People mean well. I know that. After I finished cancer treatment - and still to this day - the questions come in waves - texts, emails, handshakes at events, conversations in parking lots after meetings. And almost every single one of them ends the same way: “So you’re all good now, right?” I smile. I nod. I say something like, “It seems so and I’m feeling good” because that’s what the moment seems to call for. People want relief. They’d worried about me, prayed for me, check

First Catherine O’Hara on January 30th, then James Van Der Beek just days ago on February 11th. Both gone from colorectal cancer. Both far too soon. And as a two-time cancer survivor myself, their deaths don’t just make me sad. They terrify me. Catherine O’Hara was 71 when a pulmonary embolism caused by rectal cancer took her life. She’d been in treatment since March 2025, though like so many cancer patients, she kept her battle private. James Van Der Beek was only 48— a de

Talent Concierge ® Artists Agency (TCAA), a premier boutique agency representing world-class speakers, thought leaders, and brand ambassadors, announces the signing of Dr. Jeffrey Reynolds, a nationally respected nonprofit executive, keynote speaker, bestselling author, cancer survivor, and Ironman triathlete. Reynolds brings a powerful combination of lived experience, executive leadership, and disciplined performance to audiences seeking clarity, resilience, and sustainable

Discover how cancer and endurance sports taught me about living with uncertainty.

Here’s what “all good” really means most of the time: “I’m not going to make this awkward.” “I don’t want conflict.” “I’m too tired to address this.” “I don’t think my concerns matter.” “I’m pretending this doesn’t bother me even though it absolutely does.”

Think about a skill you used to have that you haven’t practiced in years. Can you still do it as well? Of course not. That’s not maintenance - that’s atrophy with a friendlier name attached to it.

Real gratitude - the kind that actually sustains you - doesn’t look like the social media version of Thanksgiving.

Sometimes the speeches we need to give and the speeches others need to hear find each other at just the right moment.

As a two-time cancer survivor, I’ve learned that the anxiety leading up to scans and test results - what the cancer community calls “scanxiety” - can be just as debilitating as the initial diagnosis.

Cancer doesn’t care how many miles you’ve logged or how fast you can run. Chemotherapy doesn’t negotiate with your VO2 max. Your cancer cells aren’t impressed by your swim times.

This extra hour? It’s a microcosm of every choice we make. We can sleepwalk through it or we can be awake. We can drift or we can steer. We can let time happen to us or we can happen to time.

What was happening to my body, however, was only half the battle. The other half was the story I was telling myself about what it all meant.

"Every Mile Matters: Turning Triathlon Training into Cancer Triumph" is available now as an audiobook on Audible, Spotify, Google Play, Apple Books and in multiple formats via Amazon.

I had the pleasure of running all 86 flights or 1,576 stairs up the Empire State Building last night as part of the NYU Langone team.

Cancer changes your relationship with time. Before my diagnosis, birthdays marked the passage of years in a vague, abstract way. Sure, I was getting older, but that timeline stretched comfortably into a distant, hazy future. After cancer, each birthday became something more concrete - less a marker of age and more a testament to survival.

I make New Year's resolutions, too, but suppose we got started now instead of waiting until January 1st.

Races - especially long course races that challenge you - hit differently these days. Sure, the sleepless nights leading into the race remain and there’s that nagging sense that this is just too much too soon. But as I faced yesterday’s choppy 1.2 mile swim, a windy 56 mile bike ride and steamy 13.1 mile run, I knew I could do it, because, well, I survived cancer.

I didn't ask for cancer, wouldn't recommend it to anyone, and would gladly give it back if I could. But since I can't, I've chosen to extract whatever wisdom, strength, and purpose I can from the experience. Not because I'm grateful for the disease, but because I refuse to let it win.

I've never been particularly religious and put my spiritual journey aside for decades, focusing instead on building a career and being my own higher power. The idea of suddenly finding God after cancer felt cliché, like I was following some predictable script about foxhole conversions.

In his powerful new memoir, "Every Mile Matters: Turning Triathlon Training into Cancer Triumph," Reynolds reveals how years of grueling athletic training became his secret weapon in a fight for survival that would test his physical and mental endurance.