I call Tamoxifen hot flashes: bonfires with a flood. Because when one hits you, it feels like your entire body is going up in flames right before it’s soaked in a flood of hair-flattening, body-drenching sweat. It’s horrible and exhausting, never mind totally gross. And there was nothing I wouldn’t do to avoid having one. Even giving up sugar.

I struggle with the word “survivor”. Maybe it’s because I still don’t really feel like a survivor, six years post diagnosis. The word “survivor” implies I’ve 'made it through.' Six years later, however, I feel like I am still in it. I feel tremendous guilt that I don’t feel like a survivor, when many before me (my mom and brother included) would have given anything to be in my privileged position of surviving. Please don't misunderstand —I am filled with gratitude and take note every single day, even when completing the most disliked tasks. I am grateful because I know that if I were sick, I would give anything to do this task again.

And yet, somehow, each October, breast cancer morphs into being more than a life-taking disease. It becomes a metaphorically branded pink train that clothing, makeup, skincare, jewellery, appliances, hotels, restaurants, fast food chains, and even oil and gas drill bit companies jump onto, brandishing the small pink ribbon as a statement of support.

The room shrunk and all that existed in the world was this radiologist and the screen she remained hyper-focused on. There was near silence in the room as she examined the dense breast tissue from every conceivable angle. Next, she went over and around my fully inverted nipple and through every conceivable angle, and over all the flesh of my breast under my nipple as well. “I don’t like the density of this breast at all,” she finally revealed.

Breast cancer vaccines are a buzzy topic that’s seemingly everywhere lately—from ongoing news stories about cancer research to Reddit threads and personalized Instagram posts. But what I’m most interested in knowing is if these vaccines are truly the “golden goose” every woman like me, who is dealing with a breast cancer diagnosis or the aftermath of one, is looking for: can these vaccines truly alleviate my fear by ensuring zero recurrences? To find out, I did a deep dive into the latest information and here’s what I learned.

In 2017, Dawn received her own life-changing diagnosis: triple-negative breast cancer (TNBC), an aggressive form of breast cancer. When diagnosed with this type of breast cancer, the message of hope is often lost amidst the urgency of treating an aggressive form of cancer. Being told things like, “survival rate is low, recurrence is high”, “it’s harder to treat", "chemotherapy regimen is very aggressive”, “the side effects are quite harsh”, “typically, the cancer may return in the first 5 years following treatment” can leave a person feeling helpless.

Driven by a profound commitment to community service and making a meaningful impact, Chhavi is passionate about leveraging her skills and experience to support non-profit initiatives, especially those focused on breast cancer awareness and support. Her journey with hormone-positive stage II breast cancer in 2023 has profoundly shaped her heartfelt personal commitment to this cause.

I wasn’t feeling the hope. Not this morning. My pre-breakfast state of mind was consumed by a knot in my stomach, a persistent sense of anxiety and frustration, and the crappy reality that I really and truly don’t know what I’m doing with my life or what my future holds.

In December 2016, I was diagnosed with Stage III HER2-positive Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, two months after my 39th birthday. It was one of the scariest times of my life. It felt unreal at first and everything became a haze instantly. I never imagined I would hear those words and that they would be talking about me. The next thing I remember is the doctor telling me that they know exactly what to do, and that the survival rate was 88% and I should focus on that. To be honest, most of what she said that day sounded to me like jumbled up words. I allowed myself to cry on the day I was diagnosed but very early on, I decided to only focus on what life would be after cancer.

Fourteen years ago, I got the news that I had cancer. It was in both breasts. My colleagues were there for me all the way. Then, after nine months, my treatment ended, and I went back to work as a family doctor, but things were different. I was fragile. I had a new body. I was living with a newly diagnosed BRCA gene mutation that put me at high risk of breast and ovarian cancer. I required a prophylactic hysterectomy and breast reconstruction, making choices that would impact me and my family. The psychological impact was massive.