By Denise Kaye
Every woman’s journey with breast cancer is unique. Although the diagnosis may be the same, how we handle it, how it affects our bodies and minds, and how we maneuver our way through it are all very individual.
This is my life.
On the day before Labor Day in 2025, I learned that I had breast cancer. MyChart’s endoscopy results revealed that three tumors had been discovered, and one of them was diseased.
The shock was sizable. My daughter had just begun college, and my mother-in-law had only been buried. Grief was something our family had gone through so many in a week. Pride. Sadness. enthralling.
next cancer.
I contacted a friend who, regrettably, is quite knowledgeable both professionally and personally about cancer. Due to her, I had appointments with two unique breast surgeons by the following Friday. After a meeting with both of them, we settled on the one who would make the most sense for us.
Finally, we did something that, looking up, I am so appreciative of.
We took a trip to celebrate my 50th birthday.
My mother-in-law was born in Paris, Greece, and lived there until she was 12 years old. therefore a cruise through the Greek Islands.
We might have canceled. Rather, we left.
When my husband and I would look at one another and cry, knowing that something was going to be very hard for us when we got home, but we never knew what it would turn out to be.
The trip was wonderful. We celebrated, we laughed, we cried, and we carried my mother-in-law with us in our hearts.
My surgery was scheduled for November 19 when we returned home. It lasted for about eight hours.
I had a twin mastectomy. Although it wasn’t completely necessary, it had been suggested. Looking up, I think it saved my life.
After surgery, they discovered a new tumor that made up nearly 30 % of my breast tissue. On any of the three screenings I had undergone, it had never been found.
That took a long time to process. I had carried out my duties. I had attended my screenings. I lacked confidence that whatever was there would be discovered.
It wasn’t, either.
I had to heal following the mastectomy. For me, walking was necessary for healing. I’m lucky that I live in Phoenix, because November is so lovely. I went for walks every day. It both improved my body and my mind.
Therefore the medication arrived.
I was given a medication that blocks estrogen to lower the risk of the cancer returning because my cancer was hormone-sensitive.
It was supposed to keep me safe. Rather, I smelt like I was a 100-year-old. My muscles hurt. My joints are sore. I was worn out. I’ve always been a very active, athletic woman, and I instantly realized how unwell my body felt.
And in this area, in my opinion, we need to alter how we talk about cancer.
because I didn’t appear tired.
I didn’t have a head that was shaven.
I wasn’t using a chemotherapy chair.
I wasn’t wasting my time.
I appeared to be very much the same woman I’ve often been from the outside.
But in, I could feel the throbbing of every muscle in my body.
I could feel positively awful and still look completely healthy when I wake up. And it was difficult to explain that disconnect.
We observe people and make based on what we see:
You must feel great because you look great.
You have hair, so you must be fine now.
You’re exercising, but you’ve got to be great.
You’re smiling, so you have to be content.
However, cancer and cancer treatment don’t often make an announcement on the outside.
Maybe the person who appears the healthiest has the most trouble with what is going on inside of them.
Therefore, my left breast developed an infection. I needed emergency surgery two months later, on January 21, 2026. Because my body wasn’t willing, my plastic surgeon had to remove the expanders and place the implants earlier than expected.
The reconstruction was not what I had anticipated. I was certain that my surgeon would finally be ready to fix it, but I had to accept what I saw in the mirror.
And I detested it.  ,
Because I was aware of how fortunate I was, that is difficult to admit.  ,
I was still intact.
I still had my hair. I didn’t require radiation or chemotherapy. I was aware of my luck.
However, being grateful doesn’t change how you feel.
My oncologist later suggested a different medication. It seemed to work better for me, and I was relieved to find something I could tolerate.
Finally, on August 18, I had what I thought would be my last operation.
And I was content with what I saw in the mirror for the first time in a very long time.
I thought maybe I was suddenly regaining my self-esteem.
Therefore I began bleeding from a long-standing wound that had healed fully.
My surgeon attempted to glue it, but ten days after I was back in the emergency room on September 1, 2026.
Another procedure. Another setback. Despite all of this, I am aware of how fortunate I am.
I am still intact.
My hair didn’t lose any of it. I was exempt from chemotherapy or radiation. And I am aware that I possibly look very nice from the outside for someone who has experienced breast cancer.
I am extremely thankful.
However, here is something that people don’t usually discuss: how you feel.  ,
not only literally. Emotionally speaking. Physically. biologically speaking. As a woman. Breast cancer can rob you of things that don’t appear on a pathology report.
It has the ability to remove breasts. It is able to rob touch and feel. Finally, in an effort to stop cancer from returning, treatment may remove your estrogen.
The pretty medication you are given to keep you alive can occasionally make you feel disengaged from your unique body.
Your body undergoes transformation. Your self-assurance changes. Your sexuality may alter. Your energy may change. Your relationship to exercise may alter.
And occasionally, when you look in the mirror, you miss the woman who is glaring at you.
The hardest part, however, is that the rest of this is not always visible.
You can enter a room looking wholesome without thinking about the internal causes of your body’s injuries.
You can put on a dress, fix your hair, smile for a picture, and still look exactly as good if you don’t feel anything.
You may be acting.
You might be employed.
You might be working out.
You might be traveling.
You might be laughing.
And you might also be struggling.
There is no bell that you ring when you are a survivor. There isn’t a ceremony. You are merely a survivor, and you are expected to be appreciative.
And I’m appreciative.
However, I even think that there needs to be room for everything else. Because you can be happy you’re alive and also feel the pain that your cancer has caused you.
You can also have days when you don’t feel solid despite being sturdy.
You can appear and feel good at the same time.
You can appear attractive but also fail to recognize who you are.
You may appear to have moved on while attempting to figure out a course of action.
The details of what is happening on the inside don’t usually come out. Remember that you genuinely don’t know how someone feels when you look at someone who has been through cancer and think,” She looks great.”
Perhaps she feels fantastic. Or perhaps she really excels at showing up.
I’m still trying to find my way up to who I am. And I believe that’s acceptable.  ,
Because I’m still the woman I was before cancer. She is also present.
