Hi everyone, I’m Sharon and today I want to share a part of my journey that has been tucked away, mainly because I wasn’t sure how to talk about it without getting emotional.
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 was not the first in our family to face this monster; my grandmother also contracted the same disease.
Because of our family history, I decided to see a specialist to see if I was going 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 time.
After discussing my options, I went in for a bilateral mastectomy. It felt like choosing between the lesser of several evils, but after watching cancer mercilessly take my mom and grandma, I didn’t want to let anything go chance.
Soon after the surgery, I was left with two large, pink, jagged scars. They did more than damage my body; they also scarred my mind. I fell into a deep depression.
I hated seeing my reflection, avoided mirrors, and on really bad days couldn’t stop the tears when I accidentally caught sight of my scars.
It took me a while but I finally found the courage to honestly see a therapist who was a godsend.
After several sessions where I poured out my fears and frustrations, she made an unexpected suggestion: see a plastic surgeon.
I reluctantly took her advice and consulted a plastic surgeon. The options suggested were simple but daunting: cream, laser treatment, or implants.
I tried the cream first, clinging to the hope of a less invasive fix, but it was like pouring water on a greasy fire – ineffective and disheartening. The laser option was also there, but the high cost and the risk of worsening the situation scared me. So I went for implants.
Since getting the implants, there has been a noticeable shift in my mental environment. I feel better about the way I look which has made all the difference.
Fast forward to today, I’m 28 and work in an office. Life looks a lot better, but it wasn’t always that way. A few months ago, my co-worker Stasy overheard a conversation about my implants during a chat about vacation plans with an old friend.
The news spread like wildfire through the office – thanks to Stasi. She didn’t know the story behind my decision, just the result.
Her teasing started soon after. I caught snippets of conversation as I walked by, her mocking remarks about my chest. “Watch out, Sharon might explode on the plane!” or call me “Barbie.”
It was humiliating, my fight reduced to a point. I confronted her several times, in the elevator and in the ladies’ room—places without an eye in the sky to witness our interactions. Every plea fell on deaf ears.
The final straw was when she joked that I was from “Silicon Valley”—a jab that felt like a knife twisting in my all-too-real scars. That day I locked myself in the bathroom and cried.
It was in that moment of utter desperation that I decided to put an end to Stasa’s cruelty once and for all.
So the next day I decided it was time to clear the air. I walked right up to her as she sat laughing with a group of co-workers during lunch.
“Do you know why I have them?” I started and my voice was steady despite the storm inside. “A few years ago, doctors found potentially cancerous cells in my breast tissue. I was advised to have a mastectomy, and I was left with huge, ugly scars on my chest.”
Stasy’s laughter died down immediately and the room fell silent as I continued. “I got implants to help me deal with those scars, both physical and emotional. This isn’t about vanity, it’s about survival and trying to find some semblance of normalcy after losing my mom and grandma to cancer.”
I stopped and looked her straight in the eyes. “Your jokes are not only hurtful; they are ignorant. You don’t know the pain and fear that led me to this decision and you have no right to make light of it.”
The weight of my words hung in the air. Stasy’s face turned red and her expression changed from surprise to shame. I turned to the rest of the group. “If any of you have anything to say about my implants, come and talk to me directly. I’ll cut to the chase.”
When I left I felt a mixture of relief and empowerment. It cost me everything to stand up to her, but it was necessary. I didn’t want to be a victim of her bullying anymore.
In the following days, the office atmosphere changed noticeably. Stasy kept her distance, and some co-workers reached out to me privately to offer support and apologize for not stepping in sooner.
It wasn’t just about stopping bullying; it was about reclaiming your story and standing up for yourself. I realized that sharing my story, even though it was painful, had the power to change perspectives and foster empathy.
Now when I look in the mirror I see more than just scars. I see a survivor, someone who fought both cancer and ignorance. And that’s a reflection I can be proud of.