A Breast Cancer Survivor On Why Pink Positivity Isn’t Always the Answer
Breast cancer, more than any other cancer, has a marketing message around it and October, being breast cancer awareness month, means the last few weeks it has been everywhere. This was my second October since being diagnosed with breast cancer and honestly, I can’t wait for November. Pink ribbons. Pink stamps on Facebook and Instagram posts. Pink shirts and hats splattered with happy pink fonts proclaiming inspirational messages. It isn’t that I don’t understand how important all of this is in getting the word out, it is just sometimes it feels like a continuous reminder of something packaged in a way that doesn’t quite fit the reality of what I went through.
As soon as I got breast cancer, my relationship with pink began to change. Suddenly, this color I had always associated with innocence and Valentine’s hearts transformed. It became the bearer of the message that people who have breast cancer should try to embrace a narrative of what felt like pink positivity when the truth is — sometimes, breast cancer just sucks. And I just think it should be okay to talk about that, too.
The first time I felt the pressure to embrace the pink was on the same day I found out I had breast cancer. I went to the surgeon’s office for the consultation and before we even started speaking, he handed me a pink pashmina shawl. It was a gift he gave to all his patients; I was part of the club now. I imagine he thought of us wrapping it around our shoulders as we restfully recovered from the lumpectomies and mastectomies he performed. I held it on my lap as he talked, brought it home, and immediately placed it in the very back of the hall closet where it still sits today.
In the few weeks after I was diagnosed, everyone around me talked a lot about people they knew who had breast cancer. They all seemed to have the same stories. The friend who returned to work two days after her lumpectomy. The one who said radiation was no big deal. The one who had no side effects from the medications. The one who kept walking five miles a day throughout. These were strong, fearless women — of course I wanted to be one of them. Who wouldn’t want to be?
Then there was the other side, they talked about how lucky I was. They also had a friend who had to have more treatments than me or they had a friend who sadly passed away. The takeaway — how could I complain or feel sorry about what was happening to myself when so many others had it worse?
Throughout the months of surgery, treatments, and recovery, friends sent countless texts and cards filled with sayings they most likely read on T-shirts and ads for breast cancer awareness. You got this! Be brave! Be strong! Think pink! And at the end of treatments, you did it! As if now, it was over, and I could move right back into life like before. I understand all of these were sent with the best of intentions. The problem was, it also felt like this was the expected path to proceed even if it wasn’t at all how I felt inside. What I really wanted was the option to be honest. To take my time. To have the freedom to say, “actually, I’m scared shitless and maybe I don’t got this. Maybe it is going to take me a while. And is that okay, too?”
A lot of people talk about the physical aspects of breast cancer but what you don’t hear as much about are the mental ones. Long after you recover physically, the emotional impact remains. It takes time to mourn what is lost. The person you were before. Just because it could have been worse, doesn’t mean you don’t deserve time to process what it was.
For me, the months since I completed treatments have been a roller coaster. Of finishing “the hard part” but wondering if I can really let myself believe that the cancer will never come back? No matter what the doctors say, scans every six-month are reminders that it is a part of my life now. Why else would they do them if there wasn’t a chance? And any of us who had to navigate cancer during the time of COVID-19 have had a lot of other layers to unpack as well. Maybe what we need is a narrative that says, do this however you need to because it will be hard sometimes.
Since I was diagnosed in April of 2020, some days I do feel like a brave breast cancer warrior, stronger than I have ever been because of what I had to get through at the time I did. But still, I have other days when I miss the me I was before. The woman who believed breast cancer was something that happened to other people and not to her. Maybe the bravest thing of all is to understand that both sides can exist together — you can be strong and scared all at once.
I won’t ever let pink be just symbol of my time with a disease. Instead, I would like to think about it in the way that I used to again, too — a garden of blooming roses, a dogwood tree in the early spring, or a summer sunset painted in various shades of blush. I want it to celebrate things that make life beautiful as well as remind me of the thing that could have taken it away.
I will always support the person wearing the “Save the Ta Ta’s” shirt or the one with a pink ribbon bumper sticker plastered on their car. It doesn’t matter if I never wear the pink pashmina shawl, I am still a survivor and will continue to write my truth the way it feels right for me with the hope that somewhere in it, another survivor sees theirs as well.
Darcey Gohring is a freelance editor and writer based outside New York City. She specializes in memoir and personal essay. Her work has appeared in Newsweek, Insider, HuffPost, Zibby Mag, among others. She is a contributing author to the anthology book, Corona City: Voices From an Epicenter, and recently completed her first novel. Darcey leads writing workshops and has served as the keynote speaker for conferences all over the northeastern United States. Visit www.darceygohring.com to learn more.
