Cracked, Not Broken: Life After Breast Cancer

Breast cancer cracked me open but didn’t break me: © stock.adobe.com.

I had a charmed breast cancer experience.

That’s a strange sentence to write — and an even stranger one to believe. But from diagnosis to treatment, everything that could go right for me, did. I was diagnosed with triple-negative breast cancer two months into the pandemic shutdown, at the age of 44. I had immediate access to world-class treatment, a phenomenal care team, a supportive partner and comprehensive insurance. Even my emotional and mental health needs were supported. Twenty years ago, this would’ve been a death sentence.

I just entered my fifth year of being NED (no evidence of disease) with gratitude — and questions.

What made the difference for me? Why did I survive when the statistics for Black women with breast cancer are so grim? We’re less likely to be diagnosed, more likely to die from it, more likely to be dismissed, diagnosed later, or offered fewer options. Was my outcome shaped by where I live? My marital status? My employer or education? My ability to navigate systems fluently? The truth is, it’s all of it. It’s intersectional. And that’s why I feel compelled to speak up. Because not everyone can. Not everyone feels safe to do so.

Cancer stripped me down to the studs. With a husband, two pre-teens, an elderly cat, and a global pandemic to contend with, I had no choice but to re-examine my life. I stopped saying yes when I meant no. I let go of friendships that no longer served me. I quit shouldering inherited expectations from family, religion or society, especially those placed on Black women.

In the middle of chemo, I returned to writing, something I’d abandoned long ago. Mortality made me brave. I poured all my fear, hope, and grief into a story of a Black breast cancer survivor finding her way forward—with agency and unapologetic joy. That story became the first of many. I didn't know it at the time, but I was "time traveling" — a concept from the Kids at Hope framework — imagining a victorious future to guide my present.

I made a list of all the things I’d put off. Dreams I’d buried. The list got so long, I split it into three parts: things I could do right after treatment, things that needed planning, and pure magic-wand dreams. At the top? Fiji. A paradise I didn’t dare dream of as a kid in inner-city Philadelphia.

Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold or other precious metals, honoring the cracks instead of hiding them. That’s how I feel about cancer. It cracked me wide open, but it didn’t break me. It gave me strength, a voice I’d been quieting for too long, and a vision for what my life could become.

Even during treatment, I found myself advocating for others: What about patients who don’t read English? Who can’t use this iPad check-in system? These weren’t combative questions. They were the right ones, and I had the privilege to ask them. So I did. Because not everyone can. Not everyone feels safe to.

I was lucky, but luck shouldn’t be the deciding factor in who lives and who doesn’t. That’s why I keep speaking up.

Cancer changes everything — your body, mind, relationships, energy, even your tolerance for nonsense. Some things you loved become unbearable. Things you thought could wait suddenly feel urgent. The old version of me no longer fit. But the new me, the one rebuilt with scar tissue, stubborn hope, and gold in the cracks, doesn’t ask for permission to dream.

That courage didn’t vanish when treatment ended—it multiplied.

Those dreams I’d shoved in a mental closet? They were still there. I greeted them like old friends. Then I got to work. I wrote one book. Then another. Then another. And eventually, I saw my pen name on a bestseller list.

And I got to Fiji. That once-fanciful dream—the very top of the magic wand list—became real. I stood on the shore, overcome by the sound of the ocean and the weight of my own survival. I wept. Not because I was sad, but because I was alive. Flourishing. That moment, like so many others, was proof that cancer hadn’t broken me. It had cracked me open wide enough to let my true-life flood in.

Stronger and more beautiful than ever because of the cracks, not despite them.