Hey everyone, I'm Sharon, and today I want to share a part of my journey that's been tucked away, mostly because I wasn't sure how to talk about it without feeling a wave of emotions.
A portrait of a young woman with shadows falling on her body | Source: Pexels
Four years ago, life threw me a curveball that no one ever wants to catch. My mom, the strongest woman I knew, lost her battle with breast cancer.
She wasn't the first in our family to face this monster; my grandma had also been taken by the same disease.
An ailing senior woman in the hospital | Source: Getty Images
Given our family history, I decided to see a specialist to know if I was walking down the same grim path.
The news I got wasn't exactly a relief, but it wasn't the worst-case scenario either. They found some cells in one of my breasts that were like uninvited guests at a party—they could turn the place upside down at any moment.
A back view of a woman sitting on a hospital bed | Source: Getty Images
After discussing my options, I went for a bilateral mastectomy. It felt like choosing between the lesser of several evils, but after watching cancer ruthlessly take my mom and grandma, I didn't want to leave anything to chance.
A depressed woman | Source: Pexels
Soon after the surgery, I was left with two large, pink, jagged scars. They did more than mar my body; they scarred my mind too. I spiraled into a deep depression.
I loathed seeing my reflection, avoided mirrors, and on really bad days, I couldn't stop the tears when I inadvertently caught a glimpse of my scars.
A grayscale photo of a crying woman looking in the mirror | Source: Pexels
It took me a while, but I eventually found the courage to see a therapist, who was a godsend, honestly.
After a few sessions, where I poured out my fears and frustrations, she made a suggestion I hadn't expected: seeing a plastic surgeon.
A therapist taking notes during a session | Source: Pexels
Reluctantly, I took her advice and consulted with a plastic surgeon. The options laid out were simple but daunting: a cream, laser treatments, or implants.
A medical professional wearing a face mask while standing in an operating room | Source: Pexels
I tried the cream first, clinging to the hope of a less invasive fix, but it was like throwing water on a grease fire—ineffective and disheartening. The laser option was there too, but the high cost and the risk of making things worse scared me off. So, I went for implants.
A smiling woman | Source: Pexels
Since getting the implants, there's been a noticeable shift in my mental landscape. I feel better about how I look, which has made all the difference.
Women employees working in an office setting | Source: Pexels
Fast forward to today, I'm 28 and working in an office. Life's looking a lot better, but it wasn't always that way. A few months ago, my coworker, Stasy, overheard a conversation about my implants during a chat about holiday plans with an old friend.
The news spread like wildfire through the office—thanks to Stasy. She didn't know the story behind my decision, only the outcome.
A woman talking on the phone | Source: Shutterstock
Her teasing started soon after. I'd catch snippets of conversations as I walked by, her making snide remarks about my chest. "Watch out, Sharon might blow up on a plane!" or calling me "Barbie."
It was demeaning, reducing my struggle to a punchline. I confronted her multiple times, in the elevator, and the women's bathroom—places without an eye in the sky to witness our interactions. Each plea fell on deaf ears.
A laughing woman leaning on a table while talking to her coworker | Source: Pexels
The last straw was when she quipped that I was from "Silicon Valley"—a jab that felt like a knife twisting in those all-too-real scars of mine. That day, I locked myself in the bathroom and wept.
It was in that moment of utter despair that I decided to put an end to Stasy's cruelty once and for all.
A woman splashing water on her face in the washroom | Source: Pexels
So, the next day, I decided it was time to clear the air. I walked straight up to her as she sat laughing with a group of coworkers during lunchtime.
Tables and chairs in a cafeteria | Source: Pexels
"Do you know why I have these?" I started, my voice steady despite the storm inside. "A few years ago, the doctors found potentially cancerous cells in my breast tissue. I was advised to get a mastectomy and was left with huge, ugly scars on my chest.”
