Ricky Carioti/The Washington Post
- At 26, I chose a preventive double mastectomy after testing positive for the BRCA1 genetic mutation.
- The 13-month reconstruction process was physically painful, and people’s jokes didn’t help.
- Opening up about my journey helped me reclaim my confidence and empowered others to ask questions.
Two days before my 26th birthday, cancer was the furthest thing from my mind until a phone call from my sister changed everything. At 31, and just three weeks postpartum, she had been diagnosed with stage 3C breast cancer.
Genetic testing revealed she carried the BRCA1 mutation, which gives women up to an 87% lifetime risk of developing breast cancer. I got tested next, and I had the mutation too.
Suddenly, I saw my breasts as a ticking time bomb.
The choice I never thought I’d have to make
I had two options: monitor closely with regular screenings and hope for early detection, or have a preventive double mastectomy.
It felt like no real choice at all, and the decision wasn’t easy. I’d always imagined breastfeeding my future children. I wasn’t even close to starting a family.
After meeting with surgeons, I opted for the mastectomy with implant reconstruction using cadaver skin. It had the shortest recovery time, but it was still a massive surgery. I was overwhelmed by the options and the gravity of what I was about to do.
The comments I received didn’t help. Some asked, “How big are you going to go?” It felt invasive and disheartening, as if people were more focused on my aesthetics than the life-saving reason behind the surgery and how scared I was for it.
My operation took eight hours and left me with diagonal scars across each “mound,” as my surgeon called them. I chose to remove my nipples, too; they’re made of breast tissue, and I didn’t want to leave any cancer risk behind.
The physical aftermath was brutal. My pectoral muscles were cut and repositioned; I couldn’t even hold my phone. I had to use my chin to pump soap. I had expanders placed to slowly stretch my skin for nine months before getting implants. Each saline injection was painful, sometimes causing intense spasms that sent me back to the hospital.
Public reaction was strange
The expanders were disfiguring, hard as rocks, and nothing like real breasts. Even though people knew I was having a mastectomy, many tried to lighten the mood with jokes comparing it to a “boob job.” Their comments weren’t malicious, just painfully unaware of the difference between elective enhancement procedures and a medically necessary, painful amputation and reconstruction.
I felt minimized, misunderstood — like my experience was trivialized.
Then, there was a seemingly insignificant interaction that changed everything for me.
A self-conscious woman at the pool bravely and nervously asked if my breasts were real. For once, someone couldn’t tell I was “different.” I smiled and told her the truth. She looked relieved and thanked me for being so open. That moment sparked something in me. Perhaps being more proactively transparent could help others feel seen as well.
I continued sharing my experience
I had already been sharing my journey on Facebook, but I continued to open up, both online and offline, about the good, the bad, and the painful. I talked about genetic testing, reconstruction setbacks, and how awkward people can be when they don’t know what to say. I often would joke about how you could bounce a quarter off my expanders (“but please don’t because it hurts!”).
The more I shared, the more comfortable I became in my new body. I found strength in the scars, humor in the awkwardness, and connection in the vulnerability.
One day, a former college roommate reached out. After following my posts, she inquired about her family history and underwent testing. She and two other women in her family were positive for a similar mutation. My story helped her.
When I first looked at my post-op body, I felt disconnected, disgusted, and self-conscious. Now, despite bright scars, numb patches, and misshapen “mounds,” I’m overcome with gratitude when I see myself.
My risk for breast cancer isn’t zero, but it’s significantly reduced. And every day I get to rock and sing with my two kids at night, something I hope to do for a long time.
