There was a time when I wasn't sure I would ever feel strong again.

In 2020, after three years of debilitating symptoms, I was finally diagnosed with Stage II sarcoidosis with pulmonary and lymph node involvement, along with manifestations affecting my liver and pancreas. But the diagnosis was only the end of one battle—it was the beginning of another.

For years before that diagnosis, I was trapped in a body that no longer felt like my own.

There were days I couldn't get out of bed. The fatigue was overwhelming. My joints hurt so severely that even the smallest tasks felt impossible. As a pianist, my hands would lock up. As a professional singer and vocal pedagogy coach, breathing became more difficult. I relied on high-dose steroids simply to survive.

The hardest part wasn't the pain.

It was the fear.

Music has never simply been my profession—it is who I am. I have spent nearly three decades helping singers discover their voices, building a career as a vocal pedagogy coach, writing musicals, and watching my work find its way to worldwide stages. The thought that this disease might slowly steal the very gifts that had shaped my entire life was devastating.

So I suffered quietly.

I continued teaching because I never wanted my students to wonder whether I was still capable of guiding them. Behind every lesson was someone doing everything she could simply to keep moving, hoping no one would notice how much she was hurting.

By March of 2024, I had reached my breaking point.

My disease was progressing. I was facing the possibility of organ damage, and I realized something had to change.

I made a decision that day that would alter the course of my life.
If I was going to live with sarcoidosis, then I was going to become the greatest advocate for my own health.

I immersed myself in research. I wanted to understand inflammation, nutrition, movement—anything that might help me reclaim my life. I underwent food sensitivity testing and created my own nutrition plan based on what my body could actually tolerate.

Little by little, my inflammation improved.
Then something unexpected happened.
The weight started coming off.

As my body became lighter, movement became possible again. I made myself a promise: every day I would walk three miles.

Not because it was easy.
Because it wasn't.
Some mornings every joint hurt. Some days breathing felt difficult. Some days my body begged me to stay home.

I walked anyway.

One step became another.
One mile became three.
Three miles became a new life.

Then, in January of 2025, a friend asked me if I'd do a 5K with her.
I laughed. "I'm not a runner," I said. "I'm a walker." But I said yes.

Crossing that finish line awakened something I thought this disease had taken from me forever.

Confidence.

Joy.

Possibility.

As the weight continued to come off, I kept saying yes to challenges that once seemed impossible. A 5K became a 10K. A 10K became a half marathon.

Today, more than 150 pounds lighter, I have completed fifteen half marathons along with countless 5Ks and 10Ks. I've climbed mountains. I've discovered a passion for hiking. I've stood on summits I never imagined I'd have the strength to reach after a day when getting out of bed felt like climbing one.

Now, I'm preparing for my greatest challenge yet: running my very first marathon—the New York City Marathon.

This race carries a meaning that goes far beyond 26.2 miles.

Both sides of my family began in Brooklyn. My grandparents walked those streets. My parents met there. Their stories began there, and eventually, mine did too. Throughout my career, I've had the incredible privilege of seeing my own original musicals open in New York—a city that has always represented possibility, creativity, resilience, and dreams.

This November, I won't be returning to New York as a composer or teacher.

I'll be returning as a survivor.

Every step through Brooklyn will feel like coming home—not just to my family's roots, but to the woman I fought so hard to become.
I'm honored to be running on behalf of the Foundation for Sarcoidosis Research, because no one should have to fight this disease feeling invisible.

Sarcoidosis is often called an invisible illness. Many patients look healthy while silently living with chronic pain, overwhelming fatigue, breathing difficulties, organ involvement, and uncertainty about what tomorrow will bring.

I know that reality intimately.
Research gave me hope.
Doctors gave me answers.
Movement gave me back my life.

Your support helps ensure that others have the chance to experience that same hope.

Every donation helps fund research, improve treatments, increase awareness, and move us closer to a cure for sarcoidosis.

This marathon isn't about proving that I'm fast.
It's about proving what's possible.
It's about honoring the woman who refused to give up on herself when the future looked uncertain.

It's about every patient who is fighting an invisible battle today.
And it's about believing that even after illness, fear, and loss, life can still surprise you with mountains to climb, finish lines to cross, and dreams you never thought you'd live long enough to chase.

When I cross the finish line in New York, I won't just be completing my first marathon. I'll be celebrating a life that I almost lost.

Thank you for believing in this journey, for supporting the Foundation for Sarcoidosis Research, and for helping turn my story into hope for countless others living with sarcoidosis.

I'll carry every one of you with me through all 26.2 miles.

Click here for more information on sarcoidosis and the Foundation for Sarcoidosis Research.

Elaine