The sooner they find it, the sooner treatment starts
In Warrnambool on a May morning, a woman who had long feared what a mammogram might reveal crossed a finish line surrounded by the friends who had known her since motherhood began. Tracey Frost's recovery from breast cancer — discovered in 2024, treated without chemotherapy, and now behind her — became the quiet centre of a community ritual that has gathered meaning for fifteen years. The Mother's Day Classic is, at its heart, a reminder that early detection and human solidarity are not separate forces but the same one, expressed differently.
- Tracey Frost had avoided mammograms for years, haunted by her mother's death from breast cancer in 1998 — until a routine scan in July 2024 found what she had feared most.
- The diagnosis arrived without warning signs, no lumps, no symptoms, only the shock of confirmation, and the weight of a grief she had been quietly carrying for decades.
- She chose a mastectomy and radiation over chemotherapy, guided by what she had witnessed her mother endure and by the improved odds that hormone blockers offered her specific case.
- Her 21-year mother's group walked beside her at the event, embodying the kind of sustained, ordinary loyalty that carries people through the hardest seasons of their lives.
- Volunteer Jeff Hintum, who lost his wife Rebecca to breast cancer in 2011, anchors the walk each year from the back of the pack — ensuring no one finishes alone, and that the event's purpose is never forgotten.
- The walk raises over thirty thousand dollars annually, but its deeper currency is the message Frost now carries forward: show up for the test, even when — especially when — you are afraid.
Tracey Frost had been avoiding the mammogram for years. Her mother had died of breast cancer in 1998, and the test felt less like prevention than a door she was not ready to open. When she finally walked through it, in July 2024, the scan found exactly what she had feared — a small tumour, no lumps, no warning signs, only the diagnosis itself arriving as both shock and the confirmation of a long-held dread.
She moved quickly. In late August 2024 she underwent a mastectomy followed by radiation, both available in Warrnambool. When chemotherapy was raised, she declined — she had watched her mother endure it, and knew that hormone blockers now offered better odds for her particular case. By the time Warrnambool's Mother's Day Classic came around in May 2026, she was cancer-free and planning reconstruction.
The women who walked with her that morning had been in her life for twenty-one years, bound together first by the disorienting intimacy of new parenthood and then by everything that followed. Some had their own connections to cancer. But it was Frost they had come for. "It means heaps, absolutely heaps," she said before the walk began. She named them alongside her husband Tony and their two children as the people who had carried her through.
At the back of the field walked Jeff Hintum, who has volunteered at the event since his wife Rebecca died from breast cancer in January 2011. He stays at the rear deliberately, so that no participant finishes alone. Each year he returns with their three children. Each year the walk raises more than thirty thousand dollars. Each year the community shows up.
Frost's message, offered plainly at the finish line, was the same one the event has always carried: check regularly, screen early, do not let fear be the reason you wait. "I was lucky mine was so small," she said. But luck, as she understood better than most, is only what remains after you decide to show up despite everything that tells you not to.
Tracey Frost crossed the finish line of Warrnambool's Mother's Day Classic on a Sunday in May 2026, surrounded by the same women she had met two decades earlier in the fog of new motherhood. They had stayed together through nappies and school runs and all the ordinary years. Now they were walking together through something harder: her recovery from breast cancer.
Frost discovered she had the disease in July 2024 during a routine mammogram. She had been avoiding the test for years, she later admitted, carrying a private dread rooted in her own mother's death from breast cancer in 1998. "I think I had my own stigma because mum had it and passed away, and I guess I didn't want to find out that I had it too," she said. The cancer was small enough that she had felt no lumps, no warning signs—only the shock of the diagnosis itself, which came as both surprise and confirmation of a fear she had been living with.
She chose a path shaped by what she had witnessed her mother endure. In late August 2024, she underwent a mastectomy followed by radiation treatment, both available in her hometown. When her oncologist discussed chemotherapy, she declined. She had watched her mother go through it years earlier, had seen the toll it took, and knew that medical technology had moved forward enough to offer her another option. She took hormone blockers instead, a choice with better survival odds for her particular case. By the time of the walk, she was cancer-free and planning reconstruction surgery.
The group that walked with her—women from Warrnambool and the surrounding district—had been bound together by the particular intimacy of early parenthood. Twenty-one years had passed since they first met. Their children had grown into teenagers and young adults. Some had connections to cancer themselves, had lost people or walked their own diagnoses. But Frost was the only one in the group who had faced it directly. "It means heaps, absolutely heaps, to have these women here to support me today," she said as they prepared to start. She credited them, along with her husband Tony and their two children, with carrying her through the hardest months.
Hundreds of people participated in that year's Mother's Day Classic. At the back of the pack walked Jeff Hintum, a longtime volunteer who had made it his practice to anchor the event, staying behind to ensure no one finished alone. Hintum's wife Rebecca had died from breast cancer in January 2011. Since then, he and their three children—Tori, Maggie, and Sebastian—had walked the event every year. He had volunteered with the organizing committee, a small group of about five people who managed the walk annually. This year's ambassador was Susannah Gleeson, diagnosed with stage two breast cancer in late September 2020.
The event had grown steadily over the years, Hintum said. He had always prioritized awareness over fundraising, but the community's enthusiasm meant that participants often made additional donations beyond their registration fees. The walk raised over thirty thousand dollars every single year. Hintum thanked the Warrnambool community for showing up, year after year, and thanked the local businesses that contributed to the cause.
Frost, for her part, had a message for other women. Check your breasts regularly. Get mammograms as often as recommended. "The sooner they find it, the sooner they can start treatment and the better the outcome is," she said. "I was lucky mine was so small." Luck, of course, was only part of it. The other part was showing up for the test, despite the fear. The other part was having people who would walk beside you when the diagnosis came.
Notable Quotes
I think I had my own stigma because mum had it and passed away, and I guess I didn't want to find out that I had it too.— Tracey Frost, on avoiding mammograms
It means heaps, absolutely heaps, to have these women here to support me today.— Tracey Frost, on her mother's group
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
What made Tracey finally go for that mammogram after avoiding it for so long?
She didn't really explain a turning point—it sounds like it was just routine, something she finally did. But the avoidance itself tells you something. She was carrying her mother's death with her, and part of her didn't want to know if she carried the same risk.
And when she got the diagnosis, did she fall apart?
She said it was a shock but not a surprise. That's a particular kind of emotional space—you've been dreading something so long that when it arrives, there's almost a strange clarity to it.
Why did she refuse chemotherapy?
She'd watched her mother go through it. She called it hell. And she had options—hormone blockers with better survival rates for her specific case. So it wasn't denial. It was choosing a different path based on what she'd learned from watching someone she loved suffer through the old one.
The mother's group—do you think they knew what to do, or were they just there?
Just being there might be the whole thing. They'd known each other for twenty-one years. They'd been through everything together except this. So they showed up and walked.
What about Jeff Hintum, walking at the back?
He's been doing this since his wife died in 2011. That's fifteen years of walking at the back, making sure no one finishes alone. That's not just volunteering. That's a way of staying close to her, and to everyone else who's lost someone.
Does the money matter as much as the walking?
Hintum said he cares more about awareness than fundraising, but the money comes anyway—over thirty thousand dollars a year. I think for him, the walking is the point. The money is what happens when a community shows up together.