A little over a year has passed since you received that life-altering diagnosis of breast cancer. I know that calling it “life-changing” feels cliché, but honestly, it’s the most fitting term for what this has meant for you and everyone who cares about you.
I have to apologize for taking so long to write this. Usually, I turn to writing to process my emotions and find clarity in chaotic situations, yet since you’ve been going through this, I’ve found myself at a loss for words. This is your journey, not mine, and I recognize that it’s you who’s been living this reality.
From the moment you received your diagnosis, your world turned upside down, and ours did too. We’ve been navigating this unfamiliar terrain together, and even though we’ve been friends for 30 years and faced our fair share of challenges, nothing compares to this battle against cancer.
When you first told me about your diagnosis, my mind raced with medical questions: What stage is it? What’s the prognosis? When do you start treatment? I also thought about practical things—How can I help? What do you need? When can I visit? But there were also those heavy, unasked questions that lingered in the air. How will this affect our friendship? Will we change? Will I be the support you need, or will I let you down? And, most importantly, will you be okay? Like, live-a-long-life-okay?
The toughest questions were yours. You wondered about getting a second opinion (yes, definitely). You questioned whether a double mastectomy was the right choice (I honestly wasn’t sure). You even asked about the etiquette surrounding cancer gifts (don’t worry about that; you have a free pass). And then there was the heart-wrenching question: Is this really happening to me?
I hated that we were so far apart, even though we texted constantly. I shared in your anger, asked questions, and sometimes just sent messages filled with love or frustration directed at that “goddamn cancer.” Our phone calls were filled with tears, laughter, and discussions about ports, mastectomies, biopsy results, and chemotherapy schedules.
I’ll never forget the day I stayed with you during your first round of chemo. Your first question was, “Do you want to see them?” “Heck yeah!” was my immediate response. We snuck into your closet, and though your body had endured so much, you were more powerful and beautiful to me than ever, like a superhero in the middle of her fight. Just months later, before your final reconstruction surgery, I was thrilled when you invited me to see your progress again. We giggled like teenagers in a restaurant bathroom, debating size and shape, and I saw you, not as wounded, but as strong and stunning.
Since your diagnosis, I’ve often worried about whether my own trivial concerns were appropriate to share. Do I have the right to vent about my job or parenting struggles? Should I still ask you for fashion advice when my worries seem so insignificant compared to yours? Does any of this really matter?
I’ll admit, I’ve had my doubts and questions too. I’ve wondered why you cared so much about your hair, using cold caps even when they made you feel sick. Isn’t your body dealing with enough? But in the end, those were not my questions to ponder. What truly mattered was how I could support you through this, how I could hold space for your pain, and how I could help make things a little easier.
I’ve learned so much in this past year. I’ve discovered that sometimes a well-placed joke or a shared silence can bring more comfort than the cliché of “everything happens for a reason.” I’ve learned about the difference between a port and a drain, and that a woman’s sense of beauty comes from within, not just society’s standards.
Most importantly, I’ve realized that I shouldn’t have feared the questions or the uncertainty. I should have embraced them, asking and listening without hesitation, because in those questions, we show up for each other, offer love, and truly bear witness to our experiences.
So, I’m here now, ready to be honest about my questions and to listen to yours. It’s not about finding all the answers; it’s about being present and learning together through it all. And that leads me to my final question, one that has echoed throughout time: Can we emerge from this stronger and more profound? How can we build something beautiful from this experience?
Maybe, in our own way, we already are.
With love and support,
Jessica