A Year Later: Reflections on My Mastectomy, the Waiting, and Finding My New Normal
Updated: Sep 13
A year ago today, I walked into a hospital room to have my entire right breast tissue removed.
Fresh out of surgery—a photo my husband took on day one. The raw, unfiltered reality of where this journey began.
Facing a mastectomy, my mind naturally focused on the practical: What will my body look like? What will I be able to feel? Looking back, maybe I was simplifying things or being overly optimistic, but I went into surgery trusting that it would go well and that the cancer would be gone. I didn't let my mind wander into "what-ifs" or worst-case scenarios.
My hope and trust in God kept me grounded. I knew deep down that whatever happened, I was going to be okay—because He was with me.
The Good News—and the Catch
When I met with my oncologist after surgery, the news was as good as it could possibly be. The cancer had been caught early and had not spread. My recurrence score was zero, with a mere 3% distant recurrence risk at nine years—meaning the likelihood of the cancer returning or traveling anywhere else in my body was extremely low. Because of those numbers, no chemo or radiation would be necessary.
I knew I was lucky. I felt deeply grateful.
But in reality, "cancer-free" didn't mean "done." I still faced a second reconstruction surgery and had to begin Tamoxifen, a long-term hormone-blocking medication.
During my mastectomy, the surgeon placed a tissue expander to prepare my body for a permanent implant. What was supposed to be a standard three-month wait turned into seven long months—first waiting on an available surgery date, and then navigating an unexpected change in insurance and care teams. The waiting was hard, but looking back, I can see how God was working behind the scenes. He had something better for me, leading me to an even stronger care team in the end.
Those seven months felt like my life was put on hold. Calling week after week only to be told there was no surgery date available was discouraging. The expander limited my mobility and took away my primary physical outlet—exercise. I couldn't run, jump, stretch, or use my upper body. My workouts were reduced to recumbent bikes, leg machines, and slow walks. I couldn't even sleep on my side, having to wear a sports bra 24/7 just to keep the expander from shifting.
The Unseen Battle of "Recovery"
After my mastectomy, my husband carried the physical burden of my recovery—helping me shower, managing my drains and meds, and taking me to appointments. Months later, after my reconstructive surgery, he stepped right back into that caregiving role again, including pulling on my tight compression wear. For my emotional and mental recovery, my church family stepped in with meals, prayers, visits, and so much encouragement.
As time went by and the urgency faded, I noticed a shift. Once I was up and walking around like a "normal" person, I think people naturally assumed I was back to normal, too. But the truth is, I was—and still am—in recovery. My physical recovery moved quickly, but that doesn't mean I’m done. Because my surgeries were technically over and I was trying so hard to live a "normal" life, it was easy for those around me to forget that I was still on a cancer journey.
At the same time, the physical toll of Tamoxifen hit in waves—PMS on steroids. Insomnia, joint pain that felt like sudden arthritis, weight gain, hot flashes, and uncomfortable side effects no one warns you about. I tried everything for relief: acupuncture, magnesium, melatonin, adjustments in compression wear. I pictured this milestone as the moment I’d be shopping for cute bras; instead, I was navigating UTIs, Spanx, and physical discomfort.
During all of this, I felt like I was stuck in a strange gray zone. Was I currently fighting cancer? Was I a survivor? Was I just "recovering"? It felt like a silly question to ask my oncologist—she was a cancer doctor, after all—so I found myself typing it into AI late at night, searching for a label that fit.
Moving in Waves
When the expander was finally removed and I was cleared to resume normal exercise, a huge weight lifted. Being able to move my body again felt like reclaiming a piece of myself.
Now, sitting here 365 days later, I’m still learning what my "new normal" looks like. Healing hasn't been a straight line—it moves in waves. There are high days where I feel restored, and there are low days marked by sudden sadness, fatigue, or the strain this long journey has placed on my relationships. In the midst of everything that happened this past year, life didn't pause for my recovery—I was still caregiving for my parents, parenting teens, and navigating personal challenges at home.
My surgeries may be complete, but the processing, the physical healing, and the emotional rebuilding are ongoing. One year later, I am simply learning to ride the waves, leaning on my faith, and giving myself permission to be a work in progress.
