I Keep My Fake Boobs in a Drawer. Breast Cancer Will Do That to You.

It’s October, and that brings with it all the signs of the season…cooler temperatures, cozy sweaters, fall festivals, pumpkin-flavored everything. But it also brings something heavier and more personal, Breast Cancer Awareness Month. And while the pink ribbons and campaigns are everywhere, I want to offer something a little more real this time around. Because behind the pink is a story I haven’t always shared. I’m an 11-year breast cancer survivor. And even after more than a decade, that title still carries weight.

Being diagnosed with cancer is never easy. It’s shocking, disorienting, and impossible to fully prepare for, no matter the type, the stage, or the treatment path. It shakes the ground under your feet and sends tremors through your life and everyone close to you. Cancer doesn’t just happen to a person. It happens to their family, their friends, their whole world. That’s why, if we’re going to dedicate a whole month to breast cancer awareness, we need to talk about more than just survival. We need to talk about the hard parts too. The parts that don’t make it onto the pink posters.

Cancer split my life in two - before and after. And that’s not a metaphor. It really did change everything, from how I move through the world to how I see it. I know I’m lucky. I survived. I’m here. I’m thriving. But the truth is, surviving comes with its own set of scars, some you can see and a lot you can’t.

The treatment plan I chose was aggressive. I opted for what I felt gave me the best odds: chemotherapy, radiation, a bilateral mastectomy, and a full hysterectomy at age 45. I’m BRCA2 positive, which meant I carried a higher genetic risk for breast and ovarian cancer. For me, that meant taking action. For others, it might look different and that’s okay. This isn’t about one “right” path. It’s about doing what you have to do to stay alive. But surviving the disease is only one part of the journey. You also have to survive what comes after.

Chemotherapy left me with neuropathy in both feet, like they’re always asleep, but multiply that pins-and-needles sensation by a factor of 912. It makes walking painful. Standing is hard. Sometimes I use a walker. For longer outings, I rely on a mobility scooter. It’s not about convenience. It’s about safety. Falling is dangerous for anyone, and when you’re dealing with this level of pain and numbness, it becomes a real risk. I also have intermittent loss of feeling in my fingertips, which mostly means I drop things. A lot. That’s just my new normal.

Radiation wasn’t kind either. Halfway through treatment, I suffered third-degree burns on the left side of my torso, leaving permanent scar tissue and new physical challenges. Early menopause came swiftly after my hysterectomy and brought with it a hormonal roller coaster that I’m still navigating. And I made the choice not to have reconstruction. So yes, I have a drawer where my prosthetic breasts live most of the time. Because some days, I just don’t feel like wearing them. And because why not keep a fake boobs in a drawer? It makes me laugh, and sometimes you need that.

These are the parts of survivorship that don’t get much airtime. The invisible disabilities. The daily physical hurdles. The emotional exhaustion. The changes in your body that you never asked for. And yet, here we are. Alive. Still here. Still trying. That’s a triumph worth celebrating too, even if it looks a little different than the pink campaigns tell you.

I don’t share this for sympathy. My life is full of love, of joy, of amazing people who have stood with me through every painful, beautiful, chaotic step of this journey. I share it so you understand that not all struggles are visible. That someone walking past you slowly, or using a scooter, might be dealing with pain you can’t see. So lead with compassion. Assume nothing. Be kind.

We also need to keep having real conversations about what cancer does to people. Not just the patients, but the caregivers, the families, the friends who want to help but don’t know how. Community matters. Support matters. And research really matters. The progress we’ve made in breast cancer treatment didn’t come out of thin air. It came from funding, from science, from relentless work by people who believe we can do better. But we’re not done. We can’t be done. Too many people still face diagnoses that aren’t curable yet. Too many people still suffer through outdated treatments and side effects that steal their quality of life. We need more answers. We need more options. We need more funding.

I wish no one ever had to hear the words, “You have cancer.” But until that wish becomes reality, we have to stay alert. Stay informed. And most importantly, get screened. Mammograms save lives. Early detection changes everything.

So talk about it. Post about it. Ask the hard questions. I’m always open to sharing more, because the only way we keep moving forward is by refusing to stay silent. This month, don’t just wear pink. Know why you’re wearing it. And remember the real people behind the ribbon.

Be kind. Do more good. We got this.