The morning I'd been dreading finally arrived, casting a shadow of dread over every step I took. As I rose from bed, I couldn't help but linger, silently bidding farewell to the woman I knew I'd never be again, gazing at the parts I would soon no longer recognize. Tears streamed down my cheeks, a silent testament to the grief and fear that consumed me.

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I faced a day that promised irreversible change, a choice made out of necessity rather than courage. Everyone praised my bravery, but inside, I felt anything but brave. Opting for a double mastectomy, despite it being a preventative measure against breast cancer, didn't feel like courage—it felt like survival, responsibility, and the right thing to do. It was about ensuring I could be there for my two young children and my husband, despite the wrenching fear that gripped my heart.

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The journey to the operating room was a blur. Strapped to the ice-cold table, my mind raced with doubts and fears. This wasn't what I wanted; I felt defeated. They told me to go to my happy place, but my mind wouldn't let me. Beneath the anesthesia mask, I felt a desperate plea asking God: "Please, don't let me wake up."

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The thought of facing a life without my natural breasts, without a part of my identity, was too much to bear.

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I loved my breasts. They were more than just flesh; they were a source of comfort and safety. They were a big part of who I was. I developed young and was teased at first for having large breasts, but as I aged, they gave me the attention and confidence I once lacked. I even had to make sure they looked fantastic in my wedding dress. I didn't know I was lost on the inside; my external beauty became the sum of who I was. Why was I being stripped of this part of me? It was not fair. Losing them felt like losing a piece of myself, a painful reminder of everything I stood to lose.

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The surgery passed without incident, but in the quiet moments afterward, as I lay in the hospital bed, I grappled with overwhelming shame. My husband stayed with me the entire night. I remember seeing him sleeping on that chair, and I tried to push him away, telling him to go home and rest, but he refused. I couldn’t understand why he stayed. I didn’t deserve him to be there. How could I have wished not to wake up? How could I have forgotten the love and support of my husband, kids, and family, who stood by me every step of the way?

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In the years that followed, I confronted the shadows that haunted me, slowly uncovering the parts of myself I'd long ignored. It was a journey of self-discovery, marked by pain, but also by resilience and strength.

Today, I stand before you as a testament to the power of vulnerability and healing. My journey through shame has taught me that true courage isn't about being fearless; it's about facing our fears head-on, even when it feels impossible.

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As I celebrate waking up six years later, I'm reminded of the countless times I've been tested, when I felt like I was on the brink of falling and never getting back up. Yet, each morning, I wake up extremely grateful, able to thank God for not listening to my plea. Despite all the turbulence, the deep healing, and the shadow work, I can say that the cloud of shame no longer casts its suffocating shadow over me. I have learned that it is in facing our darkest moments that we find the strength to truly embrace the light.

 

Life is not easy, but it's in those moments of struggle that we grow the most.