This will be my first time riding in Pelotonia. You’d think that, given my background over the past few years, that wouldn’t be the case. But this year, I’m choosing to ride—not just for me, but for everyone who can’t.
So if you’ll allow me, let’s go on a little journey.
Full disclosure: I’m not a fan of being called a “cancer warrior,” and I’ve never been all that into “fighting cancer” narratives. Awareness months? I get their purpose, but they’ve never really sat right with me either.
It’s not that those things don’t matter—they absolutely do. But for me, it runs deeper. It’s about how I’ve come to understand life. Or better said, how life has unfolded for me. Most of that understanding has come in the quiet—when I stopped listening to the noise and finally listened to myself.
That wasn’t always the case.
For most of my life, I listened to everyone but me. I let their opinions shape my story. And I lost myself in the process. I spiraled into cycles of shame, self-doubt, and confusion. If I could go back and shake that version of me awake, I would.
But the awakening I didn’t even know I needed came crashing in on July 12, 2021—one seizure, one CT scan, and one brain tumor later, I found myself in a medical whirlwind: surgery, MRIs, hospital gowns—the “standard of care.”
But I knew something had to change. Because the only “standard of care” I’d given myself before cancer was treating myself like a doormat.
I grew up believing I was broken. That there was something wrong with me. So when the diagnosis came, it would’ve been easy to believe it was just more proof. But something inside me whispered, Not this time.
Maybe it’s because I’ve never done well with authority—not in a rebellious way, but in a don’t-tell-me-what’s-impossible way. I spent my whole life being told what I couldn’t do. Then, within minutes of meeting a new doctor—someone who didn’t even bother to learn my name—I was told, “You have seven months to live.”
Seven. Months.
Like it was just another line in their coffee order.
That moment flipped a switch in me. I fired that doctor, and here I am—nearly four years later. Still here. Still choosing to live. Still choosing to ride.
So why now?
For over three years, I avoided connecting with other brain cancer patients. Not because I was scared—because I didn’t want to fall into the comparison trap. I didn’t want other people’s stories becoming mine. Again.
Instead, I visualized my life from the finish line. I acted as if I were cancer-free—not in denial, but in full belief. When we think from the end, we begin to feel what’s possible. When we think of the end, all we see are the obstacles in the way.
But, like any good story, there’s always a plot twist.
In October 2024, a new spot appeared in a routine MRI. In January 2025, I underwent a LITT procedure at The James. As of now, I’m recovering well—round one of radiation and chemo is complete, with more ahead.
And still—I ride.
Just before radiation, I was invited to New York to ring the Nasdaq bell with Novocure, the company behind the Optune device I wear. I said yes, not realizing that I’d soon face something I’d long avoided: meeting another person wearing Optune.
For context, Optune wearers are like unicorns. We’re rare. I had never met one in person. So as I flew to NYC, I could feel my emotional bubble ready to burst. A cocktail of excitement and fear. Upon arrival, I met Mike—another Optune wearer I’d only seen online. It felt awkward at first, but that quickly faded.
That night, we had dinner. We shared stories. The “monster” I had built up in my mind? It vanished.
Mike became a fast friend. I even bought a quarter cow from his dad (long story). I texted him later, “Thanks for making the monster disappear.”
The next day, I bumped into a man named Tom—also a cancer survivor. We’d met briefly the night before. There he was, sitting in the airport lounge. Just a nod and a smile. But it landed differently.
That’s the magic I don’t overlook anymore.
So I ride for Mike, and for Tom.
Recently, my friend Craig—who’s become a brother through dumb dad jokes and an even dumber obsession with Instagram reels—was diagnosed with prostate cancer. We’ve been there for each other, not to compare cancer stories, but to hold space for the kind of strength that doesn’t always need words. It’s a bond built on love, laughter, and an unspoken promise that we’ve got each other’s backs. And even though Craig is plenty fit enough to ride, I’m riding for him. He said he’d do it, but the thought of a bike seat made his prostate file a restraining order.
Not every bubble we bump into brings comfort. Some bring grief. That’s how I met Scott, a father walking through the nightmare of his teenage daughter, Emma (13), being diagnosed with glioblastoma.
It took me a while to text him back. What could I possibly say? I’m a dad too—and the thought of my own kid going through this is unbearable. But eventually, I reached out. And what unfolded was an emotional, powerful connection.
Scott told me Emma might never walk or talk again. But days later, he texted: she stood up. She spoke. That fire—the kind you can’t teach—burns in her. I see myself in her. Maybe it’s the red hair, or the spirit.
So I ride for Emma. And for Scott, who pledged to run 50 miles in May for brain cancer awareness.
Whether you’re newly diagnosed, deep in treatment, or long past it—cancer lingers. But it doesn’t have to define us.
And that’s the paradox. I can hate this disease—and still be deeply grateful for what it revealed. I wouldn’t know this version of me without it. Neither would my family.
I used to hide this version. Now I celebrate it.
So no, I don’t like the term “warrior.” I don’t “fight” cancer. I created this imbalance, which means I can also create the healing. I believe thoughts shape our reality. And I refuse to wake up every day believing I’m at war with myself.
I’ve already done that. And I’m done.
Now? I choose love. I choose presence. I choose healing.
I choose to ride.
I’m proud to support Pelotonia because 100% of funds raised go directly to cancer research—fueling progress for Mike, Tom, Scott, Emma, Craig, and the countless others in this story we all share.
If you’re looking for a reason to keep going, here’s mine:
That part of yourself you’ve been hiding—the one you wish everyone else could see?
They already do.
So stop hiding it. It’s already here. You just need to trust it.
I hope you choose to live, too.
With HOPE,
Jason Tharp
My goal is to raise $3,000 by the end of this week—not just as a number, but as a testament to what's possible when we choose to show up for each other. Every dollar raised goes directly to cancer research at The James, the same place that gave me a chance to rewrite my story. Whether it's $5 or $500, your contribution isn't just about funding research—it's about choosing hope with me. It's about making impossible optional for the next person who hears "seven months." Click here [insert fundraising link] to join me in this ride. Because sometimes the greatest act of hope is helping write someone else's next chapter.
About the Author
Jason Tharp is a bestselling author, illustrator, and keynote speaker who is redefining what it means to live with purpose. After being diagnosed with terminal brain cancer, Jason chose not just to survive—but to truly live. Through his work with the Beyond HOPE Project, he helps individuals and organizations unlock their potential by choosing self-love, imagination, and presence over fear. Whether on stage, on the page, or in everyday life, Jason’s mission is simple: to remind people that impossible is optional.
