of the present. Each step wasn’t just part of a challenge, but part of a promise: to keep moving forward, to remind others to get checked before it’s too late, to walk for those who can’t, and for those yet to come. 

DAY EIGHT

Yesterday’s 5 km walk was the longest I’ve done for this challenge so far, and it turned out to be the most beautiful one yet. It was a day painted in colour. Peter and I spent the morning wandering through the tulip fields, a patchwork of colour so vivid it felt like walking through a painting. Each row glowed beneath the sunshine — red, yellow, pink, and purple — all gently swaying in the breeze, as if spring itself was breathing around us.

From there, we continued into the Rhododendron Gardens, where the path curved through hills alive with blossoms. It was hilly and challenging, but every step was a reward — a gift of colour, birdsong, and the quiet joy of being surrounded by beauty. The air was full of sound: magpies warbling, rosellas chattering, and that gentle rustle of leaves that seems to whisper you’re alive, keep going.

It was a perfect sunny day — the kind that fills both body and soul with gratitude.

When I went through breast cancer, it felt like living in the darkness just before sunrise. To anyone walking through that darkness now, I want to say this: the moment before the sunrise is the darkest — but even then, God’s light waits beyond the horizon.

Sometimes it comes as healing, sometimes as peace, sometimes as love shining through the people He places beside us. And when that light rises, in whatever form it takes, the colours return — softly, beautifully — reminding us that hope is never truly gone, and that His grace is always near.

DAY SEVEN

Yesterday’s walk was the best one yet — because I had the most wonderful company. Two of my granddaughters joined me, holding my hands, giggling beside me, helping their nanna raise money for cancer research.

They made me smile.
They made me laugh out loud.
They made my heart overflow.

What a gift it was — to walk with them in the golden afternoon light, their chatter floating through the air like music. Both of them were born after my cancer diagnosis… and every time I look at them, I’m reminded just how precious this gift of time really is. To be here, walking beside them, laughing with them, feeling the sunshine on our faces — it’s something I never take for granted.

And then, as if the day hadn’t already filled my heart to the brim, a beautiful surprise arrived last night — another donation through Facebook. I don’t know who it came from, but I’d love to thank you personally if you ever see this. And if you wish to remain anonymous, please know this: your generosity touched me deeply and will make a real difference.

It’s moments like these — laughter, love, and kindness from both near and far — that remind me why I walk. Not just for research, but for hope. For more days like this one. For more sunshine walks with the people I love.

DAY SIX

We lost an hour this weekend to daylight savings, yet somehow I gained something far more valuable — time well spent. After my morning chai and before church, I managed another three kilometres for my Breast Cancer Walk Challenge. That felt pretty good.

Out there, the birds were in full voice. If you’ve ever lived in Australia, you’ll know that unmistakable suburban soundtrack — kookaburras laughing, magpies warbling, cockatoos screeching. They’re so delightfully noisy at dawn and again at sunset, as if the whole neighbourhood is one big feathered conversation. It’s like they’ve all got so many stories to tell that none of them stop to listen.

But I did.
This time, they were the storytellers — and I was the listener.

And just when I thought the morning couldn’t get any lovelier, a small moment turned it into something truly special. Along the path came a young family. A little curly-haired boy, no more than four, was holding his mum’s hand. The closer I came, the bigger his smile grew — until finally, in his bright, cheerful voice, he called out, “Hello!”

Oh, my heart melted.
He had no idea how happy he made me with that one word, that sunshine grin, and his enthusiastic wave. Of course, I waved and grinned back, and just like that, two strangers from opposite generations shared a little moment of joy on an ordinary Sunday morning.

As I continued walking, I realised that this is what my Breast Cancer Walk is really about — moments like that. Connection. Kindness. Hope shared between strangers. I walk for the women (and men) and their families facing cancer right now, for those we’ve lost, and for the next generation — that little boy’s generation — so they, too, can live in a world where there’s more laughter, more life, and more mornings filled with birdsong.

DAY FIVE

Yesterday I walked another two and a half kilometres. You’d think it would have been easy — the day was a perfect 25 degrees, the kind that invites you outside. But for some reason, it wasn’t easy at all. Every step felt heavier than it should have.

That’s when my Finnish sisu kicked in — that quiet determination that says, keep going, even when it’s hard. Honestly, if it weren’t for this challenge, I might have skipped the walk altogether.

When I came home, though, two things lifted my spirits. My beautiful pink orchids greeted me — even they have decided to bloom, just in time for my Breast Cancer Walk Challenge, cheering me on with their soft pink hues. 

And then I discovered that three more people had joined my list of sponsors, bringing the total to fourteen amazing supporters standing by the sidelines. Fourteen hearts, fourteen reasons to keep walking. Their generosity isn’t just measured in dollars, but in hope — real, tangible hope. How magnificent is that?

As I walked, I found myself thinking about what message I most want to share through this journey. It’s this:
Go have a mammogram. Go have a breast ultrasound. Don’t wait until you’re 50.

If I had waited, I wouldn’t be here today. My breast cancer was found when I was 44 — not because I felt a lump, but because I went for a check-up. My cancer was discovered by chance — or, as I believe, by providence, the protective care of God. 

Routine mammograms start at 50, but please, don’t wait that long. Early detection saved my life, and it could save yours too.

DAY FOUR

8 km done, 50 to go — and one more sponsor walking beside me in spirit.

Yesterday’s walk was unforgettable. Melbourne’s winds were fierce, tossing the world about, yet the spring blossoms were at their most glorious. As I walked, the wind carried them from the trees until they swirled around me like snow. The air and ground shimmered with white confetti, and my heart whispered: spread your arms, twirl, it’s snowing, Jaana!

But then the questions came.
Why do we take so much for granted?
Why are we too busy to stand still and feel the wonder of blossom snow?
Why do we complain about the wind instead of seeing the beauty it creates?
Why do we assume our loved ones will always be with us?
Why do we take for granted living cancer-free — or even the simple gift of walking?

It’s only when we lose these things that we finally understand how precious they were.

I am a third-generation woman who has faced cancer, as well as brain and spinal tumours. Six months of my life were spent relearning how to walk after spinal cord surgery. By the grace of God, I can say today: I am in remission from breast cancer, I am walking again, and I am here. But every step reminds me of those who no longer have the chance to walk, to live, to love.

I walk for them.
I walk for the future generations.
I walk so that they, too, may one day dance through spring blossom snow, free of disease.

Three generations of women in my family have faced cancer. That is enough. Let it stop here.

DAY THREE

These first days of my challenge have left me feeling both humbled and encouraged. The kindness and support I’ve received already touches me deeply.

No new sponsors in the past 24 hours, but my heart is still so full of gratitude for the ten kind people already standing beside me in this challenge. Their support really keeps me moving and reminds me that I’m not walking alone. Each name feels like a little cheer in the background, spurring me on.

Yesterday I managed to sneak in a few kilometres before the rain set in. I was out there early, sharing the morning with the early birds, the early worms, and the loyal dog walkers. There’s something lovely about being part of that quiet, determined little community — it makes those early steps feel lighter.

Afterwards, I treated myself to something special — I had my nails painted in the pink ribbon theme. Every time I glance down at them, I see more than colour and polish. I see resilience, hope, and a reminder of why this challenge matters. It’s a small symbol, but one that carries so much meaning.

Each step reminds me to treasure life, to hold onto hope, and to keep moving forward with purpose.

DAY TWO

Yesterday I walked my first few kilometres of this challenge, and it felt so good to finally get started. I’m honestly overwhelmed by the support I’ve received — yesterday morning I had eight sponsors beside me, and today there are ten. I can feel each and every one of them cheering me along.

Life is such a precious gift. Not every day is easy, but every day we wake up and get to live is still a gift worth treasuring. When you’ve faced cancer, you understand just how fragile life can be. But you also learn to value it more deeply than ever before.

I’ve always loved wisteria. Their blooms are breathtaking, yet they only last two or three weeks each spring. Yesterday, Peter and I went to admire them, and I couldn’t help but think of how much they remind me of life itself — fleeting, fragile, but so achingly beautiful.

And that’s what this walk is about for me: celebrating life, honouring its beauty, and walking with hope for a future where fewer people have to face the shadow of cancer.

DAY ONE

Today it begins. The first day of October. The first step in my walk for breast cancer. My heart is racing with excitement, not just for the journey ahead, but for the love and support that has already surrounded me.

Yesterday morning, I had two sponsors by my side. This morning, I woke up to find eight! Eight incredible people standing beside me — not just supporting me, but lifting up the cause, too. What a blessing. What a surprise in the best possible way. I feel their encouragement in every step I take, and I promise — I will not let them down.

As Melbourne bursts into spring, it feels like the perfect time to begin. Everywhere I look, the city is alive with colour. Blossoms sway gently in the breeze, painting the streets and gardens in shades of pink and white. I love stepping outside, breathing in the freshness of the season, and feeling nature’s quiet reminder that new beginnings are possible, and hope always blooms again.

And so, with gratitude in my heart and blossoms overhead, I walk on — one step at a time — for all those touched by breast cancer, and for the brighter future we dream of together.

THE DAY BEFORE

Tomorrow I begin the 58 kilometre walk for breast cancer. The challenge feels big, but my heart feels even bigger today. Yesterday I received my very first two donations — and oh, the joy that bubbled up in me! Those gifts weren’t just numbers on a page, they were signs that people believe in me, that they are standing beside me as I take on this journey. To me, they were huge donations, carrying so much meaning. They lit a spark of excitement in me that I’ll carry every step of the way.

But when I ask myself what truly drives me to do this, I know the answer runs far deeper than donations or kilometres.

There was a day in my life when I heard the words no one ever wants to hear: “I’m sorry, but you have breast cancer.” I can still replay that day and the days that led to it in slow motion. They are etched into me. I remember the crushing weight that seemed to fall on my shoulders, the feeling that the whole world had shifted and left me standing there, uncertain and afraid. How do you even begin to navigate those first days? How do you learn to live with a future that suddenly feels so fragile?

Those words changed my life. They still echo in me. And this morning, as spring sunshine warms the air, I cannot help but think: today, another 58 Australians are waking to those same words. Fifty-eight lives turned upside down. Fifty-eight families thrown into chaos and fear.

That is my motivation. Compassion. Because I know how it feels to walk through breast cancer. I know how it shatters and reshapes a life. And because I know, I walk — for them, with them, and in honour of every step they must now take.