I Have Breast Cancer. I Still Hate All the Pink.
What Breast Cancer Awareness Month misses about actually living with Breast Cancer
October is here, which means everything is pink.
Pink ribbons. Pink shirts. Pink water bottles. Pink football cleats. Pink products at the grocery store. Pink versions of things that have absolutely no business needing a pink version.
For 31 days, breast cancer becomes remarkably in-your-face and cutesy. And listen, I understand why.
Breast cancer awareness matters. Research matters. Screening matters. Funding matters. Talking about breast cancer matters. Making sure people understand that breast cancer doesn't only affect women matters.
I am quite literally one of the people all of this is supposed to be for.
And I still hate all the pink.
I think what bothers me is that the pink puts this cute little cover over something incredibly complicated and difficult. It makes breast cancer feel softer somehow.
More approachable. More inspirational. More marketable.
Throw a pink ribbon on it—maybe make it a little sparkly. Add something about being a warrior. Maybe a slogan about fighting like a girl.
And there you go. Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
Except I've had breast cancer for five years now, and very little about the actual experience has felt particularly pink.
Every October, I find myself wondering:
Does the public really understand what it means to live with breast cancer?
Also, why is there so much glitter?
I've never really known what to do with the warrior thing
The language around breast cancer is full of fighting - Warriors. Fighters. Battles.
And if that language helps someone through treatment, I'm genuinely glad it's there for them.
Personally, I've never really known what to do with it. Mostly because it doesn't fit the way I see myself. Most days, I don't feel like a warrior or a fighter.
I'm just Olivia.
I work. I cook dinner with my husband. I spend entirely too much time thinking about side projects and hobbies. I make plans. I travel. I laugh. I complain about stupid things. I watch TV. I forget to take my medication sometimes. I buy things I absolutely did not need at HomeGoods. I doomscroll too much and sometimes don't drink enough water.
And somewhere mixed into all of that, I have cancer.
I go to appointments with a small army of specialists. I get treatment. I keep track of medications and symptoms. I pay attention to what my body is doing. I've learned when I'm likely to feel good and when I'm probably going to need more room for naps and letting things get a little messier than usual.
Then I keep going - Not because I'm bravely charging into battle every morning.
Because this is my life.
Cancer is part of it. It doesn't get to be the whole thing.
Cancer isn't cute. But my life isn't a tragic sob story either.
If the pink version of breast cancer makes everything look a little too cute, the alternative often seems to portray cancer as nothing but suffering. Neither feels particularly accurate to me.
To be crystal clear: my cancer experience has been extraordinarily hard.
There have been multiple surgeries. Chemo. Radiation. Reconstruction. Physical therapy. Occupational therapy. Hospital visits. Recurrence. More treatment.
My body has changed. My relationships have changed. The way I think about my health and what I'm capable of has changed. I've had to become much more aware of my limits.
And there are plenty of moments from the last five years I would happily erase. I'm also a terrible patient, so apologies to my parents and husband for the various points when I've been a real pain in the ass.
But my life didn't stop when I was diagnosed.
My dreams didn't stop because I got cancer.
My desire to build my family didn't disappear because I've had to pursue long-term treatment.
Cancer changed the logistics of my future.
It didn't take the future away.
I'm still capable and full of life.
I still work—with only a few relatively short periods away for surgery recovery. (People are always surprised by this, which I find kind of funny, especially in this economy.)
I still have ridiculous ideas and somehow convince myself to turn them into actual projects.
I still travel, especially to the mountains with my husband.
I still make plans for the future and actively pursue them.
I still have a marriage that includes significantly more conversations about dinosaurs than cancer.
I still have a very, very full and fun life.
I just live it a little differently now.
And I think a lot of people living with chronic or complex illnesses would recognize that.
Different doesn't mean incapable.
Needing to plan around your body's new reality doesn't mean those limitations have taken over your life. Sometimes it means you've gotten really, really good at adapting.
Cancer used to take up almost all the space
I have calendars from the earlier years of my treatment that make this incredibly obvious.
They're covered in appointments - Oncology. Chemo. Radiation. Surgery. Follow-ups. Scans. Labs.
Then there are all the notes: when I'm supposed to take medication, which symptoms have shown up and how intense they are, questions I need to ask, things I don't understand.
Cancer had taken a giant red marker and written itself across my life.
Or, more accurately, Brenda the Breast Cancer wrote her name all over everything and took it upon herself to cancel all my future plans. Such a jerk.
That's probably one of the hardest things to explain about the beginning of a serious illness.
You're not just learning that you're sick.
You're learning how to be sick—and what that means for the rest of your life.
You're learning a new vocabulary. New doctors. New medications. New side effects. New routines. New allergies. New sensations in your body.
You're learning your new limits.
You're learning which sensations mean, "I've reached my limit."
Which symptoms mean, "This sucks."
And which ones mean, "I should probably call somebody."
You're learning how to plan your life around a body that suddenly has opinions about the plan for the day.
That takes up an enormous amount of space—mentally and physically.
And I do mean physically.
At one point, I had two bins of medical supplies—one at my house and one at my parents'—plus matching reclining pillows and heating pads in multiple locations. Cancer didn't just occupy my calendar. It required storage.
Five years in, many of the things that were once completely unfamiliar have become part of my everyday routine.
Brenda didn't disappear. That would have been far too considerate of her. She's still an annoying, overbearing, obnoxious roommate.
I've just gotten better at living with her—and banishing Brenda to her room when I need to.
I know my infusion cycles.
I know what symptoms I tend to have, when they're likely to show up, and what my version of normal looks like.
I know what I need to track.
I'm getting better at knowing when I need to slow down. Still working on that one.
And, generally speaking, I know when I'm probably fine.
When I look at those old calendars now, what strikes me isn't how many appointments there were.
It's how little white space was left.
Cancer occupied everything.
My calendar. My bathroom cabinets. My kitchen. My parents' house. My body. My conversations. My brain.
Five years later, there's so much more white space. Not because Brenda left.
Because I've learned how much space she actually needs—and how much I'm willing to give her.
That's what I wish people saw in October
I don't need Breast Cancer Awareness Month to make cancer prettier. I don't need breast cancer packaged in pink so it's easier to look at. But I also don't want the alternative to be seeing people with cancer as permanently fragile, tragic, or defined by the worst thing that's happened to them.
I wish we made more room for what happens in between.
For the living part.
The person getting treatment and answering work emails.
The person who knows exactly which day after treatment they shouldn't make plans.
Mine is Wednesday. I also don't sign anything important on Wednesdays.
The person whose medication organizer lives next to completely ordinary things on the bathroom counter.
The person whose wig collection keeps growing even though their hair came back cute and adorable.
The person with scars, weird side effects, and a multitude of appointments who also has hobbies and goals and a family and a career and a very full calendar that has absolutely nothing to do with cancer.
The person who has figured out how to carry something difficult without carrying it in both hands all the time.
Maybe that's what I wish we talked about more in October:
Not just fighting breast cancer, but living with it.
Because there are a lot of us doing exactly that.
Awareness should mean more
For all my complaining about the pink, you might think I want less of it.
I don't. I understand what the pink ribbon has accomplished and the instant recognition it brings around the world.
If a Pinked Out October reminds someone to schedule a mammogram, encourages someone to support research, helps someone newly diagnosed feel less alone, or gives someone a way to talk about something that's difficult to talk about, I'm glad it exists.
I just think awareness can—and should—mean more.
Don't just recognize the ribbon.
See the people behind it.
See the people in active treatment.
See the people dealing with recurrence.
See the people living with metastatic disease.
See the caregivers and families whose lives change too.
See the people who finished treatment years ago and still carry treatment-built habits with them.
See the people whose cancer stories don't have a clean beginning, middle, and end.
And see us as more than patients or sick people.
We're capable.
We're complicated.
We're funny.
We're tired sometimes.
We're scared sometimes.
We're doing really well sometimes.
We're still making plans.
We're still building lives.
We're still here.
So yes, I'm probably going to roll my eyes when everything turns pink in October.
I'll cringe at some of the corporate pink. I'll definitely complain about the glitter.
And I'm still going to help my mom put up her Breast Cancer Awareness Month pink Christmas tree.
Because apparently humans are complicated. 😂
Maybe that's the point.
My problem isn't really with the pink.
It's what happens when the pink becomes the whole story.
Breast cancer doesn't follow a neat, predictable path. Mine certainly hasn't. Neither do the people living with it.
We're changing. Adapting. Planning. Working. Resting. Laughing. Building families. Building careers. Figuring out which Wednesdays absolutely should not involve legally binding documents.
Living.
I don't want less awareness of breast cancer. I want awareness to mean more.
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