This post is part of In Treatment, a series sharing what breast cancer has looked like from the inside. This is not medical advice, just one woman’s lived experience, offered with care.

Today marks one year - the day I lost my breasts

Not because I wanted to. My desire to live was greater than my desire to keep them. But I want to be clear about something — my breasts were one of my favorite parts of my body. They got cancer, and I had a choice: save them or save me.

I chose me.

My Lived Experience

I had a bilateral mastectomy, commonly referred to as a double mastectomy, because both of my breasts had cancer. Some women choose a lumpectomy or a unilateral (single) mastectomy. That choice belongs to each woman and her doctor. I’m not here to weigh in on anyone else’s decision.

I’m here to talk about mine. And about what I lost.

I grieve my breasts.

I grieve their fullness under a shirt. I grieve how my cleavage could accentuate a great dress. I grieve that feeling at the end of a long day when I’d finally take off my bra. I grieve their weight. I grieve the sexual pleasure they gave me. I grieve them when I see a woman breastfeeding her baby or pumping. Something I will never experience.

I grieve them often. And I don’t think I will ever stop grieving my original breasts.

I read something recently in Before I Let Go by Kennedy Ryan that said exactly what I couldn’t find the words for:

That is what this grief feels like.

What makes it so hard is that it is one of the invisible parts of breast cancer. Of course, the most important thing is to live. I know that. I chose that. But the emotional weight of losing your breasts is very difficult to explain to someone who hasn’t been through it.

When I was first diagnosed, I felt like I was walking around with bombs strapped to my chest. Now that they’re gone, I miss a huge part of myself.

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A part that made me feel sexy.

A part that was tied to my femininity.

A part that was supposed to feed my future babies.

A part that gave me sexual pleasure.

A part that was just me.

A part that is gone and will never come back.

What many people don’t realize is that after a mastectomy, your chest goes numb. I can’t feel the majority of my chest. I will have reconstructive surgery and get new breasts, but they will not have the sensation my original breasts had. That is a permanent loss.

So yes, I will grieve my original breasts probably for the rest of my life. I know the grief will soften over time. But it will remain. Because despite surviving breast cancer, despite doing the courageous thing of a bilateral mastectomy, losing my breasts has been one of the most unexpected emotional pains of this entire journey.

Making Meaning

There is a particular kind of grief that lives in the body.

Not the grief we talk about openly — the kind that comes with losing a person, a relationship, a job. This grief is quieter and more confusing because from the outside, everything looks fine. You survived. You made the right choice. People celebrate that.

But inside, you are standing at a loss that nobody put on the calendar.

I want to name it clearly for anyone reading this who has been through it or is about to go through it: grieving your breasts is not vanity. It is not weakness. It is not ingratitude for being alive. It is a completely human response to losing a part of yourself that was tied to your identity, your femininity, your pleasure, and your future.

Two things can be true. You can be grateful you are alive and devastated by what it cost you.

The morning of my surgery, I sat in the waiting room and wrote my breasts a letter.

I’ll share it with you in my next post.

Things Worth Knowing

On grieving your body during breast cancer treatment

No one puts this part in the brochure. Here is what I want you to know.

1. Your grief is valid, even when you chose this. Choosing a mastectomy to save your life does not mean you are not allowed to mourn what you lost. Courage and grief are not opposites. They can live in the same body at the same time.

2. The numbness is real and it is disorienting. After surgery, your chest will likely have very limited or no sensation. This is not something people talk about enough. Ask your surgeon what to expect so you are not blindsided by it.

3. Reconstruction is a process, not a finish line. It’s been over a year, and I’m still waiting for new breasts. Getting new breasts does not mean the grief ends. They will look different. They will feel different. Give yourself time and grace to adjust without rushing toward normal.

4. Find a way to say goodbye. Whether it is a letter, a journal entry, a conversation, or a quiet moment before surgery — let yourself mark the loss. Don’t skip over it to get to the healing. The goodbye is part of the healing.

If You’re Here, This Is for You

If you are facing a mastectomy or have already had one, I see you.

This loss is real. It is allowed to hurt. And the courage it takes to choose your life over a part of your body that you loved is something most people will never fully understand.

But I do.

You are not losing yourself. You are fighting for yourself. And that distinction matters, even on the days it doesn’t feel like it.

It will be a long journey, and I hope you continue to stay here for the ride.

Until my next post. Take good care of yourself.

Remember back to the COVID-19 pandemic for a second.

I know. I know. It was traumatic, but I have a point I’m trying to make.

Do you remember the feeling of being scared to be around people you loved?

Do you remember the first time someone coughed near you without a mask?

Do you remember looking at people sideways if they didn’t wash their hands for exactly 30 seconds?

Girl, are you singing Happy Birthday TWICE in your head? Because it doesn’t seem like it!

Do you remember the fear of getting sick and dying?

This is how the outside world feels when you’re going through chemotherapy. There’s a level of fear about being out in the world, yet that’s the only place you want to be. Your body, however, is asking — demanding — that you slow down and allow yourself to heal. More importantly, chemotherapy makes you immunocompromised. Internally, your body is waging the war of a lifetime with the assistance of life-saving medications. And the emotional weight of watching the world continue to move on without you is heavy.

My Lived Experience

This experience can be extremely isolating. Chemotherapy and all the doctors’ appointments become a grind. Due to my triple negative breast cancer, I was doing weekly infusions for three months. My cancer center and my nurses became my people. While my sister attended my first infusion, I did the majority of my infusions and appointments alone. I remember getting emotional about the lack of in-person support I was receiving.

But what I didn’t know was what my loved ones were quietly planning behind the scenes.

It is March 2025. Aries season, to be exact. Shoutout to my Aries brothers and sisters. My birthday was approaching, and it was a big one. Forty. At the beginning of the year, I had planned a big trip to celebrate. Until breast cancer had other plans, which included an infusion the day before my birthday.

My partner made plans to visit me for two weeks during this time. I was looking forward to it, but I was clear with him that we needed to play it by ear. My body has a mind of her own after chemo. My close friend Vivi also asked to do a double date with her husband the day after my birthday. I was nervous because two days after a Taxol/Carbo infusion is no joke. I told myself I would do my best.

My infusion was successful. My partner finally got to meet my care team in person, the people who had only known him through video calls during my infusions. They already loved him.

That day, the most important video call came from my dad. As I shared in a previous post, my father was also battling cancer. He had stage 4 bile duct cancer, which had spread and had him hospitalized for months. He called to wish me a happy birthday. I thanked him and introduced him to my partner. My dad, always the protector, looked at him through his own emotions and said, “You make sure you take care of my daughter.”

He said, “I will, sir.”

My father would pass a month later. He never got to meet the man I love in person. That call meant everything to me.

The next day, my partner and I headed out to celebrate my birthday. I had been craving vegan waffles. We drove to the restaurant, and I realized I had misread the menu. They don’t serve waffles until the weekend. It was Friday.

I looked at the menu, and I started to get emotional.

There were plenty of delicious options that under normal circumstances I would have devoured. But this was a day after chemo. My stomach was sensitive, and carbs were what I could hold down without consequence. We walked back to the car, and I cried. My partner was gentle and empathetic, just holding space for me.

In that moment, I made a decision.

“Forget this vegan life. I’m getting regular pancakes because it’s my damn birthday. I’m fighting cancer, and I’m not going to be so rigid that I can’t live my life.”

So I got the pancakes. And they were delicious.

We spent the rest of the day exploring and hit two more spots.

There were a few “oh no” moments when my stomach started to protest. But I stayed out. That evening, my partner said, “Tomorrow, we rest until we meet up with Vivi and Chris.” I was relieved to hear it. I needed that rest.

The next morning, Vivi checked in, saying she needed a bit more time. Vivi was pregnant with her first child, so I completely understood. As my partner and I were getting ready, my stomach was unsettled again. I stood in the bathroom literally praying for the strength to get through the night. I had gone weeks without seeing people in person. I was ready. I needed this.

Vivi and Chris finally picked us up. We headed to a restaurant that Vivi said she had recently discovered. But as we started driving, I realized I recognized where we were going. Chris dropped us off close to the door because it was raining. As we walked toward the entrance, I noticed balloons through the window.

“Oh, there’s a party in here,” I said.

Nothing registered until I walked through the door.

My family. My friends. My coworkers. “SURPRISE!”

The tears came immediately. As I scanned the room, I saw people who had traveled from different states to be there. I was speechless. These people had been conspiring to make sure my 40th birthday was a true celebration of life.

We ate. We laughed. We played games. We cried. It was beautiful.

Making Meaning

I cannot fully explain to you what celebrating life feels like when you are in the middle of a battle for it.

Before that day, I was afraid of being around people and getting sick. That fear was valid. I couldn’t afford to get sick. But the joy that the Universe allowed in that room exceeded anything I could have worried about. My stomach cooperated. I didn’t feel sick. I was just present, and so deeply grateful.

I will never forget that birthday. In the time when I needed celebration the most, I received it.

What many people don’t know is that I had actually asked God for this months earlier.

In February, I met the owner of the restaurant, Michelle, at a vegan food festival. We chatted about her space, and she mentioned that she allowed people to host events there, charging only for the food, not the venue. I told her I had recently been diagnosed with breast cancer and would love to look into hosting a birthday party there. She gave me her card and told me to reach out.

Then the chemo grind took over.

I didn’t have the capacity to plan it myself, and I hadn’t asked anyone in my circle to take it on either.

But God heard me. And God answered in a way that covered more than I even asked for.

My 40th was celebrated with the people I loved most, and my partner got to finally meet the community that had been holding me up through all of this.

That is what trust looks like. Not certainty. Trust.

Things Worth Knowing

1. On staying connected during treatment. Isolation is real during chemotherapy. It is one of the parts of this journey nobody prepares you for. Here is what helped me and what I want you to hold onto.

2. Be honest about what you need. I didn’t ask for a party. I mentioned a dream to a stranger. Telling the people in your life what you’re longing for — even in passing — gives them something to work with.

3. Let people show up in the ways they know how. Your loved ones may not always know what to do. They’re navigating this too. Give them the opportunity to love you the way they know how, and try to receive it with grace.

4. Protect your energy, but don’t disappear. It might look very different than before. A two-hour birthday dinner instead of an all-night celebration. Pancakes instead of a planned trip abroad. That’s okay. Presence in whatever form you can manage still matters.

5. Be with people when you can. It might look completely different than it used to. A two-hour dinner instead of an all-night celebration. Pancakes instead of a planned trip abroad. That is okay. Show up in whatever form you have available.

   And yes, protect yourself while you do it. Wear a mask in large crowds. Wash your hands before you eat. Watch your energy because it will shift. But do not let the fear of getting sick become the reason you disappear from your own life.

   This season is temporary. It will not always feel this way.

6. On prayer and trust. The hardest part of trust is not the dreaming. It is believing the dream is possible when everything around you says otherwise.

   In this cancer journey, I said I was going to kick cancer’s ass. And I did. But that required a positive attitude, the courage to believe, and a community I was willing to lean on.

   If you hear nothing else from this post, hear this:

   Your prayers are being answered. Even right now. Even when you cannot see it.

   Trust that the Universe has you.

If You’re Here, This Is for You

I turned 40 with a blood clot healing in my body, chemo running through my veins, and a room full of people who loved me so much they crossed state lines to show up.

That is the beauty in this battle.

It is not that cancer is easy or fair or deserved. It is not. But in the middle of it, life can still surprise you. Joy can still find you. Your people can still show up in ways that leave you speechless.

If you are going through treatment right now, I am not going to tell you it is easy. But I am going to tell you this: let people in. Ask for what you need, even if only to a stranger at a food festival. Trust that the Universe is listening.

And when the moment comes, eat the pancakes.

It will be a long journey, and I hope you continue to stay here for the ride.

Until Volume 7. Take good care of yourself.

If this offered you even a small moment of clarity, comfort, or courage — subscribe to stay on this journey with me.

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Despite deciding to take medical leave from work, I still couldn’t stop producing.

To leave my job, I sent my principal a plan for my transition.

Looking back at that email now, I see exactly what I was doing. I still could not sit my behind down somewhere.

The fact is, my cancer superseded all of it. Yes, my profession was teaching at the time. But my only job was to heal from cancer. My job would have figured it out without me. I had already done so much. I just couldn’t listen. Not to Ms. Wilma. Not to my own medical team.

My Lived Experience

My principal sent back a list of deliverables in response.

I remember thinking the list was ridiculous. I was angry about it, even though I still did every single item on it.

But really, I needed to be upset with myself. I was the one setting expectations that were unrealistic for my current state of health.

That week, I labored to create plans for my students. Unless you are a teacher, you won’t understand how labor intensive being out of work actually is. You have to prepare so much for the people covering for you when you’re not there. Usually, it’s just easier to go in. But I couldn’t physically be there.

I did chemotherapy that Wednesday of my last week. I worked from my bed on Thursday.

On Friday morning, I woke up with a pain in my left calf muscle. It reminded me of the tightness right before a charley horse. I decided to take a short walk around the neighborhood. I was moving slowly, but I was moving, and that’s what mattered, or so I told myself. I thought walking would loosen up the pain.

A video of me walking that day that I sent to my family.

I got home and kept working on my deliverables list. The pain increased.

My cancer clinic has a Nurse Line you can call if you’re experiencing specific symptoms, designed to help keep patients out of the emergency room. They told me to come in for an ultrasound. I already had an appointment that day with my cardiologist. That appointment ran over, so I missed my original ultrasound slot, but I was able to get another one.

The ultrasound revealed a blood clot in my left calf.

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My oncology team put me on a blood thinner. They told me it was very effective, but to watch for other pain. The biggest danger with blood clots is that they can break off and travel to other parts of the body. My nurse specifically told me to be mindful of my breathing. If I noticed any shortness of breath or chest pain, I needed to call immediately.

I picked up my prescription and headed home.

Then I went right back to finishing my final tasks. I hit submit on my deliverables about an hour after I got home.

On Sunday, as I was getting ready for bed, I noticed a pain in my chest. I had eaten a late dinner and assumed it was heartburn, something that happens on chemo. But I kept thinking about what my nurse had said about the clot traveling. I told myself if the pain was still there in the morning, I’d call.

As I made my bed the next morning, the pain hit again.

I called the Nurse Line. They told me to go directly to the emergency room. I packed a bag and went alone.

After several hours, I was told I had another blood clot, this time in my right lung. It was small enough that the blood thinner I was already on would handle it. I was incredibly grateful for that news. I was also furious with myself for thinking I could teach through chemotherapy.

If I had been working, I could have died.

I do not say that lightly. I know myself. I would have brushed off that pain to keep working. To take care of other people’s children instead of myself. The fact that I was able to take medical leave was such a blessing. That Friday, I needed to be home. I needed to be in my body enough to notice that something was off.

Taking off work literally saved my life.

It was a decision I wrestled over for weeks. But I am so deeply grateful I chose to take care of myself, because otherwise I would not be writing this to you right now.

Making Meaning

In a society where we have to prove we “deserve” time off, where we have to prove we are sick enough to justify rest, I am telling you: rest.

You need it.

Rest is not a luxury. Rest is the thing every single one of us needs to live. This “sleep when you die” nonsense needs to be illegal. God, the Universe, Source, whatever word you use, designed you to rest. Rest is where we get our deepest regeneration. We need it literally, in our bodies, not just as a nice idea.

And sleep is not the only form of rest we need. Sleep is just one part of it. We need time to decompress. To recharge. To simply not be on. Our society and our technology have created a false sense of constant movement, like stillness is something to be earned or apologized for.

When was the last time you sat and did nothing?

Let your mind wander with no destination?

Lied in bed and just listened to the birds outside your window?

In a culture that demands our constant output, I am challenging you to sit down. Sick or not.

Sit your ass down before God sits you down.

I had to learn that the hard way. I want you to find the time to just sit and chill before life forces you to.

For those of you who keep putting off that doctor’s appointment, go schedule it now. Stop putting off your health. My blood clot was a hard lesson in listening to my body. Our bodies were designed with intelligence built in. Our society has just spent so long pulling us away from that intelligence that we’ve forgotten how to hear it.

It is an act of self-revolution to say, this is my damn body, and if I do not listen to it, nobody else will.

I challenge you to sit with that question. How would you treat your body differently if you saw it as your soulmate?

Things Worth Knowing

On listening to your body during treatment

My blood clot experience taught me something I wish I hadn’t needed cancer to teach me: stop prioritizing things over yourself.

A few things worth knowing if you’re navigating treatment and trying to “keep up”:

1. Know your clinic’s Nurse Line and save it in your phone. Most cancer centers have one specifically to help you avoid unnecessary ER visits while still catching real emergencies. Save the number where you’ll actually find it.

   1. If your hospital does not have one, ask your oncology team, what symptoms require immediate attention.

   2. The ones I know you need to call about are:

      1. Fevers

      2. More than 3 bowel movements in a day

      3. Constipation

      4. Pain or increased pain

      5. Vomitting

2. Learn the warning signs of blood clots. Calf pain, swelling, chest pain, hot to the touch, and shortness of breath are not things to wait out. If something feels off, call. Every time.

3. Don’t negotiate with your body. I told myself I’d “see if it’s still there in the morning.” Don’t do that. If your body is telling you something, believe it the first time.

4. Deliverables can wait. Your life cannot. I know how hard this is to actually live by. I am still practicing it.

On rest as a non-negotiable

I am a single woman in a long distance relationship with no children yet, so I know some people might say I have a lot of extra time to prioritize myself right now.

I’d reframe that.

I believe God let me experience this so that when I do become a mother, or when my relationship moves into something more daily and present, I will already understand what I need for myself. I can’t pour from an empty cup. I know I would have tried to anyway, because I was so used to putting myself last.

One blessing buried inside this crappy cancer experience has been learning exactly what I need. What brings me joy once you strip away the money, the travel, the things? I know what Amara needs to feel fulfilled.

I’m charging you to think about that for yourself, too. Whether you are in treatment or not.

If You’re Here, This Is for You

I almost died because I couldn’t stop working.

I’m not telling you that for sympathy. I’m telling you because somewhere out there, someone reading this is doing exactly what I did. Pushing through. Proving something. Putting everyone else’s needs ahead of the very clear signals your own body is sending you.

You don’t need a blood clot to give yourself permission to rest.

You don’t need a hospital bed to learn that you matter.

I’m asking you to learn this in an easier way. Sit down. Not because you’re weak. Because you are worth protecting, including from yourself.

It will be a long journey, and I hope you continue to stay here for the ride.

Until Volume 6. Take good care of yourself.

If this offered you even a small moment of clarity, comfort, or courage — subscribe to stay on this journey with me.

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A week into chemotherapy, I knew something had to change.

I just didn’t want to admit it.

I had spent my whole life moving.

Teaching. Producing. Showing up. Doing the most, for myself and for everyone around me. Stopping felt like failing.

And I felt that cancer had already taken so much from me, and it was not going to take this too.

Except it already had.

I just hadn’t accepted it yet.

My Lived Experience

Journal entry 03/02/25

God can you help me w/ this work thing. Is it really feasible? It would be nice to have something else to focus on when I’m feeling well. How can I limit my stress at work? How can I be sure not to feel overwhelmed or tired? What can I do to make this time positive? I wanted to work + now I’m not sure if that makes sense.

Looking back at this entry, I can feel the war happening inside me. Not just the one my body was fighting against cancer, but the one in my mind between who I had always been and who I needed to become.

I returned to my teaching job that Monday after my first chemotherapy session. I was wiped out despite spending the entire weekend lying around. But this was not normal rest. I was fighting breast cancer. My body was full of life-saving yet extremely powerful drugs. I was trying to “be normal,” and why?

Honestly, I didn’t want to accept the fact that my life was changing without my consent.

I didn’t consent to having breast cancer. But I was going to fight it with everything I had. The problem was that I had to let go of my hustle lifestyle. I had to embrace a different type of fight. One that required rest.

As a Black woman, I struggled with rest. My ancestors were forced to labor in a country that only saw us based on what we could produce vs. the core of our humanity and soul. The women in my family have been the breadwinners. The hustlers. The “I’ll do anything for myself and my family” type. Overworking has been a part of my DNA.

But cancer was about to make it very clear that the hustle could not come with me on this journey.

I wore my mask all day while I taught. I tried to be normal, yet I was struggling. Teaching with a mask on is one of the most uncomfortable things ever. At night, I cried. Because I knew what I had to do, and I was scared to do it.

Then the Universe sent me Ms. Wilma.

I got connected to Ms. Wilma through a friend. She was a three-time breast cancer survivor. She had also been a teacher throughout her diagnosis. We spoke one evening after I left work. I told her about my fear of leaving my job. She said something that has stayed with me ever since:

“You can’t care about other people’s children more than you care about yourself.”

Ms. Wilma also shared stories of what happened when she pushed herself during treatment. The scary incidents that came from trying to keep going as normal.

Thank God for her.

In many ways, I needed another Black woman who had been through this journey to tell me to sit my behind down and heal.

I’m glad I listened. Because even if I hadn’t wanted to stop, God was about to make me.

Making Meaning

There is a particular kind of grief that comes with leaving work during illness. It isn’t just the loss of routine or income. It’s the loss of identity.

Working was, in a lot of ways, who I was. My job gave me purpose, structure, and community. It was one of the places I felt most like myself. Leaving it, even temporarily, felt like losing a part of me on top of everything cancer had already taken.

But there was something else underneath the grief. A fear I hadn’t fully named yet.

The fear of the quiet fight.

Being at home meant sitting with cancer. It meant waking up each morning without a place to go, without students who needed me, without the noise that kept me from thinking too hard about what was happening inside my body. The hustle had always been a shield. Without it, I had to actually feel this.

Looking back, I understand now that the Universe wasn’t punishing me by slowing me down. It was protecting me.

Rest wasn’t giving up. It was the fight.

A different kind of fight than I had ever known, but a fight nonetheless.

I am still learning to believe that.

Things Worth Knowing

On leaving work during treatment

Deciding whether to continue working during cancer treatment is deeply personal. There is no right or wrong answer. What I can share is what I learned from my own experience.

Before you decide, ask yourself:

1. Is my job adding to my healing, or is it adding to my stress load?

2. Am I going to work because it genuinely helps me feel like myself, or because I’m afraid of what stopping means?

3. What does my body actually need right now?

If you are considering leaving work:

1. Check your employee benefits immediately. Find out if your employer offers short-term and/or long-term disability insurance. If you are enrolled, understand what it covers and how to file a claim. If you aren’t enrolled, find out when open enrollment is and sign up.

2. If your employer doesn’t offer disability benefits, check whether your state has a program. Many do. A social worker at your hospital or cancer institute can help you navigate this. Don’t try to figure it out alone.

3. Look into supplemental disability insurance you can purchase independently. It will cost a little more, but it is worth it in the long run.

4. Most cancer centers have financial navigators or social workers on staff whose entire job is to help patients find financial resources. Ask for them by name. Use them. That’s what they’re there for.

I want to acknowledge my privilege here. I had access to short and long-term disability through my employer. That allowed me to leave work and still receive a portion of my salary. Not everyone has this. That is not okay. Until our systems change, we have to advocate fiercely for ourselves and for each other.

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On rest as resistance

Rest did not come naturally to me. I had to practice it like a skill. A few things that helped:

• Give yourself permission to rest. This is a hard one. However, I would recommend reading Rest is Resistance: A Manifesto by Tricia Hersey. This helped me to understand how to let myself rest.

• Find your Ms. Wilma. Seek out someone who has walked a similar path. Not to scare you, but to tell you the truth. A lived experience perspective is irreplaceable.

• Let the quiet be part of the healing. This fight is internal. You are battling internally, and you need to allow yourself to do so.

If You’re Here, This Is for You

There is a lie many of us, especially Black women, have been told for generations.

That our worth is tied to our output.

That rest is laziness.

That slowing down means falling behind.

Cancer forced me to confront that lie head on. It took a diagnosis, a body that wouldn’t cooperate, a wise woman on the phone, and a lot of tears in the dark to start unlearning it.

If you are in treatment right now and struggling with the idea of stepping back from work, from obligations, from being everything to everyone, I want you to hear this:

Resting is not giving up.

Resting is how you survive this.

You cannot pour from an empty cup. And right now, your only job is to fill yours back up.

It will be a long journey, and I hope you continue to stay here for the ride.

Until Volume 5. Take good care of yourself.

If this offered you even a small moment of clarity, comfort, or courage — subscribe to stay on this journey with me.

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• 💌 A Note From Amara

• ❤️‍🩹 Feel It

• 🔍 Explore It

• ✍🏾 Reframe It

• 💃🏽 Live It

• 🫂 Peer Support

I made a video version of this space for my visual learners.

Same content, same experience — just me walking you through it out loud.

Press play if that feels right. Or scroll down and go through it in writing. Do what works for you.

💌 A Note From Amara

If you are anything like me, telling people about my diagnosis was one of the hardest parts of the whole experience.

I kept thinking about how other people would feel instead of how I felt. That is something I have had to actively unlearn throughout my treatment. But at the time, all I could think about was every single person my diagnosis would impact.

I have a feeling you might be in the same boat.

You either told people — or didn’t — based on how you thought they would react. Not based on what you needed. Based on them.

This might be an area of your journey you never thought to process. But I believe our reasons for telling or not telling people are deeply rooted in our ability to ask for and receive support. And that has everything to do with our healing.

So let’s go there.

❤️‍🩹 FEEL IT

My Story as a Model

Let me share my own experience of telling people first — so you know you are not alone in how complicated this felt.

Telling People About My Diagnosis

And here is another piece of this story — the experience of telling my students:

The Courage to Let My Students In

🫵🏽 Your Turn

Before we go deeper, take a moment to go back.

I want you to go back to your messages, your memory, your gut — and think about your experience of telling people.

• Who was the first person you told about your diagnosis?

• Why did you choose that person?

• How long after learning it was breast cancer did it take you to tell them?

• Who did you not want to tell — and why?

• Is there anyone you actively chose not to tell? What was your reason?

Sit with these for a moment before you move forward.

If this is resonating — come on in and subscribe.

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🔍 EXPLORE IT

Now let’s go deeper into what those experiences brought up for you.

Take 3 to 5 deep belly breaths before you begin. Breathe in through your nose, expand your belly first then your lungs, pause at the top, and release slowly through your mouth. When you feel present — begin.

The people you told

• What went well about these experiences?

• What did people do, say, or offer that felt genuinely supportive?

• What did people do or say that was not supportive?

• Did those experiences impact how you approached telling others?

Your fears and apprehensions

• What were you most afraid of when it came to telling people?

• Did any of those fears actually happen? If so, how did that feel?

Looking back

• Do you have any regrets about telling or not telling certain people?

• Why do you feel that way?

Be honest with yourself here. There are no right or wrong answers. These are your raw emotions — let them out. They need to be released.

✍🏾 REFRAME IT

As women, we carry a biological urge and a lifetime of societal conditioning that tells us to be selfless.

Biologically, women create life. Motherhood is a selfless act. You offer your body to a new life. Once the baby is born, the baby still needs its mother. And whether you have children or not, society has conditioned women to give to families, to professions, to partners, to everyone — often despite ourselves.

When you receive a breast cancer diagnosis, you have to learn a new way of being. Your health becomes the priority. Boundaries must be set.

But there is a critical difference between a boundary and a barrier — and most of us have never been taught to tell them apart.

A boundary allows you to create healthy expectations for yourself. It comes from a place of healing and self-respect.

A boundary looks like: creating a group message so you don’t have to repeat your diagnosis a hundred times. Setting up a Facebook group. Asking one trusted friend to tell the wider circle, so you don’t have to.

A barrier is designed to keep people out. It comes from pain and fear — often from past experiences of being let down.

A barrier looks like: not telling people because you assume they can’t handle it. Shutting people out. Isolating yourself because it feels safer.

Many of us are setting barriers and calling them boundaries.

Human beings are communal creatures. We flourish in connection. When you shut the world out, the world eventually stops trying to get in. And then you wonder why nobody is around.

What if, instead, you allowed people in? What if people actually want to support you — and they just don’t know how?

Someone once told me something that has stayed with me:

“By not allowing people to help you, you rob them of the gift of giving — and you rob yourself of the gift of receiving.”

I’m not here to tell you that you made a mistake by telling or not telling people. That was your choice, and it made sense at the time. I’m just offering a different perspective.

A breast cancer journey requires you to let people help you. You don’t have to tell everyone your business, but people cannot show up for you if they don’t know you need them.

Our news and social media make people out to be terrible. And yes — some people will say the wrong thing. They will project their fears onto you. They won’t know what to do because cancer at your age scares them — because if it can happen to you, it can happen to them.

But what if you could learn to forgive their naivety? What if you could separate their fear from your experience? How might that free you?

Reflection questions:

• How can you look at this experience differently?

• Where have people shown up for you in ways you didn’t expect?

• How have you grown in your ability to ask for and receive support?

💃🏽 LIVE IT

This activity has three parts. Do all three or start with the one that feels most urgent. There is no wrong order.

Part 1 — A Letter of Forgiveness

If someone responded to your diagnosis in a way that hurt you — I want you to write them a letter of forgiveness.

Tell them how their response impacted you. Be honest. Be specific. Let it all out.

This is NOT a letter you need to send or share. This letter is entirely for you.

Because forgiveness is not about letting someone off the hook. It is about releasing the weight you have been carrying. You forgive for yourself — not for them.

Part 2 — A Letter of Gratitude

If someone showed up for you in a beautiful, unexpected, or deeply meaningful way — write them a note of gratitude.

Tell them specifically what they did and how it impacted you. Tell them what it meant to you when everything felt so uncertain.

I would encourage you to actually share this one with them. People need to know when what they do truly helps. It teaches them how to love us well — and it might show them how to show up for the next person who needs them.

Part 3 — A Letter to Yourself

If you wish you had done anything differently — told someone you didn’t, or not told someone you did — write a letter to the woman who received that diagnosis and made those choices.

Tell her where she was. Tell her why she did what she did. Tell her you understand.

This is not about blame. This is not about shame. This is about offering yourself the same grace and compassion you would give to any other woman going through this.

She was doing the best she could with what she had. So were you.

Moving forward:

As you move through this journey and beyond it, I want you to sit with these questions:

• How can you start asking for help if that has been hard for you?

• How might your life change if you began to see the world through the lens of community rather than isolation?

• What becomes possible when you choose to believe that people are mostly good — and mostly want to help?

🫂 PEER SUPPORT INVITATION

If you want to process this experience with someone who has been exactly where you are, I’m here.

Not as a therapist or a counselor, but as a woman who walked this road and is still walking it. Sometimes you just need someone who truly gets it. If that’s what you need right now, reach out.

You can just reply to this email, and I will hit you back.

In this space:

• 💌 A Note From Amara

• ❤️‍🩹 Feel It

• 🔍 Explore It

• ✍🏾 Reframe It

• 💃🏽 Live It

• 🫂 Peer Support

I made a video version of this space for my visual learners.

Same content, same experience — just me walking you through it out loud.

Press play if that feels right. Or scroll down and go through it in writing. Do what works for you.

💌 A Note From Amara

There was a moment when it all changed.

When you learned it was, in fact, cancer.

Despite your hoping and praying — it was the worst case scenario. That moment is so defining.

Life changes instantly and not at all at the same time.

It’s so confusing. You go from doing your normal things to realizing you have cancer.

It’s overwhelming in a way that words can barely hold.

This moment needs to be explored.

Because life has now been split into two stages — the before and the after.

Once those words “it is cancer” are spoken, life moves quickly. As it should.

The cancer needs to be dealt with.

But emotionally, we need to slow down and explore the moment when everything changed.

We need to sit with what was lost in that instant — a moment so life-altering that we often glaze right over it because treatment becomes the only focus.

This space will allow you to revisit that moment and process what you may never have had the opportunity to before.

❤️‍🩹 FEEL IT

Here is my experience of learning the results — in my own voice. I share this to help you recall your own story.

My Story as a Model

🔗 If you would rather read it, here is the full post: Learning the Results

Here is my journal entry from the day I learned my diagnosis. I’m sharing it unfiltered — exactly as I wrote it — because I want you to know that whatever you felt in that moment was real and valid.

My journal entry from 01/29/25

Yesterday, I found out I had breast cancer in both breasts. I’m just like how did this happen to me?

I do all the right things yet I’m here with cancer.

I’m doing my best to remember I didn’t cause this + I acted quickly on it. I found a lump Dec 20 and w/i a month I know what’s happening.

Well sorta.

I have to go to the breast doctor to see next steps and to know what I will have to do for treatment.

I’m very grateful to have a supportive network. Sierra, well she’s emotional, she said she would do whatever she can to support. Vivi came over immediately after work. Gerri was amazing at the appointment. Kim was supportive. Kisha called me. Tara and Joan were great too.

He (my partner) was amazing coaching me like we were going into a basketball game. For some reason, it was the hardest to tell him b/c we’ve made these plants + now I’m like can we have them?

I think my biggest fear is the child thing. And it feels like my life keeps impacting our relationship. I need to focus on what’s true. He is gonna fight w/me. He is already like I’ll be there.

This sucks though.

Man 2025 is coming in full stream ahead. This is so surreal.

I have cancer.

I’m overwhelmed so much already. This will just be another thing.

🫵🏽 Your Turn

This moment is one of the most important ones to process. This is where life changed.

And it is critical — not optional — to give yourself the space to actually feel what happened.

This is your time.

Find a place where you can be alone and at peace.

Bring something to process your experience — a journal, your phone to record a voice memo, or your laptop. Whatever feels right to you. There is no right or wrong way to do this.

When you are ready, take 3 to 5 deep belly breaths.

Breathe in through your nose. Let your belly expand first, then your lungs. Pause at the top. Then release slowly through your mouth.

Do this until you feel present.

Then begin.

Write out your experience. This doesn’t have to be perfect. Just write or talk it out.

The Waiting Period

Think back to after all the testing was completed — when you were waiting to hear the results.

• What was happening in your life during that waiting period?

• Does anything stick out to you?

Learning the Results

Think back to the moment you learned the results.

• How did you find out?

• What do you remember?

• Who was with you when you found out — and how did their reaction impact you?

Be honest with yourself here. You do not need to edit for anyone.

These are your raw emotions. Let them out. They need to be released.

Take as much time as you need. You may need to come back to this more than once — and that is completely okay. This is your space. Move through it at your own pace.

🔍 EXPLORE IT

After you have written out what happened, let’s focus on how it made you feel.

The Waiting Period

Guiding questions:

• What were you feeling as you waited to hear your results?

• Did your feelings and emotions shift as the testing continued? If so, how did they shift?

Learning the Results

Guiding questions:

• How did you feel in that moment?

• What were your initial thoughts and emotions?

✍🏾 REFRAME IT

Let’s keep it a buck — as my fellow New Yorkers would say — getting a cancer diagnosis is awful.

There is no way around it.

Nobody wants this. Ever.

I am one of the most positive, upbeat people I know, and even I cannot sugarcoat this one.

But I do believe that hard things happen for a reason, even when we cannot see it yet.

Let me tell you about my first boyfriend. We’ll call him Chuck.

Our relationship was good. He broke up with me when things seemed completely fine.

I was devastated. It took me years to realize that heartbreak was one of the biggest blessings of my life.

My 25-year-old self could only see the pain. I couldn’t believe he could just leave. I was ready to move across the country for him. How could he do this to me?

Now, at the big grown age of 40, I am so grateful that the relationship ended.

Chuck reached out when he heard about my cancer diagnosis. We connected by phone.

He told me he had moved back in with his parents as he continued to pursue his entrepreneurial ventures — basically rationalizing why he couldn’t get a regular job.

This is a man I thought I wanted to marry fifteen years ago. When I tell you I was grateful beyond words that I dodged that situation.

But more than that, I realized the relationship would never have fulfilled me.

I would have stayed because things were fine.

We had a good friendship.

We had fun. But I deserved more than fine.

That “awful” moment in my life was actually a blessing I couldn’t see in the moment.

I believe a cancer diagnosis can be the same — but you have to be willing to reframe it. And I know how hard that is. I am not asking you to pretend this isn’t devastating. I hear you. I see you.

But here is what I also know:

Easy isn’t what grows you.

Easy doesn’t help you move through your pain.

Easy isn’t going to heal you.

Easy is what you already tried — and it wasn’t enough.

So what you are going to do now is something different. Something harder and more worthwhile.

You are going to stay open to the possibility that this diagnosis — as confusing and painful and unfair as it is — might hold a blessing you cannot see yet.

You don’t have to understand it today. Most things take time to understand. But I wonder if you can simply be open to seeing this differently.

• How can you look at this diagnosis differently?

• What things have gone well since you were diagnosed?

• How have you grown?

💃🏽 LIVE IT

I want you to write about three experiences from your past that initially felt like a punishment — a rejection, a loss, a failure — that you now look back on with gratitude.

It could be a relationship that ended. A job you didn’t get. A move that felt forced. Whatever comes to mind.

What I want you to focus on is the shift in perspective that only time could give you. Use my Chuck story as a guide if it helps.

For each experience, reflect on:

At the time:

• What was the experience?

• What happened?

• How did it impact you?

• What feelings and emotions came up?

Looking back:

• How has your perspective changed?

• What positive things came from that experience?

• What did you learn about yourself?

• What are you grateful for that it happened?

Moving forward:

Take your time with this. Be honest. Be gentle with yourself.

And moving forward, whenever you have a moment that feels like “why is this happening to me?”

I want you to try asking a different question instead:

What could be the lesson in this moment?

🫂 PEER SUPPORT INVITATION

If you want to process this experience with someone who has been exactly where you are — I’m here.

Not as a therapist or a counselor, but as a woman who walked this road and is still walking it.

Sometimes you just need someone who truly gets it. If that’s what you need right now, reach out.

You can just reply to this email, and I will hit you back.

• 💌 A Note From Amara

• ❤️‍🩹 Feel It

• 🔍 Explore It

• ✍🏾 Reframe It

• 💃🏽 Live It

• 🫂 Peer Support

I made a video version of this space for my visual learners.

Same content, same experience — just me walking you through it out loud.

Press play if that feels right. Or scroll down and go through it in writing. Do what works for you.

💌 A Note From Amara

In the fall of 2024, I noticed something weird about myself: I was just overly tired. I had always had a healthy amount of energy — I never drank caffeine or needed a boost. But something changed. I was exhausted after work. I could barely stay up past 7 pm. I have always gone to bed early, but this was abnormal.

I chalked it up to daylight savings time, with the evenings starting at 4:30 pm. But I would wake up really tired even after going to bed early. Again, I ignored it.

I did not understand what my body was telling me because I had learned how to “push through” things. That’s just the conditioning I had. To push through and ignore myself. To support everyone else. To keep moving despite these quiet nudges to seek help.

My body was sending me clear signals that something was off. But I didn’t listen.

I would learn only a few months later, my body was fighting the biggest war imaginable — cancer.

Honestly, I felt guilt and shame about not listening to my body.

Sometimes I think — if I had listened to her sooner, would I have avoided this battle?

Could I have done something faster so I didn’t have to endure such an aggressive treatment plan?

Why didn’t I seek help sooner?

The fact is, there is nothing I can do about the experience before I got breast cancer. But those are only words. I had to take time to actually process all of the guilt, shame, confusion, and overwhelm I experienced before I heard “It is breast cancer.” There are so many tests and procedures before those words — and a lot of emotions that go with them.

This space will allow you to move through those emotions — the ones that came before you had a name for what was happening, before your world got flipped upside down. It is important to start here because this is where it all started.

❤️‍🩹 FEEL IT

For many of us, there are multiple steps before an actual diagnosis.

First, you realize something is off about your body — a lump, a pain, a rash. At some point, you seek a medical professional. Then the whirlwind of appointments begins.

For me, it was a mammogram and ultrasound, followed by an MRI and biopsy.

I had so many emotions during those procedures. I want to share them with you.

I share my story to help you remember your experience if you have tucked it away.

You can listen to my experience below, or you can move to processing your own below. Whatever feels right to you.

My Story as a Model

🔗 Finding My Lump - if you would rather read my story, go here.

🔗 The Mammogram and Ultrasound - if you would rather read my story, go here.

🔗 The MRI and Biopsy - if you would rather read my story, go here.

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🫵🏽Your Turn

It is time for you to work through your own experience.

I would recommend writing this out, as writing by hand has been proven to be healing.

However, do what works for you.

If you need to talk into your voice memos on your phone or type it up on a computer, do what you need to do.

But get it out.

Take time to really outline your experience before your diagnosis. You can use these questions to help.

Guiding Questions

• What was your body experiencing that made you seek medical support?

• What procedures did you have to undergo before your diagnosis?

• How did those procedures go?

• What specific memories do you have from those procedures?

🔍 EXPLORE IT

Now, I want you to focus on how that experience impacted you. It was more than just procedures and testing. You were having emotions and feelings about all of this. You need to look into those experiences.

Reflection Questions

• How did you feel when your medical provider suggested further testing?

• How challenging was it to get further testing?

  • Did you have to fight to be heard? If so, what happened and how did that make you feel?

• What else was happening in your life during this time?

• How did that impact your ability to process what was happening to you?

• What emotions are coming up for you as you reflect on this time in your life?

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✍🏾 REFRAME IT

I’m a big fan of Brené Brown. I pretend we are cousins, given our last names. She talks a lot about heavy emotions.

In this video, she talks about shame and guilt.

Watch this video first. 🎥 We need to talk about shame | Brené Brown

This video has so much to offer. I would suggest watching it without stopping.

Then come back to see my thoughts about it.

Video golden nugget #1: Shame is “I am bad.” Guilt is “I did something bad.”

Both of these things come up during a breast cancer diagnosis.

Shame looks like → I am bad because I didn’t do x, y, z, and now I have cancer. Guilt looks like → I did something bad — wearing deodorant, eating non-organic food, using nonstick pans. The list goes on and on.

But oncologists have no real data on what causes breast cancer.

You didn’t do anything wrong.

This is just part of your life path — which I know can be incredibly challenging to process. We will get more into this. Let’s keep going with the video.

Video golden nugget #2: Brené talks about how shame for women is about the unreasonable expectations placed on who we are supposed to be.

I was supposed to know something was wrong earlier. I was supposed to be healthy. I was supposed to catch this sooner than I did. The list goes on and on.

Video golden nugget #3: Brené defines vulnerability as emotional risk, exposure, and uncertainty. Vulnerability is our most accurate measurement of courage. Empathy is the antidote to shame. If you put shame in a petri dish, it needs three things to grow exponentially: secrecy, silence, and judgment.

This is what so many of us have done during this experience:

• Judged ourselves and our lack of awareness — because someone has to be to blame.

• Hidden our pain from ourselves — because we can’t deal with it or don’t want to.

• Hidden our pain from others — because we don’t think they can handle it.

We are suffering in silence.

Video golden nugget #4: If you put shame in a petri dish and douse it with empathy, it can’t survive.

This is how you heal.

Give yourself the empathy I’m sure you are giving to everyone else. If we are going to find our way back to each other, vulnerability is going to be that path.

I want to reframe that last line for you:

If you are going to find your way back to yourself, vulnerability is going to be that path.

This space is going to ask you to be vulnerable and empathetic with yourself. That is not a weakness. That is the bravest thing you can do.

💃🏽 LIVE IT

Find a picture of yourself from before your diagnosis — from the time when you started to feel something was off but didn’t have a name for it yet.

Now you know you had cancer. Then, you didn’t.

Write to her with empathy.

Tell her who you have become.

Tell her what she doesn’t know yet.

Express everything you are feeling to her.

Guiding questions:

• What do you want her to know?

• What would you tell her about what is coming?

• What do you wish someone had told you in that moment?

• What do you see in her now that you could not see then?

Moving forward:

I want you to start giving yourself more empathy.

Reflect on this: How can you start giving yourself more empathy?

🫂 PEER SUPPORT INVITATION

If you want to process this experience with someone who has been exactly where you are, I’m here.

Not as a therapist or a counselor, but as a woman who walked this road and is still walking it. Sometimes you just need someone who truly gets it. If that’s what you need right now, reach out.

You can just reply to this email, and I will hit you back.

Each woman’s journey was unique — different dates, different stages, different roads. And yet we could all find ourselves in each other’s stories. We had all been there.

Our bodies waging war with the cancer inside.

We listened intently as we cried for ourselves and for each other.

The room was full of healing energy. We were building a sisterhood that transcended so much.

And as I listened, I kept hearing the same thing: ‘I have not processed this yet.’

It struck me — because I felt like I was processing my experience every single day. So I kept listening. I wanted to understand.

What I heard had nuances, but there was a clear through-line: these women had focused on the physical healing and left the emotional healing behind. Not because they didn’t want to heal — but because nobody had given them the space, the tools, or the permission to do it.

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This is understandable. Our healthcare system is focused on the body. The goal is to rid it of cancer as quickly as possible — and I believe that is critical.

But I would argue that emotional healing is just as important.

More, even.

Because it is deeply personal, and it is almost always ignored — because it asks more of us than a surface-level approach. It asks us to feel what happened.

To sit with the heavy emotions.

To move through them with patience, grace, and understanding.

Most of us are never taught how to do that.

I’m Amara. I was diagnosed with stage 2 bilateral breast cancer at 39 — two different cancers, one in each breast.

What helped me survive — and more than survive — was something most women don’t arrive at a cancer diagnosis with: years of therapy, practical tools for understanding my own thoughts and feelings, and a spirituality that had been preparing me for hard things my whole life.

I processed my experience every step of the way. And I watched other women struggle — not just with cancer, but with having nowhere to put what they were feeling.

That is why I created Beyond Treatment.

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So many of us survive the physical treatment but are left carrying unprocessed grief, depression, anxiety, and overwhelm, with nowhere to go.

We go from being surrounded by our care teams, from appointments and check-ins and people watching over us — to ringing the bell, hitting a milestone, and being dropped back into the world without a life vest.

Beyond Treatment is here to change that.

As an educator and instructional designer for almost 20 years, I understand how to create a space for others to learn, grow, and prosper.

I drew on my professional skill set, cancer journey, and mindfulness practices to create a process for you.

Many of us who have gone through a cancer journey want to talk about our own journey, which I write about in In Treatment.

But Beyond Treatment is not about my story.

It is about your story.

It is personalized to your experience, your emotions, your journey. You will not only process what happened to you — you will begin to see the beauty in your own battle that you could not see when you were inside it.

My sole purpose is to create a space where every woman going through cancer feels supported, seen, and equipped to heal — not just survive.

I heard a quote once that has stayed with me:

‘Suffering happens in monologue. Healing happens in dialogue.’

Let’s heal together.

Welcome to Beyond Treatment.

My cousin Neal’s first word was no.

My aunt would ask him anything — and the answer was always the same.

“Neal, do you want something to eat?” No.

“Neal, are you having a good time?” No.

“Neal, am I your mom?” No.

Everything was no. It drove my aunt absolutely crazy. Looking back, it brings me a nice chuckle.

Many of us hate hearing no because it feels like rejection. And we do not like rejection. I think many of us experience rejection as a personal attack on who we are.

Our society is obsessed with yes. But I’ve come to believe that the no is where we learn to trust that the Universe has our back.

Let me explain.

In 2024, I took a job as a high school math teacher because I was desperate.

Before that, I had spent 18 months in the worst financial situation of my life.

Like many of us, I had started listening to other people about entrepreneurship. I started “investing” in myself in a way that was irresponsible, impulsive, and downright foolish.

This led to the worst financial experience of my life.

I was unemployed for over a year.

I had no money — not even my retirement, because I cashed that out too.

I was in over $100,000 of credit card debt.

I was bouncing around, living with different family members and friends.

I filed for bankruptcy because I couldn’t pay any of my bills.

I had been applying for jobs for months, but nothing was landing. I would get to the very last interview, slay it, and still hear nothing.

One company emailed me after my final interview to say they wanted to hire me, but no longer had the budget. Another just never responded after multiple follow-up emails.

I kept getting no.

These constant rejections were creating a deep sense of failure in me. Looking back, I realize how depressed I was — but I had no health insurance or money to get support.

I even called a suicide prevention hotline during a period of suicidal ideation, but it wasn’t helpful.

After reaching out to a friend, she realized how low I had fallen — both financially and mentally. She connected me to a call center job paying $20 an hour.

Before this, I would never have taken that job. I have a chemical engineering degree and had an ego about it. But being truly broke with no lifelines will change your tune quickly.

That $20 an hour job felt like heaven.

I had been driving Uber Eats, hustling for peak times and tips. I had found a pet sitting app where I could watch dogs and live rent-free — until I met three dogs who barked nonstop and were completely untrained. It was a nightmare.

My life felt like an episode of Punk’d.

How did I get here?

I knew how. By listening to everyone else instead of myself.

But then the Universe sent me a yes I didn’t want.

My friend Vivi is a principal at a high school. Her 9th grade math teacher had left after the first month of school. Two other math teachers were on maternity leave. She was desperate. So was I.

She texted me one evening.

Did I want to teach again? Hell no

Did I want to move back to the East Coast after three years in warm climates? Definitely not.

Did I need to get out of my financial crisis? Absolutely.

So I took the job.

What happened next is nothing short of God.

I moved to my new city in February 2024.

During the day, I taught. After school, I worked four hours at the call center. I was hustling harder than I ever had.

My Chapter 7 bankruptcy went through.

On weekends, I applied for more jobs.

And again — no after no after no.

By the end of that first school year, I realized I would need to continue teaching the following school year.

That same school year, I found out I had breast cancer.

I am so grateful for every single no that led me there.

Here is what all those rejections gave me:

🌸 Access to a world-recognized breast oncologist and breast surgeon — and nurses I genuinely love

🌸 A community of coworkers who showed up for me throughout my entire journey

🌸 Excellent medical coverage that made my treatment possible

🌸 A social worker who helped me secure multiple scholarships

🌸 Paid disability insurance that has supported me financially through cancer

🌸 Living in a state with zero copay for post-mastectomy needs — prostheses, bras, reconstructive surgeries, all of it

None of that would have been possible if even one of those no’s had become a yes.

I still struggle with hearing no sometimes. I won’t pretend otherwise.

But this experience has taught me something I couldn’t have learned any other way.

Today’s no could be the future yes you didn’t know you needed.

If you are in a season of rejection right now — I see you. I know how heavy it is. I cried so much during mine because I genuinely could not understand why.

A year later, I understand that a bigger plan was at play.

Those rejections were placing me exactly where I needed to be. I just couldn’t see it yet.

Let go and let God, as they say.

And maybe — just maybe — start asking yourself:

What is the no I’m most grateful for?

I lay in the darkness of my bedroom, thinking about what the day has in store for me.

Today is the day I start chemotherapy for my bilateral breast cancer.

Up until this point, I felt like I was walking around with bombs strapped to my chest. When cancer sits in your body untreated, there’s a fear they could explode at any moment.

Granted, this is the mind’s way of protecting you to take action. Today was that day of action.

I didn’t sleep well, and I am up way earlier than I need to be.

So I write.

My Lived Experience

Journal entry 02/27/25

Today is Day #1 of chemo. Whew. We are finally here.

I ask that you help me approach chemo w/ a positive + hopeful spirit every single infusion.

I ask you to remind me chemo cures! This is what removes the cancer from my body.

It is the BEST way to a cancer free life.

Help me embrace that.

Help me come to these times in my life w/ patience, compassion and grace for myself + others.
Help me to set better boundaries.

Help me to prioritize me + me alone.

Help me let go of my need to fix or control situations.

Help me to let you do your magic on my life.

Please watch over Sierra as she drives up here to see me. Bless my loved ones who are not here but want to be here. Help my students stay on task + focused.

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Looking back, I was asking the Universe — God, Source, whatever name you use — to carry me through. I knew my mindset mattered.

Was I sad? Yes.

Was I confused? Absolutely!

Was I anxious? More than you’ll never know.

Was I angry? Hell yea!

While those emotions needed to be heard, felt, and processed, I knew they couldn’t lead the way. If I allowed myself to stay feeling heavy, this journey was going to be arduous. I chose to enter day 1 with hope and optimism.

The appointment

At every appointment, the medical staff takes your vitals: weight, blood pressure, temperature, and asks questions about your current state of being. The question that struck me then — and still does — was: “What is your stress level from 1 to 10? 10 being the highest.”

I remember thinking I don’t feel stressed out, but I do feel anxious as a motherfucker. Y’all are about to give me medication to cure my cancer, but those same medications are going to be foreign to my body and will cause unknown side effects. It was the unknown and uncertainty for me.

Once I am brought to my pod (the area I will receive my chemo infusion), I meet my nurses - Susan, Emi, and Nellie. They are all so different yet work so well together. They created a space where patients felt supported and cared for.

The day was long, overwhelming with information, and emotional. I met multiple medical staff members: nurse navigators, social workers, and nurses. All of this while I am hooked up to an IV as the chemo drugs enter my body for the first time.

Journal entry 02/28/25

Yesterday was Day 1 of chemo. It went pretty well. I’m home today b/c Susan told me to take it easy. I feel pretty good so far. I’ll do a little work today, take a nap, go on a walk, read + watch TV.

Journal entry 03/02/25

Day 3 post chemo was way better than yesterday.

Day 2 sucked.

Stomach pains + cramps + loose bowels + fatigue.

Whew! It was a lot!

I am overwhelmed by the logistics of everything. Depending on rides + getting to + from places is a bit stressful, I wish I could have a caretaker here. I like having my privacy + also I would love to know if someone could be here in case I need things.

People keep saying what they are gonna do but the reality is people also have their own lives + responsibilities.

I’m grateful for people stepping up w/o being asked to. I’m tired of asking for help but I know I need to ask.

Making Meaning

After my appointment, I am exhausted. It felt like I had worked out for hours. What many of us fail to realize is that internal healing and restoration take a huge amount of energy.

On the outside, I sat in a chair all day, hooked to an IV.

On the inside, my body was waging a war against these two distinct cancers in my breasts. I would realize the impact of this war in the days that followed.

However, I tried to keep living life the same way, not acknowledging that my life had changed drastically the moment I sat in that infusion chair.

Looking back at my journal entries, I realize I was frustrated that my life had changed while everyone’s seemed to be unchanged. I wanted to hold onto the life I had. I was not ready to adjust my life.

This became evident on Day 2 post chemo. I tried to walk to an appointment at my fertility clinic — a mile I had walked before without thinking twice. Within 5 minutes, I started feeling poorly due to fatigue and stomach cramps. However, I was going to “push through” because that was who I was - a person who could push through things.

After about 10 minutes, I couldn’t do it anymore. I called a cab.

This experience was what made me realize life as I knew it was changing. Unfortunately, it would take me a few more lessons to learn I had to adjust my way of living if I wanted to heal.

I believe the Universe was trying to slow me down. I’m still learning why. I would learn the hard way because I had trouble slowing down and allowing life to come to me.

Things Worth Knowing

Before Your First Infusion

It helps to know what the space looks like and what you can expect. You will know what level of private or lack of it you will experience. It will also help you know what things you will need and what you can leave at home.

Questions to ask before your first chemo infusion

1. If you have a port, does the facility offer numbing spray? If they don’t, ask what type you can purchase to bring with you.

2. Does the facility offer snacks? If so, what are they?

3. How many people can come with you?

4. How long will the experience take?

5. What type of side effects can happen during the infusion? What would you feel to know?

6. If you are using a hair cooling cap and you’re alone, can the nurses help you put on your cap?

Try to get a good night’s sleep and give yourself grace if you can’t sleep.

What to Bring to Your Infusion

It’s helpful to have a specific bag you bring to your chemo appointments. It allows you to ensure you have your essentials for the day and they are in one place.

I kept the following in my bag:

1. Supplies for my cooling cap (water bottle, towel, conditioner, headbands)

2. My cooling cap

3. Personal items (lip balm, hand lotion, hand sanitizer)

4. Tylenol (to take before my cooling cap was up on)

5. Headphones

6. Portable charger

7. Water bottle

8. My iPad for reading or watching my shows

During Infusion

1. Get the numbing spray

   When the nurses access your port, you can choose a numbing spray. I didn’t do it the first time and it was A LOT! The numbing spray can burn a little from the cold. However, that port needle sits in your chest the whole infusion time and I could feel it. So the numbing spray can help that experience be more easeful.

2. Prepare food to bring with you the night before

   My hospital offers snacks. However, many of them I couldn’t eat due to my dietary restrictions. Plus, I brought better food.

3. Listen to calming music

   This is something I highly recommend. I would only listen to high frequency music during my infusions. It was so helpful because there’s so much happening in an oncology pod. It allowed me to bring a level of tranquility to myself.

If You’re Here, This Is for You

As my sister and I walked up to my cancer clinic for the first time, I asked her to take a picture of me because I wanted to remember this day.

I didn’t choose cancer. But I could choose my attitude.

I would not let cancer steal my joy. I wanted to document the day I started this journey.

The woman in this picture is very different than the woman writing this post.

That woman was anxious about what was coming. She did not know what to expect from chemotherapy. She was scared, but she was willing to fight for her life.

She would learn some hard lessons during this process.

Ones that were beautiful and ones that were heavy.

She would fight with all she had and more than she thought she did.

That woman fought a battle with grace, joy, vulnerability, and love, which is the reason I can write this post. She is the reason I am free of disease a year later.

It will be a long journey, and I hope you continue to stay here for the ride.

Until volume 4. Take good care.

In this waiting room, I try not to stare at the other women’s faces because it’s rude.

But I can’t help wonder, why are they sitting here?

What is the story that has them sitting here? Have they been trying for years without conceiving?

Or do they have cancer like me? I’m not sure which is worse - trying for years without a birth or not getting the opportunity to try at all.

Let’s just say - both suck because they do! Period. Full stop.

We sit here in this waiting room, hoping for the opportunity to be someone’s mother. We all have our own hurdles - mine was stage 2 bilateral breast cancer.

My Lived Experience

I didn’t realize fertility preservation was even part of a person’s cancer journey. I also didn’t realize how many premenopausal women are being diagnosed with breast cancer. Breast cancer is often seen as an “older woman’s disease,” but more of us under the age of 45 are sitting in these waiting rooms than people realize.

What I didn’t know before this is that fertility preservation was necessary before chemotherapy. Premenopausal women are given ovarian suppression injections once a month to protect their ovaries from the chemotherapy and immunotherapy they receive during their treatment.

After treatment and ovarian suppression, a woman’s menstrual cycle may or may not return. The medical community does not know why one woman’s cycle returns while another’s does not. Therefore, fertility preservation is critical for women who desire children post-cancer treatment.

A quick orientation, because no one warned me

Fertility preservation moves fast — faster than your emotions can catch up with.

For me, it looked like:

• A consultation that felt clinical and age-focused, the day after my treatment plan was given to me.

• Bloodwork and vaginal ultrasounds to establish a baseline

• A decision between freezing eggs or creating embryos — a choice that carries legal, emotional, and relational weight.

• Insurance calls, paperwork, and medication coordination are happening all at once

• Minimal time to grieve as decisions must be made quickly.

• Daily injections and frequent monitoring appointments (every 1-2 days), where numbers and follicle sizes suddenly felt like a verdict

• A “trigger shot” timed precisely, followed by the egg retrieval procedure

And all of it happened while I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I had cancer.

I am one of those women who desire children. I will say that this experience has rocked my foundation about being a mother.

Was this the Universe telling me motherhood wasn’t for me?

Maybe I’m desiring something that won’t be a part of my story.

During my initial consultation, my fertility doctor explained that based on my bloodwork numbers, they would hope to receive 4 eggs.

However, he said, “Given those numbers and your age, a live birth was not guaranteed.”

While I was taking my fertility injections, I remember juggling so many things: teaching full-time, working a part-time remote job, answering numerous calls about appointments while trying to teach, preparing for chemotherapy, and giving myself the correct injections every night.

A few days before the procedure, I learned my trigger shot was on back order and wouldn’t arrive by mail like the other medications. I had to pick it up in person — within a narrow window — while juggling work and appointments.

I called my partner to share my news, and he was napping. I will never forget the rage in my spirit.

Could I take a nap?

Nope.

I had cancer. I had a pharmacy deadline. I had a trigger shot that determined whether this whole thing would even work.

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Making Meaning

Looking back, I realize my rage wasn’t at my partner. It was the breast cancer that I was angry at, not him. He was an easy target at the time. That night wasn’t my finest moment.

I was projecting my anger, fear, and rage onto him because I couldn’t yell at the cancer. I didn’t want my motherhood experience to be this way.

I was pissed this was the hand I was dealt, especially after I had done all the right things - maintaining a plant-based diet, maintaining a healthy weight, moving my body daily, not using tobacco or drinking alcohol.

I was so pissed at this cancer.

Why me?

Why do I have to go through this bullshit?

Why do I have to inject myself with these damn hormones to “maybe” have a baby one day?

Why does my partner have to live in a different country while I deal with this?

Why am I doing all this alone?

Because my emotions were high after picking a fight with my partner and my hormones were literally jacked up from the injections, I wasn’t sure if I did the trigger shot correctly. Then, it all came crashing down.

I had a panic attack in my living room. This experience would be a precursor to my journey. Nobody could walk this journey but me…

That night showed me something I wasn’t ready to accept:

People could stand beside me.

But I would be the one in the chair.

I would be the one fighting cancer.

Things Worth Knowing

During Injections

1. Call your clinic the day you start injections.
   

   They’ll review everything beforehand — but between a cancer diagnosis and information overload, you will forget something.

   I did. I messed up my first three days. Call and verify your plan.
   
   Trust yourself, but double-check.

2. It’s not you. It’s the hormones.

   The injections can make everything feel heightened — tears, irritation, overwhelm. You’re not losing it. You’re forcing your body to grow eggs on an accelerated timeline. Be gentle with yourself. Extra comfort. Less pressure. Do what you can.

3. Talk to your oncologist before retrieval.
   Ask how many rounds of fertility preservation you’re allowed before treatment begins. There are no guarantees with egg counts, and no going backward after chemo.
   

   In my case, my oncologist told the fertility clinic to call her after my retrieval. She knew motherhood mattered to me. That won’t be everyone’s experience. Ask anyway.

Share Beauty in the Battle

The Day of the Egg Retrieval

1. Ground yourself that morning — meditate, stretch, walk, sit in the sun. Do something that steadies you.

2. Text your people. Ask for prayers, good energy, whatever language feels right to you.

3. There may be waiting. Breathe.

4. Ask the doctor and anesthesiologist your questions. This is your body.

5. Have food, medication, and a heating pad ready at home. You’ll be cramping. Future-you will be grateful.

The Part Science Can’t Explain

The summer before my diagnosis, my partner and I had a conversation about having children. Nothing immediate. Just a “maybe soon.”

Years earlier, a gynecologist told me, “When you’re ready, start taking folic acid at least six months before you start trying to conceive.”

So in October 2024, almost randomly, I started a prenatal vitamin with a high dose of folic acid. No urgency. No plan. Just a nudge.

My fertility doctor predicted maybe four eggs based on my baseline numbers.

They retrieved thirteen.
Nine were mature, meaning they could be frozen for a later time.

More than double what was expected.

Science gave one projection.
My body gave another.

If You’re Here, This Is for You

While my egg retrieval was very successful for someone my age (insert eye roll), there’s no guarantee of a “live birth,” as my fertility doctor told me even after the procedure.

I love science, and I appreciate the ability to freeze my eggs. However, science can’t tell us what the Universe has in store for our lives.

I still have hope of motherhood with those 9 eggs sitting in somebody’s freezer somewhere.

I understand that those 9 eggs will change over the course of this process. I will lose some through the thawing process. Of the ones left, not all of them will be fertilized to make an embryo. Of those embryos, many of them may not produce a baby.

But for me, I just need 1 of those 9 eggs to work. For me, that’s enough hope for now because I got bigger fish to fry - this cancer.

It thinks it’s gonna take my dreams from me.

As my daddy would say, “I got something for that ass.”

Thank you for reading.

Hope to see you for volume 3.

I have shared two entries from my journal. They are raw with no grammar edits. These are my pure emotions written after my diagnosis and learning my treatment plan.

My journal entry from 01/29/25

Yesterday, I found out I had breast cancer in both breasts. I’m just like how did this happen to me? I do all the right things yet I’m here with cancer. I’m doing my best to remember I didn’t cause this + I acted quickly on it. I found a lump Dec 20 and w/i a month I know what’s happening. Well sorta. I have to go to the breast doctor to see next steps and to know what I will have to do for treatment. I’m very grateful to have a supportive network. Sierra, well she’s emotional, she said she would do whatever she can to support. Vivi came over immediately after work. Gerri was amazing at the appointment. Kim was supportive. Kisha called me. Tara and Joan were great too.

He (my partner) was amazing coaching me like we were going into a basketball game. For some reason, it was the hardest to tell him b/c we’ve made these plants + now I’m like can we have them?

I think my biggest fear is the child thing. And it feels like my life keeps impacting our relationship. I need to focus on what’s true. He is gonna fight w/me. He is already like I’ll be there. This sucks though.

Man 2025 is coming in full stream ahead. This is so surreal.

I have cancer.

I’m overwhelmed so much already. This will just be another thing.

My journal entry from 02/03/25

Well today I got my treatment plan. It’s thorough + detailed + I hoped it wouldn’t be this. However, this is what it is.

Most important thing is I will survive this. My chances are so high.

The chemo is a lot. 6 months. Every week.

Then surgery. Then radiation. Then 5-10 years of pills.

The kids thing is now a question mark b/c my ovaries have to go into hibernation during this process. I have to freeze my eggs or embryos.

Man what a day.

So much info. I don’t wanna do this but that’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna do it. There are so many things to think about + consider.

Stay connected

A year ago, I was facing the biggest hurdle of my life - a cancer diagnosis. I had so many questions!

• What would treatment look like?

• How would it make me feel?

• How would my body change?

• How could I find information that would tell me the truth without scaring the shit out of me?

While my medical team was phenomenal, they were offering all of the possibilities, which were scary. I needed to know I could and would survive this. I need a patient perspective that provided hope in a dark time.

I needed to hear from a lived experience.

But who is 39 with breast cancer? I thought cancer in general was an “old” person’s disease.

I was lucky enough to be connected to women who experienced a very similar treatment plan as I did. They became my guiding light in this process. We shared stories about the real impacts of treatment. We also focused on the positive transformation this experience was having on us.

Cancer sucked, and we trusted that this healing journey was sent to positively transform us.

Remembering, two things can be true at once.

But what about those women without this mentorship - what are they doing?

After sitting with these entries for a long time, I realized I didn’t want them to live only in my journal. I didn’t want my experience to just be mine. As an educator by profession and passion, I wanted to use this to educate, uplift, and inspire others in this journey.

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I have created a new series called In Treatment.

In Treatment is a series about what breast cancer looks like from the inside - the patient’s perspective. It will include my lived moments - what happened, how it felt, and what I’ve learned in the process.

It isn’t medical advice.

It’s lived experience, offered with care.

I’m sharing this because I know how desperately I searched for real voices when this all began. Not statistics. Not fear-based Google searches. Just someone who could tell the truth without taking away hope.

If you’re in treatment, supporting someone who is, or quietly trying to make sense of your own fears — you’re welcome here.

Thank you for reading. Hope to see you for volume 2.

January 28th, a date I will never forget.

The day I was recruited into a club without my consent.

A year ago today, I heard the phrase that sits in my memory, “It’s breast cancer…in both breasts.”

Nothing in life can prepare you for a moment like this. NOTHING.

It’s been an interesting day processing the last year.

So many things have happened. I have changed so much and grown into a woman I never really imagined was possible.

As I reflect on this day, I think about two moments that replay in my head: the first person I called and the person I was scared to call.

My sister, whom I lovingly call Sisi, was my first call.

My sister and I had a really challenging 2-3 years before this diagnosis. We had some really tough moments, which I was not sure if we would recover from. We were still healing our relationship while all this was happening. However, this diagnosis was the push we needed to see our mutual love for each other.

Despite the harm we had inflicted on each other in years prior, there was deep love, respect, and care between us. I remember her encouragement during that first call, which would blossom into a year of amazing support. She would shower me with encouraging text messages daily. She would listen to me cry on the phone when it was all just too much. She attended important milestones (first and last chemotherapy sessions). She would offer support in financial ways. She treated me with gifts and a vacation to celebrate the end of radiation. She would help me navigate my new body by suggesting new looks and affirming words.

To my younger sister, Sisi, thank you for being my rock, cheerleader, protector, and forever friend. God knew to make us sisters in this lifetime to ensure we both heal deep parts of ourselves and our family trauma.

I love you forever.

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Now, the person I was scared to call was my partner. I realize now that I was afraid for him to leave me due to this diagnosis. This is a legit fear and reality of many women navigating a cancer diagnosis. The majority of women (60+%) are abandoned by their partners, including husbands.

I didn’t know this statistic at the time, but I can tell you what I did know.

We are not married.

We have no children together.

We live in two different countries.

This was an “easy” out for him in my mind. However, just like my sister, he showed up and showed out as we like to say in the Black community.

My partner, who will probably be annoyed I’m telling y’all this, but I’m going to do it anyway, is a man whom other men need to aspire to. His ability to show up should be the rule, not the exception. I had so many doubts about our relationship before my diagnosis. Some stemming from my own past and some from my own expectations on where our relationship needed to be.

However, this diagnosis showed me the man he was. It showed me what unconditional love from someone who is not your momma looks like. It showed me the type of love that is the bedrock of our relationship. He showed me what all women deserve in their partners during one of the most challenging times in a person’s life.

When you lose your breasts from a mastectomy, it is a hit to your femininity and how you view yourself. Now throw in how you feel your male partner will look at you - it’s overwhelming.

I’m grateful that my partner sees me as more than my body. He sees me - Amara, the fun-loving, long-winded, joyful spirit that loves him deeply. That love has carried us through this year.

I won’t say his name because that’s not a fight I wanna have, but…

Boo, thank you for being the man I needed over this year. Thank you for showing me what love truly means. Thank you for living vows we have not even said to each other. Thank you for seeing my beauty when I couldn’t see it for myself.

While I would never say I was grateful for cancer, I am grateful for what cancer illuminated in my life.

Cancer created an opportunity for me to heal my relationship with my sister.

Cancer showed me that love is not transitional.

Cancer taught me that my physical beauty is not what makes me lovable.

Cancer allowed me to receive love from others.

Cancer got me to stop doing and start being.

For that, I’m grateful beyond words.

Today, I celebrate my journey to this new version of myself. A version of me that wakes up and thanks God and the Universe for the ups and downs, because while it was a fight, I’m here to experience it with the people I love and that love me back.

What is a situation in your life that was really challenging but also brought amazing things to you? Share your responses in the comments.

Thank you.

I’m sitting across from her as she cries, tears I understand. Tears I cried myself. Tears only someone in our position understands.

She has been diagnosed with Triple Negative Breast Cancer at the age of 29. As she recaps her journey through having breast pain, feeling a lump, and medical exams to tell her the diagnosis, I remember.

I remember my own story. Her story and mine are so closely linked.

As I listen to her, I remember the fear I felt being newly diagnosed with breast cancer. Girl, and not just breast cancer, but bilateral breast cancer at that!

While offering an understanding ear, I feel the change in myself. There is a strength and resilience in me that wasn’t present last year.

There is a deep level of gratitude for the smallest daily moments.

Most importantly, there is a calm to protect myself, to create boundaries for myself that allow me to thrive.

Prior to my diagnosis, I struggled to allow life to happen. I had control problems, to say it mildly. I keep replaying my “problems” of 2024 and realize how I was fueling a fire of constant fear, frustrations, and unnecessary woes. Everything just seems so silly and unimportant now.

Sometimes, I wonder, “Did I cause this cancer?” And before you start thinking “No, no, Amara, don’t think that way,” hear me out for a second.

I was listening to a podcast, Take Back Your Mind by Michael B. Beckwith. In this episode, his guest, Garry Lineham, said something that stopped me in my tracks.

“When the body is in a flu or disease, we call it sickness. But it’s actually healing. If a flu or cold is healing, then what was sick? The lifestyle before.”

Stay connected

I literally gasped when I heard this because I had been feeling this way about my life. This healing journey has changed me so much. It has been life-altering. I have learned so many lessons, and I want to ensure that those lessons translate into a new phase of my life.

I do not believe that I caused my cancer. But I do think God put this experience in my life to show me something.

Show me how to slow down and trust that things are working out.

Show me my own resilience.

Show me my tenacity.

Show me how my own positive attitude can carry me through the toughest times.

Show me how to sit down and calm the @#%* down.

As I sit in front of this woman, feeling her feelings, understanding her pain, remembering the fear, I am humbled by both of us. We are both fighters. We are both sitting on a couch with a complete stranger, sharing vulnerable details of our lives. We are both women choosing hope.

But cancer will do that - build connections with someone quicker than you ever expected.

We didn’t sign up to be in this journey, but we are here, and we are doing it.

When I originally started this Substack, I had a “plan” to post my experience in a specific way. I made a whole Excel spreadsheet y’all.

No, seriously.

But I have struggled to keep up with my original plan. Now I’m realizing, I needed space from the experience. It was too raw and fresh. It’s challenging to talk about an experience when you are deep in the middle of the storm.

However, sitting across from a newly diagnosed woman, offering my support, I feel stronger than I have ever felt before. She told me, “Just hearing your experience and seeing you makes me feel I can do it.”

This is true for all of us in this journey. Last week, I got to connect with two other survivors who have been on this journey with me. One who is a 3x breast cancer survivor and my breast cancer momma - Ms. W. I will be talking more about Ms. W in an upcoming post, as she was a saving grace during my journey. The second woman is in her early 30s, shares a mutual friend of mine, and was diagnosed a few months after me.

All of us are on different parts of the journey, yet we connect so deeply with each other.

Their stories empower me.

Our stories empower each other.

We empower others inside and outside of this healing journey.

These experiences at the start of 2026 have me realizing that my words and experiences may be able to help just one other person out there battling.

While I am going to give myself grace to write and create in a way that aligns with prioritizing my health, I finally feel empowered to share the first part of my journey - my egg retrieval procedure, 6 months of chemotherapy, and bilateral mastectomy.

While I am still in active treatment, have more reconstructive surgeries, plus years of medications…see y’all, here I go getting ahead of myself.

Before I go on a tangent, I will end it here. The point is I’m ready to share the details of the biggest fight of my life, and I won it despite my own initial fears.

Reviewing a year can bring up a lot of emotions: both uplifting and heavy ones.

You may feel uplifted about goals you achieved.

A new job.

A new home.

A vacation you always wanted to go on.

Whatever you wanted and achieved, you celebrate and rightfully so.

On the other side of that same coin, you may have heavy feelings about unachieved goals.

There could be feelings of regret, sadness, anger, and frustration. That’s only to name a few.

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This time of year can bring up all of that.

At the end of every year, I reflect on my year and plan themes for the upcoming year.

This year, I have been feeling a bit overwhelmed by this process - one I have done for over 5 years now. Usually, this brings me a lot of joy and empowerment.

Then I wondered, what has changed?

The answer is everything.

Last year at this time, I had bilateral breast cancer and didn’t even know it. I got extremely emotion on December 20th because it was the one-year anniversary of finding my lump. Last year, I had my breasts. This year, I do not. My body has changed so much in such a relatively short amount of time.

This year, I grieved, overcame, and celebrated so many things.

I lost my father to cancer.

I overcame my own cancer journey.

I celebrated along the way.

But the overwhelming takeaway is I am here. I am alive. While others are not. I am grateful for that beyond words. Even in my hardest moments, I have always wanted to live. And I did.

The fact is, cancer kills people. It killed my father. A man I look exactly like, which made me see what cancer could have done to me, and I hope I never take my life for granted again. Thanks to my desire to live, an amazing medical team, prayers and support from loved ones, the tenacity my father gave me (thanks, Daddy), and God’s grace, I am here.

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Instead of pressuring myself to create my next year’s theme, I plan to just have fun and flow with life. Because in reality, I have zero control over what happens. What I do have control over is my attitude and how I choose to show up. That’s what 2025 has taught me. Life will keep throwing us curveballs every single year, month, day, and minute. All we can do is choose our attitude and keep it moving.

Thank you for traveling through this journey with me.

Thank you for allowing my words to embrace your heart and mind.

Thank you for trusting me with your time.

As the late great Notorious B.I.G. said, “You could be anywhere in the world, but you’re here with me.”

I hope you remember that you are ONE person on this emotional roller coaster called life.

I hope you will give yourself grace in 2026.

Give yourself space to just breathe.

Reduce your stress little by little.

Speak kind, empowering words to yourself.

As RuPaul says, “If you can’t love yourself, how the hell are you gonna love somebody else? Can I get an Amen?”

Go into 2026, loving you just the way you are - flaws and all. This is the only YOU you will get.

With that, goodbye 2025. Hello 2026.

It could be a bomb lipstick color.

It could be a well-put-together outfit.

It could be jewelry.

It could be a favorite perfume.

For me, that was my hair.

Everything could be a mess, but if my hair looked good, I felt great.

And to be fair, I had amazing hair. Thick, full, and curly.

My hair is more than hair to me. It’s part of my identity as a Black woman. In my community, young girls can’t wait until the day they can go to the beauty salon with their mommas, aunties, and grandmas. Going to the beauty salon is a rite of passage. More than hair gets done at the beauty salon. It is a gathering place for Black women to rest, restore, commune, kee kee about hot topics, receive relationship advice, and express love for ourselves and each other. It’s a safe space where we can let our hair down both literally and figuratively.

Given my background, I have always treasured my hair. Growing up, I would chemically straighten my hair because my mother did not have the time or ability to do my hair regularly.

But at the age of 26, I decided to stop chemically straightening my hair to allow my natural curls to shine bright.

For over a decade, I rocked a big crown of beautiful, thick curls that I absolutely loved. I loved everything about my hair because in many ways it mirrored my personality. It was big, bright, bold, and unruly. After almost 15 years of allowing my hair to grow naturally, one day would change how I saw myself.

Fast forward to February 3, 2025, I am 39, sitting with my new oncologist, who explains that I have been diagnosed with stage 2 bilateral breast cancer. If getting cancer wasn’t bad enough, I had two different types in both breasts. My right breast had triple-negative breast cancer, and the left one had hormone-receptor-positive cancer. Triple negative, being an extremely aggressive form of breast cancer, my oncologist explained the aggressive treatment plan, which included a chemotherapy regimen (Keynote522). She explained that the type of chemotherapy would cause me to lose my hair.

My hair had become a part of who I was. I was the tall girl with the big, beautiful crown of curls. Curls I cherished. How could I lose this part of myself?

However, there might be a solution.

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After meeting with my oncology team, which included my oncologist, breast surgeon, and radiation oncologist, I met with two women discussing a medical device, the Paxman scaling cooling cap, that helps to cool the scalp during chemotherapy treatments to help preserve hair.

That day, my hair was in its fabulous state of bigness, and these women seemed doubtful about my ability to use this cap. It was everything about my hair: its texture, density, and volume. They gave me my sizing and explained how to reach out about purchasing the cap. While I understand these women’s hesitation, they didn’t want to get my hopes up, and it was clear that they may never have worked with a woman with my type of hair.

I felt lost.

Should I try this device?

Would it work?

I needed advice. I went to the place where I knew my voice would be heard: my beauty salon. I called them, explaining my diagnosis, and I wanted to talk to someone to see if it was worth it. They told me to come that evening.

That evening, my coworker, another Black woman, brought me to my hair salon. We met with the owner, Simony, who is a Black woman and has worked with several cancer patients before.

Earlier that day, I learned the medical side of the journey. However, she prepared me for this journey from a different lens: my hair. She talked to me about the hurtful words that might be said about losing my hair, such as “It’s only hair,” or “it will grow back,” or “you look great without hair.” I never thought about this aspect of the journey, which was emotional. She explained that my hair does matter because it’s mine and it’s beautiful.

I showed her the picture of the device and explained the device with my limited understanding. We created a plan to embrace this part of my journey.

As with many other moments in the beauty salon, my mind shifted from fear and devastation to hope. Simony gave me hope by holding onto my hair. That hope would ground me for the next 6 months ahead.

The first step in my hair journey was to cut my hair to a shorter cut to ensure that the cap could fit on my head. Initially, I was extremely fearful to do this despite my secret desire to rock a shorter cut. For years, I would see women with cute pixie cuts, and I would wonder if I could pull that off. I realized my hair had become an armor of mine, which was tied to my own beauty. One thing that my diagnosis would help me do is face my fears head on.

My first haircut was more than that; it was a celebration of strength, courage, and it set the stage for the rest of my journey.

Two friends, Rebecca and Brittney, drove from New York City to accompany me to the hair salon. The whole salon was there to support me.

My stylist, Patricia, grounded me as I sat in her chair. She reminded me that a new look wasn’t a loss, it was an evolution.

Initially, I thought I would be extremely emotional. However, as she began to cut, I had a level of calm. I realize now I felt safe in this place. These women were part of my support team. They were going to ensure that even if I had cancer, I could have control over this element of the journey.

I loved my look more than I ever thought I would. This experience helped me see myself in a different light. My beauty was more about my spirit than my hair. However, my hair was still important, and I planned to keep it if I could.

This experience at the beauty salon sits in my memory because I believe it helped me see myself differently.

My hair had become this armor for me. I had a fear of short hair. A fear I didn’t realize was there until I had no choice but to cut it if I wanted to keep it. I feared my beauty would be lost. However, if anything, this haircut freed me from self-induced limitations.

Throughout my cancer journey, I would learn more and more that I had fears that I was masking. After years of therapy, I thought I was “done” overcoming fears. This cancer journey has taught me there’s no end. Overcoming fears is a constant journey in life. As you overcome them, you find yourself more and more if you allow for the lessons.

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My haircut was the first step in a transformation I didn’t know I needed deeply.

While I do not wish cancer on anyone because cancer sucks, I do wish everyone gets an opportunity to break down their fears and transform at a deep level.

You deserve to live life in a way that feels great to you.

That thing you want to do, do it.

That place you want to travel to, book the flight.

That person you want to ask out, ask them.

The job you want to apply to, apply to it.

Take the risks. Be smart and strategic about them, but do it. You owe it to yourself to try. Your future self will thank you for your bravery and strength. And even if it does not work exactly how you planned, you overcame a fear and did it. In my opinion, that’s worth it.

I received my quiz face down. I turned it over to see 1 out of 10.

A 1 out of 10 meant I got a 10%. A 10% was an F. I got 1 question out of 10 correct? How is that possible?

My brain malfunctioned for a second.

Well, let me tell you, it was possible. I, in fact, failed my first exam ever in that chemistry class.

I would not remember the rest of the class because I was in pure shock, shame, and disbelief.

Have you ever had a moment like this where you just knew you did well on something, but in fact you did NOT?

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Let me tell you about my first check-up after I started my fertility injections.

I am currently 3 days post-fertility injections. I feel pretty confident about how they are going. I am at the point where I do not have to watch the videos anymore.

I walk into the fertility clinic and do the usual things: check in at the receptionist desk and get my blood work done.

Today, I will get my ultrasound to count my follicles.

The nurse calls me into the back.

We exchange pleasantries.

She asks me my name and date of birth as I undress from the waist down behind a curtain.

I wrap the medical gown around my waist and sit on the table.

She begins to go over the medications I am injecting at home.

Nurse: “So you are taking the oral Lentrozole once a day.”

Me: “Yes, every morning I take it.”

Nurse: “Great. Also, you are doing the Menopur injection as well as the Follistim injection at night.”

Me: “Yes, I’m doing those two. Also, the other one. The one with the G.”

Nurse: “You mean the Gallenix?”

Me: “Yes.”

Nurse: “You are not supposed to take that one yet. That slows down the egg development. You should only do the Menopur and Follistim.”

Me: “WHAT?!?!”

Ok, so here’s when I had a total meltdown.

I started crying uncontrollably and verbalizing my panic about my mistake.

I knew that I only had a limited time to complete my fertility treatments as I needed to start chemotherapy.

All the possible fears that you can imagine started to pop into my head.

The worst thing I felt was failure. I just started, and I already failed. I swore I had done what they told me to do, but apparently, I didn’t.

I sat there crying and mentally punishing myself for my error.

This poor nurse was watching me go THROUGH IT. She was kind and compassionate. She explained things were fine, and we still can get eggs.

We completed the exam, and I left the clinic.

I wish I could say I stopped beating myself up, but I didn’t.

I was scolding myself for hours for my overconfidence and errors.

Then I remembered something - how overwhelmed I had been when I talked to the fertility nurse about all these injections I needed to take because I had bilateral breast cancer. While frantically taking notes during our call, I was processing the following information:

A week before, I learned my own cancer diagnosis and the aggressive treatment plan.

That same week, I had driven 5 hours each way to visit my father. He was in the hospital for his stage 4 bile duct cancer.

I told my students about my cancer diagnosis.

I received at least 3 calls a day from a medical professional about an appointment or task I needed to do.

I realized this mistake was understandable. My brain was overloaded.

I was barely making it through the days. There was so much to do and manage in regards to the medical stuff, plus regular life stuff.

I had to give myself some grace. I had been through so much in such a short amount of time. It was inevitable to make mistakes because things were coming fast.

Thinking back on that day, I realize how difficult we can be on ourselves about errors and mistakes.

Growing up, I internalized unhealthy perfectionism due to the abuse I experienced. If I didn’t make mistakes, I would not get physically abused. However, it taught me unhealthy ways to deal with errors.

Errors are a typical part of life, and they are ok.

While in the moment at the fertility clinic, if someone said “Errors are ok”, I might have gone off on them. But it’s true. Errors are part of life. A mistake can teach us so much if we are open to a lesson.

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While my fight was worth it, I realize that the fight needs to come with understanding as well. I needed to understand that while I was fighting, I was also doing so much at once. Balls would drop, and that would be ok.

A cancer diagnosis will definitely teach you to prioritize which balls stay in the air and which ones can be dropped by the waist side.

This journey would help me understand that a drop ball was ok because I was learning to filter what was important and what was not.

One morning, I was scrolling through Pinterest as I looked for future tattoos to honor my breast cancer journey. I do this frequently to plan for my life after all of this. However, this morning, instead of seeing pink ribbon tattoos or impressive chest tattoos post-mastectomy surgery, I see this image.

This is NOT the first or last “breast cancer prevention image” I have/will see. But this one set me off! Like I was pissed!

I am so tired of hearing ways to prevent breast cancer.

There are soooo many issues with the “prevention flyer," but here are a few things I want to highlight:

1. Food, weight, and exercise

Before I get into the issue I have with this, I want to acknowledge that the ability to prioritize one’s health, access healthy foods, afford whole foods, and find time to exercise is a HUGE privilege in a capitalist society like the United States.

Anywho…

I was one of the healthiest people I know. Literally, when I was diagnosed with Stage 2 bilateral breast cancer, I had several friends say to me, “Amara, I can’t believe this. You are one of, if not the healthiest person, I know.”

Correct. I was. I still am.

I was a plant-based (vegan) eater. I ate more produce in one day than some people ate in a week.

I drank water like a fish.

I walked miles for fun.

I did yoga regularly.

I meditated daily.

I maintained a healthy weight.

I didn’t drink.

I didn’t smoke.

I was mindful of my salt, sugar, and trans-fat intake.

I took care of myself, both mind and body.

AND I STILL GOT BREAST CANCER!

2. Breastfeeding

This aspect of the flyer really annoyed me.

Through my breast cancer journey, I have heard countless mothers say, “I found a lump while breastfeeding,” which must be devastating. It was actually shocking how many women have said this to me.

Also, the idea that every mother can breastfeed is insensitive. I haven’t done it (and never will), but I have heard breastfeeding is extremely challenging for women.

So this flyer feels like it’s judging women who made a choice not to breastfeed. And what if you did breastfeed and still got breast cancer? Or couldn’t breastfeed for whatever reason?

Again, problematic!

3. Age of motherhood

The fact is, MOST women are not having their first child by 25.

In an article written by Sara Chernikoff in 2024, USA TODAY, she shares this:

Women in the U.S. are more likely to delay motherhood now, compared to decades past, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. More than two decades ago, the average age of a first-time mother was 24.9. Now, the average woman or birthing person is having their first child at 27.5 - a record high in the country.

This article was written with data from 2023. Based on the graph’s trend, I can only imagine that the data from 2025 shows women are probably closer to 28-29 when they give birth to their first child.

My breast cancer experience has paused my ability to become a mother. I didn’t ask to be 39 without children, but it happened. It feels like I've been screwed by waiting to have kids.

And for those of us who have not had children yet or do not want children, this “prevention flyer” is super insensitive. It’s just careless, and I do not like it.

4. Family history

Ok, so this is fake news, and I’m tired of it. MOST breast cancer patients have NO FAMILY HISTORY! I wish people would stop saying that.

This flyer has me waiting to scream from the rooftops:

STOP SHAMING BREAST CANCER PATIENTS FOR THEIR DIAGNOSIS!

We are already dealing with so much.

We do not need to hear about how you are avoiding cancer by doing cleanses or fasting, or getting your colon cleansed quarterly.

We do not hear about how you drink chia seed water twice a day because some YouTuber with no medical degree told you this helps reduce cancer cells in your body.

Let me say something loud and clear: YOU CAN DO ALL “RIGHT” THINGS AND STILL GET BREAST CANCER!

I did all the “right things,” and I still got breast cancer. Unfortunately, that’s how life works sometimes. We think that we are on one path, and then there’s a massive life-altering shake-up.

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Ok, let’s work together to discuss better ways to show up for someone in a breast cancer journey:

1. Be more mindful of your language around breast cancer patients when you have your own fears

I have learned that people say really crazy things to you when you have a cancer diagnosis. Given my own self-work and dedication to my mental health, I have learned to see people’s intentions, not their words.

For example, I had a person tell me that when I got diagnosed with breast cancer, they replaced all their non-stick pots because the material that allows them to be non-stick causes cancer.

Geez thanks!

So now, it’s my fault I got breast cancer. As if I was not dealing with blaming myself already. Now I’m in my apartment looking at my pots and pans, wondering, “Did I do this to myself?”

While I know this person is just dealing with their own fears of death and illness, it was still a lot to process for me.

I get people’s fears because these statistics are scary. AND...y’all gotta deal with those fears, please go to therapy or journal or something. Do not voice your irrational (and sometimes rational) fears onto a person in the middle of navigating their own cancer journey. It’s thoughtless, unkind, and downright rude.

Do me and other people with breast cancer diagnoses a favor, keep your fears to yourself.

2. Stop asking people about family history because it’s patient-blaming

Why does that matter?

I’ll answer that for you, it does not.

What it does is shift blame to the person with breast cancer, as if they don’t have enough to deal with already. It’s blaming the patient for their diagnosis, and it is not their fault. I don’t care if every single woman in their family had breast cancer; highlighting that fact is not helpful.

3. Get educated on your own and from credible sources

The fact is, nobody (even in the medical community) really knows what causes breast cancer.

I understand cancer is scary af. Nobody wants to get cancer. But it happens.

While our human brains are seeking an explanation or rationale for why one person gets a breast cancer diagnosis and another person does not, the medical field really does not know.

I ask my oncologist, “Did I do something to cause this?” She told me, “No, you didn’t. We [the medical community] still have not pinpointed why this happens to some people and not to others.”

If my oncologist, who is the director of my breast cancer center and is a world-recognized medical professional, is telling me that I did nothing wrong, then wtf are people out here basically shaming breast cancer patients about their diagnosis?

The mindful side of me reminds me that it is people’s lack of knowledge about breast cancer that makes them say insensitive things. Many people are naive about breast cancer, as I was. I didn’t know much about breast cancer before my own diagnosis, even with my mother’s experience, which is very unfortunate.

1 in 8 women will get a breast cancer diagnosis, which is wild to think about. However, many of us do not even know what to look out for.

Lumps are not the only sign of breast cancer.

Did you know that? I didn’t.

Sharp pains are another one. I actually would get a sharp pain in my breasts randomly at times. They were never constant or long-lasting. So I chalked them up to nothing.

Well, they were something. But I didn’t know that.

The fact is that there are a lot of women who are not told about breast cancer, especially younger women.

The average age of a breast cancer patient is 62.

However, the cases of women under the age of 45 developing breast cancer are doubling every year. It’s actually pretty alarming, given the lack of knowledge we are given as women.

4. An active, wellness-conscious lifestyle helps when/if you become ill

What I will say is that my lifestyle before cancer helped me during this cancer journey. My body was stronger than I imagined. And by body, I don’t just mean my physical body. Mentally, I had a strength that I didn’t realize.

For years, I did extremely active movement such as CrossFit. However, my body began to tell me that those workouts were too much for me. I had physical pain that made me shift to walking and yoga. For 5 years, I did yoga and walking inclusively. Initially, I thought that without intense training, I would gain weight, which, looking back, was a ridiculous fear in itself. I didn’t gain weight, but so what if I did?

Anyway, what I did gain was mental and spiritual peace. I had a more relaxed way of being. This would help me tremendously when I had to face all the ups and downs of my breast cancer treatment.

These wellness practices allowed me to find peace in my situation.

They helped me use my breath to steady myself in the intense moments of treatment.

They reminded me that I was alive and fighting to be alive.

They allowed me to offer compassion, grace, and love to myself.

They helped me to hear someone’s fear and realize it’s theirs, not mine.

5. Don’t let fear steal your daily joy

While I’m annoyed, pissed off, and frustrated at people’s constant patient blaming, I understand where it comes from.

Fear.

We are all fearful of death, although it will happen to everyone.

We are all fearful of not having control over our lives, even though we are spinning in the middle of outer space in some random galaxy.

We are all fearful of not doing what we always do every day.

The fact remains that the only constant in our lives is change.

Fear is a natural part of one’s emotions. However, allowing fear to grip us so tightly that it’s causing us to blame people either consciously or unconsciously is a problem.

If someone comes to you with heavy news (a cancer diagnosis, terminal illness, or whatever), maybe offer an ear to listen or a hug to comfort, or a shoulder to cry on. Do your best to keep your fears to yourself. That person is already dealing with enough stress and personal blame.

But what you can do is do your best to live despite it all.

Yes, it will be hard not to blame yourself.

Yes, you will question why you? But at the end of the day, there’s a reason for it, even when it makes zero sense.

You can either choose to accept the news and keep pushing, or you can spend your life blaming and stuck in the why of it all.

I think the first option is better, but that’s just me.

I wake up. It’s a dream.

But it felt so real.

This dream I want to come true so badly I can feel it in my bones.

This dream bubbles to the surface of my thoughts as I stand waiting for the elevator to the fertility clinic.

I am here because of cancer. Breast cancer, to be exact.

Two weeks before, I was diagnosed with stage 2 bilateral breast cancer. I’m waiting for this elevator to take me upstairs to start the fertility perseverance. A process that must happen even before my breast cancer is treated because chemotherapy may (or may not) destroy my menstrual cycle.

I never dreamt of this process. But I have dreamt of being a mother.

Now, I wonder to myself, “Is that baby girl or any baby, even a possibility?”

I know the Universe doesn’t make mistakes, but damn does this feel like one.

Breast cancer has started to rob me of things I always dreamed would happen.

Me. Him. And this dream baby girl of ours.

While I do fear breast cancer may try to rob me of motherhood, I will continue to fight for this baby girl in my dreams.

Into the elevator I go…

I step out of the elevator and into the fertility clinic. It’s 7:45 am. It is quiet. Peaceful even.

Internally, I’m a wreck. I do my best to keep my emotions in check. I feel like a pot with water about to boil over at any minute.

I take measured breaths. Inhale. Exhale.

I coach myself, “Keep it together just until it’s over, then you can cry as much as you want.”

After checking in with the friendly receptionist who already remembers my name, I am instructed to go into the waiting room.

In the waiting room, there is another woman. I wonder what her story is. Why is she here? Well, I know why she’s here. She’s here like me…fighting for a motherhood that we aren’t quite sure we will have.

My name is called by one of the lovely nurses, Pauline. Pauline is the sweetest, most upbeat woman ever.

She explains that I will first get my blood drawn, then I will have an ultrasound afterwards.

The purpose of the blood work and ultrasound is to get a baseline for the fertility treatment. The doctors are monitoring various data points to know when I will start my first injections. In addition, I would return to the fertility clinic every 1-2 days for blood work and an ultrasound to see how my follicles were progressing.

Talk about a damn commitment!!!

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I can’t remember the actual appointment because I was doing my best NOT to cry. I just kept thinking about the reason I was here.

I was 39 and had never been pregnant, and I had to freeze my eggs because of breast cancer.

I met my partner after YEARS (7 to be exact, but who’s counting) of being single and doing a lot of self-work. However, I’m glad I did it.

I already knew we would be “old” parents, but now it felt like “is this even going to happen?”

I felt I was being robbed…

Robbed for being responsible.

Robbed for being willing to wait for a partnership.

Robbed of waiting for said partner before entertaining the idea of motherhood.

Robbed for getting my finances, emotions, and well-being together before motherhood.

I felt breast cancer was stealing my opportunity for motherhood.

My body moves through the movements of the bloodwork and ultrasound, but my mind is focused on the beginning of how breast cancer would rob me.

As I’m leaving the clinic, Pauline says, “Ok, honey, see you next time.”

She notices the tears at the brim of my eyes and inquires if I’m ok.

Of course, I’m not. Cue waterworks.

I started crying and sharing my feelings about having to do this process because of breast cancer.

Bless Pauline because she embraced me, saying, “I know this is hard, but we are going to take care of you.”

I embraced Pauline, allowing her words to hold me and told me, “We are going to take care of you.”

I thanked Pauline, leaving, thinking about the choice I had at that moment.

I could choose to trust the Universe, as Pauline reminded me, or allow these fears to take me over.

As I left the building, I chose to trust, even though the fears continued to try to attack my mind.

I remember thinking to myself, I need a personal memory for this moment. The moment to show myself what courage looked like. I never imagined sharing it with anyone. But here it is…

This is what courage looks like sometimes. Courage is not a person without fear. In my opinion, courage actually requires fear. Courage is feeling that fear and pushing through anyway.

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The following day, I began my fertility injections, which was Valentine’s Day.

I’m not a huge fan of Valentine’s Day because of the obvious unnecessary need to spend money to tell folks you love them. Do we need a day for this?!?!? Don’t we have enough pressure to buy gifts?!? I digress…

However, this Valentine’s Day was different for me. This Valentine’s Day marked a new journey for me. It was me leaning into love for myself. It was not allowing the fear of cancer and the looming chemotherapy treatment to scare me from my dreams.

I thought back to my dream of that baby girl and my partner. The love I felt for that little girl who currently exists in my dreams.

Would these injections guarantee my motherhood?

Would these injections give me enough eggs for the future?

Nope. In fact, the fertility doctor told me his “realistic data.” AKA you’re almost 40, so do not get your hopes up.

Did I give myself a chance?

HELL YES!

Had the Universe already shown up and showed out in my life in ways that were not “realistic”?

HELL YES!

Could God do it again?

HELL YES!

So, after work, Gerri, my co-worker and part of my support team, came home with me.

We watched the injection videos by the fertility clinic. Gerri took detailed notes.

It was a WHOLE process.

• Preparing each injection differently.

• Measuring the medication properly.

• Sterilizing the needles and medication bottles.

• Injecting into the right place in the body

• Ensuring the proper disposal of the needles

And I had to do this THREE times for different drugs, plus an oral daily pill to keep my hormone levels low!

Gerri would reread the instructions to me as I prepared the injections.

Then it was injection time.

For the record, I was never a fan of needles. Now, I had to inject myself into the belly multiple times.

Below is a video of my first injection of many.

I would continue these injections for 2 more weeks. There would be ups and downs, which I will share in a later post.

While I still do not know what will happen with my fertility and a future child, that day I chose my dreams.

I chose to do something I did not want to do for something I did want.

That’s the thing about life: we do not choose what comes at us, but we do choose how we respond.

I did not choose cancer. But I chose the courage.

I did not choose to do fertility treatments. But I choose faith.

I did not choose to do this experience alone. But I choose to trust in a Divine plan.

At the end of the day, we are spinning on a planet in the middle of a galaxy. We literally have zero control over what happens.

The only choice we have is how we show up. Every day will NOT be cupcakes and ice cream, as my grandma would say. Because life be life-ing. However, this process has shown me time and time again, it is MY choice how I show up. It’s my choice not to allow cancer and all the nonsense that follows to ruin my dreams.

I plan to do things despite cancer. I planned on motherhood, so I will do what I can to achieve it. Cancer be damned because my dreams were worth it, and I would fight like hell to get them.

Yea they told me the pathology report.

Yea they explained the treatment plan.

Yea I told everyone I had bilateral breast cancer.

Yea I cried lots of tears about it.

But I hadn’t started anything yet.

So it felt like a bad dream, I would wake up at any minute.

Unfortunately, this was real life.

The moment the bad dream became a reality was the day I needed to get my port. For those who don’t know what a port is (I didn’t know before getting one), it’s a device that gets inserted into your body for chemotherapy sessions.

It helps preserve your veins during chemotherapy.

Initially, my port placement operation was planned for February 24, which was 2 weeks away.

However, on February 12th, I got a call from the hospital. They needed to reschedule my port placement. They had an opening the next day at 12:15 pm, and could I do it?

Hmmmm yea, I could do it, but I wasn’t ready. I thought I had more time to prepare. But there was no time. It was go time.

I reluctantly said yes.

The staff member explained all the steps I needed to take the next day, including having someone pick me up, as I would be under sedation.

I called Gerri, my coworker and overall guardian angel, about the procedure. She told me, “No problem, I will drop you off and pick you up.”

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It’s now February 12th, and I’m leaving school early again! Gerri and I are heading to my appointment.

Gerri comes inside with me. We check in at the front desk, and they direct us to the area where I will get my procedure.

As we are walking, I see signs to the Cancer Institute. It’s hitting me.

I actually have cancer.

I will actually have to deal with it. WTF is even happening?!?!

We get to the accurate check-in area and wait. Once my name is called, the medical staff member tells Gerri that she will be called when it’s time for me to get picked up.

Gerri gives me a hug and encouraging words, as I know she can see the fear in my eyes.

They walk me to a room with a bunch of beds separated by curtains.

The nurse instructs me on how to put on the johnny (the medical robe they provide) and place my clothes in a plastic bag.

At this point, I’m definitely crying. This is all too much. I’m not ready.

Regardless of whether I was ready, I was going to undergo this procedure.

A nurse, Austin, came in. He started prepping me for the procedure.

He asked me, “Are you nervous?” I said, “Yes” through my tears.

He placed his hand on my right shoulder and told me, “It’s going to be ok. I know this is a lot.”

It was a small gesture, yet a necessary one. Thank you, Austin, wherever you are. You were my angel in that moment. I needed to feel calmer, and you offered the compassion I needed.

The anesthesiologist came in and provided me with some medication to ease my anxiety because homegirl was on 10!

I’m wheeled into the procedure room. There are about five people in there moving around, preparing for the procedure.

I climb from the gurney onto the procedure table.

During the procedure, I am awake, but the area is numbed and I’m sorta half-asleep.

Afterwards, I’m wheeled back to the same room with the curtains. While I do have pain medication, I do feel soreness at the port site, which is on my right chest.

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I remember feeling overwhelmed.

My life was changing.

This was a marker that I had cancer, and my treatment plan was looming.

This port meant chemotherapy was around the corner.

Why did I really need chemotherapy?

Why couldn’t I just have a surgery to get it out?

Ironically, my surgeon, Dr. T, would call me later that day while I was home recovering.

There was some type of scheduling hiccup with an appointment the following week.

My mind shifted in that moment.

I never heard chemo discussed in this way.

Would I smile every day? Hell nah!

I would cry when I needed to process my emotions.

But I would choose happiness.

I would choose to fight this disease both physically and emotionally.

My emotional state would need to be that of a person who was determined to win her life back.

Last time I checked, nobody goes into a game like “I hope I lose today!”

You go into a fight like “Let’s do the damn thang.”

So port be damned!!!

Chemo was curing this breast cancer, so let’s get ready, come hell or high water.