This Body is Bullshit

Let me say the quiet part out loud: breast cancer is practically a rite of passage now. It’s everywhere. A dime a dozen. There are ribbons, walkathons, hashtags. It’s so common that people have actually said to me, “Well, if you’re going to get cancer, that’s the one to get.”

And honestly? Some days, I weirdly agree.

Not because it wasn’t awful. It was—and it still is. But I’ve watched other people go through things that are so much worse, and sometimes I think, Maybe I got the easier version of hell.

My cousin’s sister—my aunt and uncle’s daughter—died from a rare genetic disease. She was young. It was awful and heartbreaking and long. My aunt, who has been one of my biggest caregivers during all of this, lost her daughter—and still showed up for me. That kind of strength is hard to describe. Then there’s my stepsister and her husband, who lost their son. Another rare genetic disease. And now, my stepsister’s sister-in-law—only a few years younger than me—was diagnosed with a rare, terrifying cancer. The kind where they don’t really have a treatment plan, just clinical trials and prayers. My poor brother-in-law(step) in his grief and worry.

So yeah… breast cancer? Kind of basic by comparison. It comes with protocols and statistics. There are plans. Medications. Support groups. T-shirts. You get what I mean.

Some days, I feel guilty for surviving it. Other days, I feel lucky that it was something the world actually has words for. So many others don’t get that.

But that doesn’t mean it didn’t wreck me. It did. I’ve had seven surgeries. Sepsis. Radiation. A recurrence that was missed for two years. I feel like shit most of the time. But I got through it. And the only reason I could get through it is because of the people around me.

I have the kind of support system that makes you laugh and cry at the same time. My family and friends are incredible. They show up. They send meals. They help pay bills. They plan outings when I look like I might be circling the drain emotionally. They’ve been doing that since before cancer—when I was a single mom just trying to survive one bill, one bottle, one emotional breakdown at a time.

I sometimes think, How do I ever pay them back? And the truth is, I probably can’t. I just try to live in a way that honors how much I’ve been carried. That might sound cheesy, but it’s true.

Being a single mom was its own kind of war zone. Grace and I made a life out of scraps—tight budgets, late-night cereal dinners, and homemade birthday magic. I had help, thank God. But still, it was hard. And even though I’ve always felt guilty for not being able to give her more, she’s become someone extraordinary.

Grace has a master’s in forensic psychology. She has her own apartment, her own job, her own car. I don’t support her financially in any way (though I would if I could), and I’m so fucking proud of her for that. Her work focuses on violence prevention and trauma recovery for neglected communities. And yeah—it’s no coincidence she chose that line of work. She lived some of it. Her dad was a disaster. Emotionally abusive. Volatile. He made her feel unsafe. And even though I tried for years to maintain that relationship for her sake, she was the one who ultimately decided to cut ties—and I supported her 100%.

She hasn’t seen or spoken to him in over ten years. It was a heartbreaking choice—but a brave one. And if I’m being honest, she probably saved me, too. I left him when she was two. I was a shell of myself, but she gave me something to fight for.

So yeah—some days I feel lucky to have had breast cancer. Not because it was easy, but because I already knew what it was like to crawl through something with nothing but grit and borrowed strength. I already knew how to survive hard things.

This wasn’t my first round.

And even now, when I hate this body—this stitched-up, scarred, aching, bullshit body—I still love her. Because she’s still here.

So am I.