That Thing I Don’t Really Like Talking About: Breast Cancer

TLDR: Check Your Boobies! Resources for Breast Cancer screenings and support can be found:

This piece is dedicated to memories of my Aunt Kathy (aka Lawdy Mama) , my Godmother Ife’ Kiara, and the Black Queens (and Kings) whose lives have been impacted by breast cancer.

I only want to tell this story once.

I’ll be telling this story in pieces.

Part I is inspired by Breast Cancer Awareness Month, which falls in October. Honestly, I get nauseous seeing the pink commercialization of breast cancer—how it’s been turned into a brand, a commodity to profit from. But I digress.

It’ll come in pieces because this is still a heavy topic for me. I’ve moved past it, but I haven’t fully moved through it.

My hope in sharing my story is twofold: to continue my own healing and to use my platform to advocate for breast health among Black women (and women in general—but y’all know what it is).

Writing this took a lot out of me. So many emotions bubbled to the surface. That’s why I’m sharing the physical pages I wrote it on. I didn’t want to type it. I meant every word exactly as I wrote it.

I only want to tell this story—fully, completely—once.

I write this note through tears. It is not easy to unzip this part of me. To show the places where I am soft and vulnerable. My best friend Tashi calls me a cactus. She says I am prickly on the outside but just a bunch of soft mushy goo on the inside.

The motivation behind sharing my story is multi-faceted. A major part of it was inspired by Guerdy Abraira (47) from Bravo TV’s Real Housewives of Miami. Guerdy courageously shared her breast cancer journey in front of millions—using her platform to advocate for screenings while refusing to glamorize or sugarcoat what life after cancer really looks like. Her honesty about what it means to “beat” cancer stopped me in my tracks.

Guerdy Abraira – Real Housewives of Miami

Being a survivor can sound more empowering than it often feels. Life after cancer requires constant adjustment. There are physical, mental, and psychological scars that never fully fade. Survivor’s guilt is real. Body dysmorphia is real. Depression is real. And the shift in perspective—where you stop giving a tiny fuck about small, petty shit—is real too. Still, in the quiet moments, you have to silence that loud, gnawing little voice whispering, “What if it comes back?”

I was 35 when I was diagnosed with infiltrating ductal carcinoma. Thankfully, I caught it early—really early. My first mammogram wasn’t even scheduled until I turned 40. I try not to think too hard about what could have happened had I not found that lump when I did.

Now, 7.5 years post-cancer and just 2.5 years away from being out of the “recurrence danger zone,” my heart breaks seeing more and more young Black women diagnosed—some in their twenties. This is a public health crisis.

Black women face the highest breast cancer mortality rates. We’re diagnosed at younger ages than white women, often with more aggressive forms of the disease. On top of that, research shows higher cancer risks linked to frequent use of certain hair products—products marketed directly to us.

This is a public health crisis.

BREAST CANCER IS THE LEADING CAUSE OF CANCER DEATH FOR BLACK WOMEN.

We all know someone who has been impacted by breast cancer. We’ve lost civil rights icon Fannie Lou Hamer, poet June Jordan, screen legend Diahann Carroll, and media personality Ananda Lewis. And there are countless unnamed warriors—many more, heartbreakingly, still to come.

This isn’t a club anyone wants to join. I hate going to support groups. I don’t find comfort in bonding through shared trauma. It doesn’t make me feel better; if anything, I leave feeling heavy and sad, reminded that the only reason we’re all in the same room is because of breast cancer.

I prefer to forget that I had it. I struggle when I’m forced to sit in it. I

had cancer—but it is not my story. It is just A story. Raw and unfiltered.

Part I