One morning I came across a photo of a man in a big, floppy hat, walking down an empty mountain highway in Colorado. The caption read, “David Kunst, walking through Colorado on his way home to Minnesota to become the first man to walk around the world.”

Wow, I thought, staring at the photo. I didn’t know you were allowed to think of such a thing if you were from Minnesota. Fascinated that the simple movement of putting one foot in front of the other could transport you through countries, across borders, over mountains, and into various cultures, peoples and ideas, I was inspired. “That’s how I want to see the world someday — I’ll walk!” I thought.

But I knew I was thinking way outside the box for a 12-year-old girl from Minnesota, so I tucked the idea into the back of my head.

Fast-forward ahead 22 years, and life’s journey had brought me to living in Vail, CO. A lot of women around me had been diagnosed with breast cancer — friends, colleagues and two aunts, one of whom died from the disease. I got nervous and went to the doctor to get a mammogram, where I was told something that inadvertently changed my life. The doctor said, “You don’t need to worry about getting breast cancer. You can’t get breast cancer if it doesn’t run on your mother’s side of the family.”

After my appointment, I returned to work, where a friend asked how it all went. I told her that I was one of the lucky ones — I can’t get breast cancer. She set me straight. “Of course you can get breast cancer!” she said. “Every single woman in the world is at risk for getting breast cancer! Eighty percent of women diagnosed with breast cancer have no known risk factors at all. The bottom line is that we have no idea what causes breast cancer! This is the sort of bad information that’s going on in the world, and this is what we have to put an end to!” And she fumed about my doctor for the rest of the day.

It was that night walking home that I had my VIV Moment. All the stars aligned, and I knew I would do that walk I’d always wanted to do. I immediately loved the idea of a woman walking for women, educating women all over the world about this disease that unfortunately bonds us all from the smallest nooks to the largest cities.

My head started spinning with all the questions: Can I walk 15 miles a day for 5 years? Is it safe? How do I protect myself? How can I afford it? How do I get sponsors? How do I make a business plan? What countries can I get through? How do I get across the water? And during the last mile walking home that night, I started planning my GlobalWalk for Breast Cancer.

After three years of planning and five years of walking, I, in fact, did finish my walk around the world on July 20, 2004, with 14,124 miles, 22 countries and four continents to raise more than $250,000 for 13 breast cancer organizations around the world.

The majority of fundraising was done with the help of Lions Clubs International, who would pass me from town to town and help plan fundraising events. The more press they generated, the more people on the road got involved. One time, during a traffic jam, I walked right past all the stuck cars until someone knew who I was from the newspapers. When he got out to make a donation, it started an avalanche of donations through the traffic jam.

When possible, I worked with breast cancer organizations in each country. Along with my international sponsor of the Lions Clubs, these groups organized educational forums in many villages in the Third World nations, where local doctors came and spoke to the women of the village in the local language.

There was, of course, the whole series of challenges presented by Mother Nature: a 7.2 earthquake in the Mojave Desert, the “flood of the century” in Brisbane, Australia, the extreme heat (120 degrees Fahrenheit at the highest in India) and the sleet and blizzards of an Iowa December.

There were also the language barriers, of course, the cultural head-butts, particularly when it came to very male-dominated cultures. The biggest challenge was walking through a Muslim country during and immediately after 9/11 as a Jewish American woman talking about breasts.

I’ve been told many times that after hearing me speak or hearing my story, women would book a mammogram. As a motivational speaker, I talk about breast cancer, in particular the importance of early detection and second and third opinions. But the take-away of my speeches is more about perseverance and breaking down those daunting journeys in our lives into very small manageable increments, and taking it step-by-step.

The first time I had to buy something, I walked into the store and asked the owner in Hindi, “Are shoes in your direction?” They were indeed, and after some negotiations, a pair was then in my direction. The whole exchange seemed delicate, courtly. It took a while before the philosophy embedded in the phrase — material things are never truly ours — began to sink in though.

But there came a time, a few months on, when I looked around the room in the Indian house where I’d moved — a room that before would have seemed uncluttered — and suddenly felt ashamed at having so much stuff crammed in there. The other rooms in the house were all so spare and beautiful. Worse, the maid kept returning my trash to me. I’d try to discard a bum pen and it would land back on the desk. “Madame, you can refill it for three rupees,” the maid finally explained. She’d use my trash — discarded newspapers, crinkled wrappings — to line my shelves: a practical consideration but a nightmare look to a Westerner, until I thought about it. In a place where you’re not invested in your stuff, you don’t express yourself through decorating. All the same, I snuck it out.

I vowed that once I got back, I’d keep my rooms spare and beautiful, but I didn’t. Language shapes the way we think and now that I’m back in English, my things are once again possessions — I own them. Alas, they’re no longer transitory.

Photo credit: Adrian Kinloch

My story begins ater my birth in the Carpathian Alps of Hungary during World War II. I was hidden as an infant as the Holocaust swept Europe. At the end of the war, I was taken to Canada where I was raised, married and had six children, and in 1971 entered the jewelry business. My determination to forge a new career was uncommon at the time, and I was shunned by local businessmen as I attempted to learn about the industry. With a strong interest in the pearl market, I took matters into my own hands and went directly to the source.

Armed only with a guide from the Japan Pearl Exporters’ Association, I traveled to Japan and immersed myself in learning about pearls and visiting wholesalers in an attempt to forge relationships. Later, I expanded my expertise in the pearl industry by studying at the GIA (Gemological Institute of America). Since then, clients from around the world have commissioned me to design and craft unique pieces of jewelry. My jewelry design skills have also been tapped by Mattel to create a line of jewelry for the toy maker’s legendary Barbie collection, which received the prestigious Innovation Award for design.

In 1999, my family launched Ice.com, which has become a leading jeweler on the web committed to providing customers with the best value, quality, service and selection to consumers who enjoy jewelry as both a fashion essential and a fun part of their everyday lives. I couldn’t be more content to know that my vision has thrived into a flourishing business and will be a legacy for my family. Each one of my children plays a pivotal role in the running of Ice.com and my 42 grandchildren (and counting!) know that if they choose, they can work for our homegrown business.

So, I buried my nose in the books. I didn’t fear being a geek! I was going to be Mary! Graduating with a triple major from Stanford University, I was on my way — a stellar education that would, I knew, put me on my course (if not in the poorhouse first).

Where else to move but the land of glittery dreams: Hollywood. A gig with B-movie producer Roger Corman gave me credits (writing, directing and producing). And opened doors. Eventually, Francis Ford Coppola named me his producing partner. One day, while cruising down the Hollywood Freeway in my newly purchased BMW convertible (well, more owned by BMW Financial Services … but you get the gist), heading to a meeting with the president of ABC, I wondered, “Hey Mary, have I taken the town?”

A few days later, the question became inconsequential. I knew of too many people rushing into their New York offices to start another hectic day one fateful September morning. And when, a few months later, my new husband’s young nephew plunged to his untimely death, mortality became all too real. How could I turn the world on with a smile, when I no longer felt like smiling?

There were happy moments. An unexpected surprise came when the EPT test showed not one, but two lines. And after Dash made his appearance March 31, 2004, my husband suggested living a dream we had playfully discussed: sailing the Caribbean for several months — just me, my husband and our infant son.

Could I do it? I didn’t know. What about my career, after all? I certainly had misgivings. But rest assured, Mary, I thought: I’m not giving up … just taking a break … and I will be back.

Soon after, we pulled anchor on our 41-foot sailboat, aptly christened Dirty Diapers. For eight months, we sailed 42 islands, learning about rich histories, distinct cultures and unbelievable plights. It wasn’t that long ago, after all, when numerous people of Montserrat lost their homes, livelihoods and lives to one angry volcano. And for the people of Dominica, earning enough money for dinner is their daily struggle. Yet all of these people seemed happy. All found a way to be content in simplicity.

And then there was the moment. As I lay on an 11-mile, pink-sandy Barbuda beach with my husband and son, making sand castles and no one else within view, it dawned on me that months had gone by without my checking the satellite phone for a call from a network bigwig. I couldn’t remember the last time that I practiced a pitch in the hopes of selling the “Big One.” I no longer desired to return to the rat race. Hollywood was thrilling, but for me, nothing compared to spending time with my family, cherishing every moment.

I stood up, walked to the water, threw my baseball cap into the air, and said, “Hey, Mary, I have made it, after all.”

But wait: There was a second moment. While in the Grenadine Islands, we watched Rastafarian ladies sitting under coconut trees, stitching away with needle and thread. Before our eyes, used flour sacks were transposed into sturdy market bags. Then and there came our inspiration to start a business — and WeBe Bags (“We be bags, mon!”) was born. Our eco-friendly totes are sewn and produced indigenously in the Grenadine Islands from used farm sacks, colorful local fabrics and authentic sail ties, and come in several styles. Our “Wholegrain Bag” and “Cream of the Islands” collections are sold in boutiques throughout the Caribbean and the United States; but being true to our home residence of Park City, UT (and borrowing from the Rocky Mountains’ cowboy history), we also now have a ranch sack collection, featuring bags such as the “Howlin’ Wolf” and “Little Big Horn.” Through WeBe bags, we hope to introduce agri-cool fashion to the masses — and make industrial chic obsolete! Check us out at webebags.com.

In actuality, we had many close calls that taught me things I still think about today. When I get into a difficult situation, I often remember one experience. We were in the remote hills of Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo), staying in a little cabin and visiting the Mountain Gorillas (the animals).

We had befriended some of the local villagers who lived in nothing more than mud shacks, yet were some of the most wonderful and happy people I have ever met. We mentioned to them we were interested in going to Uganda, which was still in a civil war, and the one place our parents had specifically told us to avoid. Believing that the war was further north (we were near the south), we decided to take the chance. The villagers offered to take us to the closest boarder crossing. We spent the day walking through backcountry on little more than dirt paths and passing through tiny villages.

At one point we had at least 100 children following us, yelling, “Muzungu” (white man). They followed at a safe distance, and when the brave ones got close, we’d turn around and say, “Boo.” With fits of giggles they’d scatter and then quickly return to the game. It lulled us into a false sense of security.

Upon reaching a small shack on the side of a dirt trail, a clearly underused crossing, we faced a Zaire border official. After signing a book and stamping our passports, he allowed us to officially leave the country and we headed into the jungle, through this no-man’s land towards Uganda. Eventually we came to a large clearing with three half-blown up buildings and figured this must be Uganda — even though it appeared to be deserted.

We carefully walked to the seemingly empty buildings and when we came around the corner of one of them, we discovered three soldiers sitting on the old colonial-style front porch. A huge man with a machine gun, a tall skinny man (also holding a machine gun) and a kid who looked about 12 years old and bearing a large rifle all stared at us.

We approached, asking, “Customs? Immigration?” The big guy slowly stood up, shook his head, and said, “No immigration.” We asked again, “Customs? Immigration?” Again the big guy said, “No immigration.” John looked at me and said, “Let’s start walking.” We turned our backs to the soldiers and started walking into the country down the single lane dirt road surrounded by jungle.

Suddenly the soldiers cocked their guns and yelled something we couldn’t understand. I froze with my back to them looking at the jungle thinking, “Oh no, I’m going to be raped and murdered in Uganda and thrown in that bush over there and no one has a clue where we are.” We had already signed out of Zaire. In those days, backpacks had a metal plate in them, and I wondered if the metal would absorb the bullets. Unlikely.

John slowly turned around and asked, “What?” (I had learned as a woman here not to speak in these situations unless absolutely necessary.) The big guy put on a huge smile and said, “Customs.” Great. Now the shake down, I thought. The first thing they did was separate us. The big guy took John inside the building. I wondered if I could take on the tall skinny guy as well as the kid. Physically, I didn’t have a chance — but I went into complete survival mode and every possibility zoomed through my head.

They spoke broken English and French. Since I speak a little French we were able to communicate. They pointed to my backpack and told me to open it. They went through everything and discovered my small ball of safety pins, useful items when backpacking for a year. They picked it up and said that I was a spy, that this was a dismantled bomb, and that I was going into the country to blow it up.

I tried to explain what the pins were, but they didn’t understand. Carefully, I took one of the pins and slowly moved to one of the millions of holes in their tattered uniforms. I opened the pin and gently pinned together one of the holes in the kid’s shirt. Suddenly, they started to laugh. They thought this was the greatest thing. I still don’t know if these guys were laughing because they had never seen a safety pin or because they thought a ball of safety pins was a bomb. I didn’t really care. All I could think was that laughing is good. As I periodically glanced over to the front door, praying that John was okay and would soon return, I pinned their shirt holes shut.

After about 20 minutes, John and the big guy finally came outside. The big guy was ogling me and I could tell he was saying very derogatory things as he nudged John with his elbow. John appropriately laughed at the distasteful humor and walked over to me. He quietly whispered, “Just start walking.”

We slowly waved goodbye and once again headed down the dirt road. It took only a few minutes before we rounded a corner but it was the longest few minutes I had ever felt. As soon as we were out of sight we collapsed with relief; however, we were now illegally in a country at war. We were NOT going back the way we came, so we spent the next four days hitchhiking through war-torn Uganda to Kampala, the capital city. There, we caught a train to Kenya.

We saw some frightening things. Fortunately, we were ignored at all the checkpoints as, sadly, the locals fought each other.

Now I work in the movie business and over the years have been presented with many challenges. When I find myself face-to-face with a belligerent or angry actor, studio executive or crew member, I calmly think to myself, “I survived being held at gunpoint in Uganda. I can survive this.” (Of course, I do not recommend this as a way to develop strength for business but as we all know, any type of travel can be an educating experience!) I am grateful for my travels and being able to use the things I have learned along the way.

As a writer the most amazing moments are those when I sit down at the keyboard to think about what to write. And then I “awake” hours later to find stories that flowed out of me with minimal effort (effective, creative channeling). As a director my most amazing moment was the first time I did it (directed, I mean) and realized that it was innate (and not just because I’m bossy).

Several months ago, I was on day 13 of a 14-day shoot in Sierra Leone. It was my first trip to Africa and I had with me a crew of nine and several escorts. I was the white girl running the show — doing a damn fine job of it. We had been upcountry and were finally back in Freetown. On this night I had the opportunity to get more than three hours of sleep for the first time since we had arrived.

Packed, showered and nursing a bottle of whiskey, I decided to go to sleep. But the balcony of my hotel room overlooked the ocean. And the most startling, beautiful storm I had seen in years was rolling the seas, blasting thunder across the heavens and moving the furniture around the pool below with long fingers of lightning.

Like any crazy white lady from the States I took my chair and my whiskey out onto the balcony to watch and let the turbulent atmosphere wrap around me like a blanket. It was one of those moments of purity and contentment in which I didn’t wish to be braver or thinner or different in any way. I was just glad to be me.

The security officer was yelling at a tiny, young Quechua woman with a baby strapped to her back. She did not speak Spanish. As we had Quechua and Spanish interpreters with us I stepped up and asked if we could help.

The guard readjusted his gun and stared at me. He finally relented when they told him that I was a doctor and I would look at his eyes! The whole disagreement was about not letting this woman through security because she did not have the $3 fee. I gave it to the man, shined a flashlight in his eyes, and told him he looked great. I gave him a sample of tear lubricant drops and we were all let through security.

The Quechua woman later approached me with tears in her eyes. She had found someone to write me a note in English. She had traveled for weeks and spent all of her money and anything her family would give her to take her baby to the hospital in Lima. She didn’t have a penny left to pay the fee to get back through security and home. She was so grateful. It is an understatement but we are incredibly lucky. Now that I have children, thinking about his experience always makes me cry.

I’m a big-time hiker but very afraid of heights, and the producers of the film didn’t want me to take any risks of injury since we were still shooting. I was assured there was a trail without cliffs. As we got higher, the trail got steeper, more narrow and treacherous. Two of the guys took ropes out of their bags!

Cut to me clinging to the side of a sheer cliff, frozen with fear. I looked down the straight drop and up to more cliffs to scale. I knew I had to find it in me to keep going. I made a decision that I could do this. I kept my eye on the prize of getting to the top of that mountain, one step at a time.

I felt so accomplished when I reached the summit and took in the spectacular view. I opted to take the cable car down and got myself back to the set of the film in one piece.

Although I’m still not into heights, I learned I have an inner strength — that I can rely on myself to get me where I need to go.

While these accomplishments feel like a string of VIV Moments, I think my true VIV Moment was the first time we drove up the road to visit the school. We had no idea what would greet us. I’d seen pictures of the school but had no heart-and-soul connection to it or the girls.

When we rounded the corner and crested a small hill, ahead of us — under a tree — were about 75 of the girls, singing a greeting to us. Singing in the most beautiful, joyous voices I had ever heard. Singing songs of thanks. In that moment it hit me — we are all connected. The money I had raised in Los Angeles could and will make a significant and direct impact on the lives of people who need it. One person can make a difference.

We went back to Kenya in November of 2008 to watch 40 of the girls graduate from Nyamasare. It’s amazing to think that two years ago, there were only two classes now there are six classrooms, beds for the 150 girls who live at the school and a solar-powered computer on its way. The school now is ranked nationally in Kenya.

It’s so easy to think about what’s tough regarding our own lives, but there is always someone who has it tougher. Much tougher. It is our responsibility to give back what we can. “Life Is Short. Make a Difference” is what we say at OneKid OneWorld. Every time I come back from Kenya, I am recommitted to making a difference every day.