Hi, my name is Kelsey.

I am no stranger to the impacts of cancer, having seen its effects on family as early as six years old. I work in healthcare as a surgical services clerk and genuinely enjoy my work, helping patients receive care from behind the scenes. Outside of work, I am a bird mom and lover of art, fitness, nature, and the outdoors. At the age of 36, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. This is my story:

It was the day after my dog passed away that I found a lump in my left breast. I was 35 at the time and rarely, if ever, did self-checks. Something made me check that day. I was concerned but didn’t think it could possibly be cancer at my age. 

Fortunately, my GP took things seriously and sent me for an urgent mammogram. My mammogram was about three weeks later, and it was then I found out I had extremely dense, Category D breasts, the kind that can easily hide cancer. They decided to do an ultrasound at the same time. 

My report came back BIRADS-3: Probably Benign. The radiologist thought a cyst was causing the lump and recommended another check in six months. Initially I was relieved, but a small voice kept telling me that something was not right. The words “probably benign” ruminated in my mind as months went on, and I wondered how that was an acceptable diagnostic phrase when something like cancer could be involved. Still, I told myself they were experts. They know what they’re looking at. I started to grow increasingly worried as my breast started to just feel wrong by the end of the summer. I have no other words to describe it. I knew my repeat mammogram was coming up soon, so I could finally get some answers.

At my six-month follow-up, I had a quick mammogram, and I was already leaving the hospital when my phone rang. It was the tech. Her voice was urgent. “We need you to come back right now; I can’t let you leave.” They wanted to perform another ultrasound based on the mammogram images. 

During the ultrasound, something shifted. The tech, once chatty, went silent. Her face changed. She kept scanning the same area. She excused herself and returned with the radiologist ten minutes later. The radiologist began looking and told me they needed to biopsy immediately. Four core needle biopsies later, my adrenaline-filled brain finally caught up to what was happening: Oh my god, I have cancer. 

In the span of six months I went from BIRADS-3 “Probably benign” to BIRADS-5 “Cancer unless biopsy proves otherwise.”

By the time I reached my GP’s office, she’d already sent a surgical referral, even while out of the country on vacation. Another doctor called and said a referral was necessary due to “the nature of my situation.” As a healthcare worker, I knew it was bad. My legs stopped working at that moment. My ears began to ring, I fell to the floor, and I could only sob uncontrollably. It was a fear that cannot be described with words. I felt like I was being handed a death sentence.

I spent that weekend completely numb, and by the time I received my biopsy results the following Tuesday, I had already accepted this was my reality. I had intermediate-grade invasive ductal cell carcinoma. I had breast cancer.

Two days later, I met my amazing general surgeon. We planned a lumpectomy with sentinel lymph node biopsy followed by probable chemotherapy, then possibly a double mastectomy later. I didn’t want radiation if I could avoid it; I was concerned about long-term damage to my heart and lungs. 

But an MRI changed everything.

Not one, but two additional tumours were found. Both were previously missed by mammogram and ultrasound thanks to my dense breast tissue. Back to the hospital for a biopsy I went. The tumour in my left breast came back malignant; the lesion in my right breast came back benign.

I met with my surgeon again and had written out all the reasons I wanted a double mastectomy, fully prepared to convince her. She didn’t need convincing. It was now my only option. I was referred to my (also amazing) plastic surgeon to plan for immediate reconstruction with subpectoral tissue expanders. 

It’s a strange limbo, the time between diagnosis and mastectomy. Knowing that you’re going to lose part of your body, your identity, part of your femininity, and total sensation in your chest. I sat with immense grief and grappled with whether I was making the right choice. There was nothing elective about this surgery. I didn’t want it, but I was forced into it in order to save my life. I also couldn’t shake the feeling that there was cancer hiding in my right breast as well despite the benign biopsy.

The day of my surgery was surreal. I had two brilliant female surgeons operating together, but it was one of the most traumatic days of my life. Nothing prepared me for how hard that surgery would be, both physically and mentally. Unfortunately, the pain afterwards was quite literally unbearable, and I had to spend the night in PACU instead of going home as planned. Recovery was long and brutal. I definitely could not have done it without my mom.

A month later, when my pathology report came back, I was node-negative (of the 5 lymph nodes taken), and my margins were clear. However, my gut feeling was correct. I did, in fact, have cancer in my right breast—ductal carcinoma in situ. It was the best outcome I could have asked for, even with the bad news sprinkled in. This news removed both chemotherapy and radiation from my possible treatment plan definitively. With surgery alone, I was considered in remission.

At oncology, I was offered tamoxifen to suppress my estrogen. I’d feared that conversation from the start. Due to other medical conditions, I made the difficult decision to decline 5 years of endocrine therapy, knowing it was slightly increasing my risk of metastatic recurrence. It was a quality-of-life decision that made sense in my case, given my medical history. Both my oncologist and GP supported my decision.

I’m nearly a year out from my diagnosis now. My final reconstruction surgery was eight weeks ago. I still can’t believe what I’ve lived through. The expanders were brutal—seven months of daily pain—but worth it in the end. My plastic surgeon gave me back a version of myself I didn’t think I’d ever see again.

And yet, post-cancer life has been the hardest part.

The fear of recurrence is always there. The grief creeps in. There’s trauma, PTSD, and the quiet ache of a world that keeps spinning like nothing happened. I mourn the person I was before cancer and the life I thought I’d have. There is also a lot more gratitude and joy for the small moments I often overlooked before.

I will never know why I got cancer. I had no genetic mutations. I took care of myself. I had no idea that dense breast tissue or a history of fibroids were risk factors, but now I do, and I want other women to know too.

Self-advocacy saved my life. I didn’t accept “probably” as an answer. If something feels off, say something. Push for answers. You know your body best. Breast cancer is on the rise in young women; you are NOT too young.

I hear the phrase “at least you get a free boob job” tossed around more often than people realize. But there’s a huge gap between what people see and what a survivor actually goes through.

It’s not free. You pay for it with grief, with fear, with sleepless nights, and with the loss of a version of yourself you never asked to give up. It’s the most expensive boob job there is, physically, emotionally, and mentally.

There’s nothing glamorous about breast cancer; it is not pink and beautiful. But there is something beautiful in the community that forms around it. The survivors, healthcare staff, researchers, advocates, and those fighting for better education and earlier detection. Thank you to those who make that possible.

Who I was prior to cancer is gone forever, but that’s okay. I am starting to like the woman who took her place.