A little over a year ago, you received the news that would change everything: a breast cancer diagnosis. It’s a phrase that feels overused, but there’s truly no better way to describe the profound impact it has had—not only on your life but also on everyone who cares about you.
I owe you an apology for taking so long to put my thoughts into words. Writing has always been my way of processing feelings, but since your diagnosis, I’ve struggled to find the right words. This journey belongs to you, and I’ve hesitated to intrude on your story. You’re the one facing this battle, not me.
When you first shared your diagnosis, everything shifted. Your world turned upside down, and ours did too. We’ve known each other for 30 years, and while we’ve faced some tough times together, nothing could prepare us for the realities of cancer.
Naturally, my first thoughts were filled with medical questions: What stage is it? What’s the treatment plan? How can I help? But there were also unspoken fears hanging in the air. How will this change our friendship? Will I be the friend you need? And, most pressing of all: Will you be okay—truly okay?
The hardest questions often came from you. You wondered about seeking a second opinion. Should you have a single or double mastectomy? You even asked about the etiquette surrounding gifts, and I reassured you that you had a pass on the thank-you notes. And then there was the question that tore at my heart: “Is this really happening to me?”
I hated the distance between us, even though we stayed connected through texts—sometimes hourly. I shared in your anger, answered your questions, and sent you love, even when it felt inadequate. Our phone conversations became a mix of tears and laughter, with discussions that now included terms like chemotherapy and biopsy results.
When I visited you during your first chemotherapy session, you boldly asked if I wanted to see your scars. My enthusiastic “Hell yeah!” led us to your closet, where I witnessed the physical toll the treatment had taken. Yet, in that moment, your strength shone through; you were a fierce warrior, more powerful than ever. A few months later, just before your reconstruction surgery, we snuck into a restaurant bathroom, giggling like teenagers as you revealed your new figure. You looked anything but defeated.
Since your diagnosis, I’ve grappled with my own trivial concerns. How can I complain about my daily life when you’re facing something so monumental? Should I ask for your fashion advice when the weight of your battle feels so much heavier? But I also realized that I shouldn’t shy away from my worries or second-guess your feelings. I learned to focus on how I could support you—how to bear witness to your journey without losing sight of my own.
This past year has taught me invaluable lessons. I’ve discovered that sometimes, a well-timed joke or a moment of silence can provide more comfort than the cliché “everything happens for a reason.” I’ve learned the ins and outs of treatment—what a port is versus a drain—and I’ve come to understand that beauty is defined not just by societal standards but by the strength that comes from within.
Most importantly, I’ve come to embrace the questions we face together. It’s not about finding answers; it’s about showing up and offering love in the process. So, I promise to ask my questions and listen to yours. It’s through our inquiries that we connect, learn, and grow.
And so, I pose one more question—the one that echoes through time: Can this experience, no matter how painful, lead us to something greater? How can we turn this into a force for good in our lives? Perhaps, in our own way, we are already crafting something beautiful from this hardship.