There is no one single cancer experience. This is mine. It may not reflect what others have gone through, but for those who can relate, I hope it helps you feel a little less alone, especially during Breast Cancer Awareness Month. And for those who haven’t, I hope it offers a glimpse of understanding.
Certain moments in life change you forever, dividing everything into “before” and “after.” For me, it was the second I was diagnosed with triple-negative breast cancer at 34 years old in February of 2020 — right on the cusp of the pandemic. I was blindsided. It didn’t seem real. At the time, my life was a pure high — I was fully in control and thriving. I was living in New York City (and still am), working on high-end clients at a global PR agency, and planning my next date with a super cute guy who had big muscles. My life was pure, carefree energy of boozy brunches, Taylor Swift concerts, and weekends in Montauk. A friend of mine (thanks, Clare) described me as “a standout. The one you’d lock eyes with in a room and try not to laugh because you both caught the crazy moment.”
*And, just like that…*
It was found at random during a routine annual exam with my gynecologist. I had an ultrasound and “urgent” mammogram; two days later, a biopsy in three places (the armpit sent me to the roof; I still sweat thinking about it); two days after that, a breast cancer diagnosis. Just when I thought nothing else could go wrong, I got a phone call telling me I was BRCA1+. I collapsed into my mom’s arms and remember thinking, “I don’t want to die.” Later that night, I lay awake, restless — my life changed *just like that.* My brain was projecting to the worst possible scenarios, and in a whisper, I mumbled, “If you’re not going to do it for me, do it for my mom and dad.” To this day, I don’t know who I was saying that to…myself? God? Anyone who would listen?
In what felt like the next minute, I was in the deep end, fast and furious — test after test, decisions, decisions, decisions, chemo, surgeries, radiation, and beyond. And, thanks to a global pandemic, all of this was done alone in isolation. I took solace in my nurses (shoutout to Alyssa, Meredith, and Britni) and oncologist (Dr. G), who quickly became the only form of outside human contact.
For three-and-a-half years, the treatment, surgeries, and physical side effects were relentless — the nausea, the exhaustion, the hair loss, the scars left behind from scalpel after scalpel. But breast cancer doesn’t just alter your body; it rewires your mind. Anxiety sneaks in, intrusive thoughts take root, sadness becomes an unwelcome tenant…and you grieve. You grieve the person you used to be before, the future you thought was certain. A colleague of mine who knew me before cancer recently said to me, “You were so light before. I can see the emotional heaviness on you now.” As much as I try to hide it, she’s not wrong. I struggle to remember what carefree feels like.
When something like this happens to you, the dreams, plans, and visions of who you were supposed to become turn into memories of another life. My 30s felt stripped from me, and my dreams, plans, and visions went from what was considered the norm for a 30-something to: “I pray it doesn’t come back.” “I hope I make it to five years.” “Are my scan results back yet?”
And then, you have to adjust to the “after.” I’ve been living in the “after” for more than a year now, and to be honest, I’m still figuring out who I am. I’ve gained 30 pounds, I’m in full menopause, I still experience chemo brain (fogginess, forgetfulness, confusion), and I’m chronically fatigued. I now prefer isolation as I feel like a walking vulnerability that I don’t want people to see. My heart, however, has remained the constant throughline.
For many cancer survivors, the grief lingers. We carry it. We exist. We survive. But we’re not the same.
Day by day, our hair grows back, and our smiles return. From the outside, it looks like we’ve healed. Gradually, people stop seeing what we’ve been through. This is where the real power of empathy comes in — empathy for ourselves, and hope that others just…remember.
Every day, I try to rediscover who I am just by living (and a lot of therapy). The trauma hasn’t simply faded with remission — it’s there, tucked away, waiting for quiet moments to surface. I just try not to let it show. And if it does, I find myself saying to people I meet, “I wish you would’ve known me before cancer.”
Through it all, I know one thing for sure: I beat the odds. I’m a survivor. I get to have an “after.” I wear a pink ribbon pin every day, reminding myself that I did it. I’ve been able to connect with people in ways I never imagined, forging lifelong friendships with survivors and thrivers all over the world. My story has inspired women to take control of their health, with many reaching out to tell me they’ve scheduled their mammograms. And my two little cousins discovered they were BRCA1+, giving them the power to make proactive choices. And I am so damn grateful for all of it.
I’m optimistic I’ll find the version of me that I love. For those who feel the same, I wish you strength and peace as you navigate this journey.
As Ferris Bueller wisely said, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” For me, writing this is one of those moments to pause, reflect, and appreciate the strength — and incredible doctors, nurses, and medicine — that got me here. And I am here, and if you’re reading this, you’re here. That means something.
