Like my blogger friend Kristina Collins, I too just attended a Making Strides Against Breast Cancer kick-off. Kristina's New Jersey event was a breakfast. My Florida event was a dinner. It wasn't the meal that mattered, though. What matters is the enthusiasm, the spirit, the inspiration that flows through the rooms where these gatherings take place.

My kick-off celebration featured a delicious and healthy meal, a slide show of the pink-shirted crowds that assembled for last year's 5K event, a mini lesson on the topic of breast cancer, a presentation from a 27-year old wife and mother of three who has survived breast cancer for one year, and a reminder that now is the time to start raising funds for the big day -- October 20, here in Gainesville.

I went to this dinner with my husband, sat with two oncology nurses who form a fundraising and walking team each year, and choked back the emotion that wells up in me when I'm part of such a powerful group.

Valerie Monroe, beauty director for The Oprah Magazine, writes a monthly column -- Ask Val -- that appears on the pages of Oprah's feel-good publication. She responds to questions about make-up, skin care, hair care, and overall body care too.

In her February 2007 column, Val writes, "Many of you have written to tell me that you began to be less critical of your body when you appreciated the things it could do." As I read this, I had what Oprah would call an Aha! moment, a moment when something just clicks and makes sudden sense. Aha!, I thought, as I considered all the things my body can do, completely independent of how I look on the outside. So while I was jogging today -- my body can now easily run three miles -- I ran through all of my body's accomplishments, and I stored them in the files of my mind so I could later write them down.

Here are seven things my body can do. As you read them, consider your own body -- its strength, its power, its capacity for greatness -- and remind yourself of your wondrous self the next time you start to criticize the way you look.

• My body can partner in the creation of human life. It can carry babies and deliver them and love them and care for them and raise them. Not all bodies have this power. I am lucky.

• My body can climb an attic staircase, crawl into cramped and dark corners, pull large boxes out of wedged spaces, drag them back to the staircase, and walk backwards down the stairs with goods balancing on my head so that I can fulfill the wish my five-year-old child who wanted so badly in early November to assemble our Christmas tree and decorate our house for the holidays. "Let's wait until Daddy gets home," I told Joey when I found myself crammed into a tiny space in the attic, wrestling with a heavy box full of artificial tree parts. "You can do it, Mommy," Joey said. "You are strong." And so I fought my way through the frustrating feat because I was afraid of the lessons I would teach this little boy if I didn't. In the end, it was Joey who taught me the lesson. I can do it. I am strong.
  

• My body can endure and conquer a 5K run when it once could barely run around the block. With a little extra effort and push, I think my body can accomplish even more.

• My body, once weak and without definition, can lift increasingly heavy weight and can generate muscle tone. It can even do push-ups -- real push-ups. It takes dedication and practice and persistence and mental toughness too. But I see progress. I feel progress. And I want more.

• My body can help others. I can use my fingers to type words on a keyboard that will reach friends and family and people I don't even know. My words can inform and support and encourage and heal. I can use my hands and my semi-creative talents to create hand-made gifts, to cook and deliver very mediocre meals for friends in need, to massage my husband's sore back, to braid my niece's beautiful hair and paint her tiny nails. I can use my arms to hug my little boys with all my might. I can use my voice to communicate, my ears to listen, my senses to feel.
  

• My body can tolerate surgery and chemotherapy and radiation and horrible allergic reactions to antibiotics. My body was badly beaten by a treatment protocol intended to cure me of a disastrous disease. And somehow, in some way, it survived.
  

• My body killed cancer. With the aid of medical intervention and a hopeful attitude, my body overcame the worst and best thing that has ever happened to me. And if it could do nothing else, I would be truly happy for this one thing my body can do.
  

I am in awe at this very moment, after receiving a generous donation -- from a friend I have not seen in nearly five years -- for the Making Strides Against Breast Cancer 5K Walk I plan to run in less than two weeks. I am not in awe simply because of this one donation. I am in awe of the combination of generous donations I have received over the past two months. My grand total right now -- headed for my local American Cancer Society team and earmarked for use in my own city -- is $3,808. My goal is $4,000.

I don't take any credit for this large sum of money that will earn me recognition on the day of the event. I merely reached out to friends and family and they delivered. Day after day, donations as high as $250 flow my way -- and while the American Cancer Society and cancer patients in North Florida stand to profit because of my giving support network, it occurs to me that I may be the biggest winner to cross the finish line. Me -- one woman, one cancer survivor, with one inspiring crowd rallying to support -- me.

It doesn't matter what I do on the day of the race -- although I do hope to accomplish my personal physical challenge -- because I have already done what I set out to do. I raised funds for a fabulous cause. And I gained a little something -- well, a big something -- in the process. I witnessed the wonder of overwhelming kindness. And for that, I am nothing less than grateful.

I just read a breast cancer survivor's commentary about the color pink -- about how she hates pink, is sick of seeing pink, is tired of companies capitalizing on the breast cancer color in order to sell products. She calls the color wimpy and too feminine -- and while she accepts that she may just be grumpy about this topic, she is not too happy that pink is the color that symbolizes a serious disease. She would have preferred red or purple, colors that signify strength and power. But pink is what we've got -- and I happen to be okay with it.

I'm okay with pink because I like the color. I'm okay with it because it's recognizable -- and there can't be too many people out there who don't know that pink and breast cancer go hand in hand. To me, the color itself raises awareness. If I buy a pink vacuum cleaner and am reminded of the words breast and cancer each time I suck up dirt from my carpet, then I'm in the loop -- even if minimally. And if it prompts me to check my own breasts or schedule a screening appointment, then I benefit. I'm not sure a green vacuum cleaner would have the same effect. And when I wear my new Key to the Cure t-shirt -- with a pink ribbon gracing the front -- and someone inquires about the shirt, I will have an opportunity to spread some words about breast cancer. Pink doesn't have to be wimpy. It can be powerful.

There are surely companies out there taking advantage of the color pink because it sells. But if sales truly benefit breast cancer research, then it's a win-win situation in my opinion. I am happy that $31 of my $35 t-shirt goes directly to breast cancer initiatives. Sure, the shirt was a bit expensive. But so is breast cancer -- and I have the bills to prove it -- so if simply buying a pink ribbon t-shirt allows me to walk around as a billboard and allows breast cancer research some more momentum, then I am game.

I will wear my new shirt when I run in the Making Strides Against Breast Cancer 5K event in two weeks. And I will wear a bright pink ribbon in my hair. And I may even wear pink shorts. Because I think pink is empowering. And I'm happy it's everywhere -- because it illustrates that breast cancer is everywhere. And that is not okay.

Someone raced for the cure -- in celebration of me. I am honored and flattered and so thrilled to have received in the mail today a t-shirt and the crumpled piece of pink paper than hung from my aunt's back -- with my name on it -- as she ran this 5K race in Aspen, Colorado on July 15. It was the 16th annual Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure in Aspen, and my aunt has run for me for two years now. I have a t-shirt and pink piece of paper from last year too. Maybe one day I will run it for myself. First, I have to master the whole running thing.

The Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation Race for the Cure began in 1983 with 800 participants. Today the Komen Race for the Cure is the largest 5K event in the world. And in 2005, more than one million people participated in more than 100 races designed not only to raise funds but to also educate the public about early detection -- about how it is the most effective method of surviving this life-threatening disease. The five-year survival rate is 95 percent when the disease is discovered while still confined to the breast. I'm proud to have found my own lump early, before it had spread outside my breast. And I am proud to have been a part of a race -- even in name only -- that might make this early discovery possible for many more women to come.