Facing Breast Cancer Young: Loneliness, Fear, and Finding Community
They say the smallest things can change your life’s trajectory, and for me, that couldn’t be more true. At the age of 35, a simple cross of my arms revealed a lump—a tiny discovery that would plunge me into a bittersweet battle with stage 2 invasive ductal carcinoma ER-positive breast cancer. A diagnosis that would shake my core and steer me into a world of self-discovery, healing, and advocacy.
Thinking beyond my diagnosis, I realize that my mother, unknowingly, had given me the tool that would save me. Since I was 12 years old, she taught me how to do a self-check exam. Twenty years later, that act of vigilance revealed the lump. After discovering the lump, I was paralyzed by fear, which led to a month of denial. Since I knew that lumps could come and go with a menstrual cycle, I decided to wait a month to see if it would disappear. To my surprise, this unwelcome guest was still there and the persistent abnormality led me to make an appointment to see my gynecologist. My gynecologist’s immediate concern sent me to a local hospital center, a place I never imagined I’d be. Being young and healthy, I naively thought that breast cancer was a “white woman’s disease.” Never could I have imagined that I would not only be diagnosed with breast cancer, but also have to undergo treatment.
Hours of ultrasounds and mammograms, followed by a biopsy, led to the words that changed everything: “Unfortunately, you have breast cancer.” The world seemed to slow down, and my dreams felt shattered. Suddenly, I was forced to live in the moment, facing a future I couldn’t picture. Denial was my first shield. I imagined a quick surgery, a return to normalcy. I didn’t comprehend my new reality,which would consist of 4 rounds of chemo, a bilateral mastectomy, 25 radiation sessions,and 10 years of hormone therapy.
The diagnosis left me with a new found set of fears. I feared dying, change, losing my breasts, and going through chemo. I was scared of how much I’d change, especially losing my hair. But most of all, I feared telling my children about my diagnosis. The thought of telling my children, then 7, 9, and 12, was a heavy burden. How do you explain cancer to a child? I knew I had to be honest. I tried to soften the blow, explaining that I wasn’t “sick,” but that the chemo would make me appear that way. I told them that I had breast cancer, but it was a small problem I had to handle now, so that it wouldn’t be a bigger problem later. Surprisingly, they handled it fairly well. They were motivated to help me beat breast cancer, which was what I needed in order to begin my fight. Their strength, their unwavering love, became my anchor.
Even with my husband, kids, family, and friends rallying around me, a deep loneliness settled in. I felt isolated, like I’d been singled out for this cruel fate. I couldn’t picture how I’d get through it, or what my life would even look like on the other side. The isolation was profound. I quickly learned that I was different than most people that I knew. At 35, my life was a stark contrast to my peers. My youth, my energy, my sense of self, all seemed to be stolen by the disease. Hospital beds replaced vacations, and the loss of hair and breasts felt like a public stripping of my femininity. Loneliness, a heavy, suffocating blanket, settled over me.
In the midst of this isolation, I found a lifeline in breast cancer support groups, particularly those for Black women. They were a sanctuary, a place where shared experiences created a bond that transcended age and circumstance. Making friends and connecting with others gave me a sense of normalcy. “The worst club with the best members,” they call it. Here, I found my voice, my purpose, my people. People, who were complete strangers, but would dedicate their time to inspire, motivate, connect, and alleviate some of your fears.
I was so inspired by the compassion shown to me by other breast cancer patients and survivors, I made a promise to God that if he got me through treatment, I would pay it forward. I would dedicate my life to helping others. This promise is one that I started during treatment. I turned to the only tool I knew: storytelling. And it was my son, BK, who inspired my first act of advocacy. Seeing his confusion and fear, I knew I needed to create a bridge between his world and mine. That’s how “BK’s Mommy Has Breast Cancer” was born. It wasn’t just a book; it was a conversation starter, a way to explain the complex reality of cancer in a way a child could understand. It was a tool to help him, and other children like him, navigate the fear and uncertainty.
BK’s Mommy Has Breast Cancer opened a new chapter, which led to more writing opportunities, podcasts, and a platform to advocate for change. Joining organizations like the Young Survival Coalition and the Tiger Lily Foundation opened doors to speaking engagements, research opportunities, and lobbying on Capitol Hill.
That tiny lump, the seemingly insignificant beginning, launched me into a journey of profound uncertainty, yet ultimately, empowerment. It became a redirection, a catalyst that not only forced me to find the tools my children needed to navigate this challenge but also revealed the vital importance of my voice. In spaces where Black women are often underrepresented, my presence, my story, stands as living proof that we can fight, overcome, and demand the care we deserve.
This wasn’t merely about surviving breast cancer; it was about discovering my voice, building a community of support, and transforming pain into a powerful purpose. It began with a moment of fear, a desire to explain a complex reality to my son, and evolved into a mission to ensure others know they are not alone. Your journey, like mine, is unique. Seek your community, find your voice, and never cease advocating for yourself and others.