Pink Ribbons, Identity, and Finding Myself Again
From the Sunday Self-Care Chronicles | 6/15/25
This week’s Sunday Self-Care Chronicles dives into the tender terrain of identity—what happens to it, how it shifts, and what it takes to reclaim it after a breast cancer diagnosis.
This week’s issue touches on:
✨ A personal story about how pink ribbons and breast cancer branding shaped—and sometimes erased—my sense of self.
✨ A reminder that healing includes emotional and identity recovery, not just physical care.
✨ An invitation to reflect on who you are beyond your diagnosis—and to share that truth with me, too.
Read the full email below - and if something speaks to you please feel free to comment, share, or reach out!
Hello Beautiful!
Today I’m showing up with a rejuvenated spirit—thanks in small part to a few days of sunshine here in Buffalo (finally!), but mostly thanks to the many loving responses I received after last week’s email.
Apparently, I am NOT ALONE in feeling overloaded by cancer from time to time!
What I loved most about hearing from you wasn’t just that you “get it”—it’s that so many of you also shared a little bit of yourselves with me.
I learned that when you’re trying to deal with cancer fatigue (both literal and metaphorical), each of you has your own way of grounding yourself and remembering who you really are.
Some of you:
work in your gardens and connect with the earth
sew, craft, or make miniatures
snuggle down in bed with a snack, tea, and a furry companion
work on puzzles—because a puzzle holds no agenda other than to be a puzzle
It really drove home one of the things I believe most about healing from breast cancer: we need to give time and attention to our identities just as much as we care for our bodies.
I have long believed that the greatest gift we can give another human being is to see and hear them for who they truly are.
I live in the city, and it’s pretty common to meet people at stoplights or on the sidewalk who could use a little support. I don’t need to know how they got there, and I don’t have to judge what they “deserve.” I can simply offer what I have—usually a granola bar, peanut butter crackers, or something with a little protein and flavor.
Somewhere along the way, I started making eye contact, asking each person their name, and offering mine in return.
It’s amazing how often we’re inclined to pretend people are invisible when they’re struggling—and for me, that moment of visibility has become more meaningful than the food I give.
I’ve had this validated many times now through smiles, hearty “thank yous” and “God bless,” and even once by a kind man who said, “Thank you for seeing me,” as I handed him a fresh peach and waved goodbye when the light turned green.
That need to be seen—and to see others as human, as individuals—is probably why I’ve always struggled with what I call the branding of breast cancer and its very singular aesthetic.
Growing up high risk for breast cancer came with the shadow of a pink ribbon that often felt like a shroud, not a sign of solidarity.
When my mom was diagnosed at 38 with triple-negative breast cancer, I was just 12. Komen was starting to get big with their walks and pink ribbon campaigns. I was proud to walk with her, pushing my baby sister in the stroller and holding my little brother’s hand. It felt good to be among others who had “beat it.”
But at 12, I hadn't yet learned to see the holes in the fabric of the sea of hot pink t-shirts.
As I grew up, I realized cancer didn’t fade away for my mom even as her hair grew back. And the more years that passed, the more friends she lost—friends who weren’t as lucky.
By the time I was in my teens, facing my own early fears of mortality, I started to feel like turning us all into a cause was missing the mark.
Because what I really learned is:
Pink ribbons aren’t swords, and people with cancer aren’t battle-trained warriors.
They’re just people, trying to survive.
This is a deeply personal and sensitive subject for me, and I’ll be writing more on my point of view around identity and breast cancer soon.
But for now, here’s what I’ve come to understand:
For me, breast cancer didn’t just take my breasts. It tried to overshadow who I am.
It tried to wrap me in fear disguised as pink tulle, fastened with a ribbon glued to a safety pin.
It stole my love for a vibrant color that this former Barbie girl once reveled in.
It tried to reduce the multitude of colors that make up who I am to one generic shade.
It tried to assign me an identity I didn’t ask for or want.
Now, I know my perspective won’t resonate with everyone.
For many, the community and connection found through a symbol like the color pink is deeply valuable.
And if that’s you? I’m genuinely happy for you.
I’m not here to say pink is terrible (I’m learning to love it again!) or that you shouldn’t call yourself a warrior (I know you’re a badass no matter what you call yourself!).
What I am here to offer is this:
When it comes to healing—actively healing—from or with a breast cancer experience, I believe being intentional about your identity and how cancer has affected it is part of the puzzle.
Because time alone doesn’t heal all wounds.
💭 Something to consider:
How do you feel about your identity since your diagnosis? Has breast cancer changed how you see yourself—or how you feel about yourself?
Whether you’ve discovered an unexpected strength through this experience or you’re struggling to recognize the person in the mirror, you deserve to heal not just from physical pain—but from the emotional disruption, too.
💌 I’d love to hear from you:
If this email stirred something in you, I’d love to hear what that is.
Or, if you simply want to help me get to know you better—the person behind the pink ribbon—I’d love to know something that makes you unique, that has nothing to do with breast cancer.
Hit reply and tell me—I genuinely want to know.
So for this week, please know that I see YOU beyond your diagnosis and, that I'm always in this with you.
ps. If you’re feeling lost in who you are post-cancer, you’re not alone—and you don’t have to figure it out alone either.
That’s what this space is for.