Breast cancer, body image, and being heard: My triple-negative journey

I do it all the time. I am that self-crazed about me and what my body represents, which, at 59, is effortlessly adorable and beautiful. I talk to my body like we’ve been best friends since kindergarten. Because we have been.

So when I felt that lump — yeah, that lump — and, that’s right, I was in the shower, I had to ask: “Who told you to invade my space? Why are you here?"

I didn’t know what it was at first, but I knew it didn’t belong. I waited a couple weeks, came back with my trusty hot water, lathered up, and sure enough that sucker was still there. I knew then it was time to take action.

Sharing the results with my family

On December 2, 2025, I was alone, sitting in my home in Jersey City, New Jersey. My doctor called and stated that the test results were indeed breast cancer. We talked for a bit.

After we hung up, I immediately called my daughters. I cried, trembling as I told them what I’d just learned. My youngest rushed over. She’s 20 minutes away, and she held me as we cried together. Minutes later, my oldest grandson showed up. That boy is my protector, my rock. He looked at me with fear and determination and said, “You’re going to be fine. I’m going to make sure of that.”

There we were — me, my daughter, and my grandson — huddled in my bedroom, trying to process this thing that had barged into our lives. “What now?” they asked. “Where do we go from here?”

Now let me tell you something: I didn’t feel a spiritual shift in that moment because my spirituality has always been my anchor. For the past 30 years, my faith has held me steady. I wasn’t mad at God. I never was. But I was scared. For three weeks, I kept thinking, “Am I going to die?” I’d had a mammogram just seven months earlier. How was this happening?

I was bombarded with phone calls from doctors and nurses for appointments, next steps, and questions. It was overwhelming, but necessary. I had multiple consultations with breast surgeons and oncologists until I found the team that felt right. I chose a team who explained everything to me: the full prognosis, treatment plans, and what it meant to have triple-negative breast cancer. I needed to know I was in good hands. As a result, I am truly blessed with a medical team that cares.

It matters to me that the nurses, assistants, and medical professionals always greet me with a smile and ask how I’m feeling that day. My oncologist is sharp, professional, and focused. His bedside manner is impeccable; he always asks how I’m feeling, if there have been any changes since my last visit, and goes over my bloodwork thoroughly. Afterward, he makes time for my questions and concerns. Always.

The chemo chronicles

I was 59 when I was diagnosed, and I’m still 59 now. I’m single, a mother of two amazing daughters, and a grandmother of five. And yes, I’m still working full time while going through treatment.

I started chemo at the end of December 2024. Let me tell you — the doctors are amazed at how well I’ve been handling it. I’m not nauseous or sick, just bone-tired by the weekend. Thursday is treatment day. By Friday night, I’m wiped out. Saturday and Sunday? Forget it. I’m basically out of commission. Can’t shower, can’t cook. I sleep most of the time, but by 2 a.m. Monday morning, I’m back to about 85%. Almost me again.

But last week, something hit me different. I was sitting in my treatment room and looked out of the private room that I was in. And I cried. I just became really frustrated with all the whole routine — the travel back and forth, the time off work, the chemo, bloodwork, ports, the flood of meds. It somehow became real in a new way.

Last week, my oncologist told me that I’m halfway through treatment. We both said it together: “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”

I cannot wait until this is over.

Building something bigger

What keeps me going? Prayer. My people. The text messages, the check-ins, the community. And my purpose. I’m building a foundation to support people going through breast cancer treatment and survivorship. We’re planning our first breast cancer awareness event for October 2025. My longtime friends? They’re all in. That gives me life.

Helping people is my passion. It’s what I do every day, and it’s how I cope. I’m not just surviving, I’m building something.

Choosing myself

Now let’s talk about something we don’t talk about enough: intimacy and self-image.

I haven’t been in a relationship for almost two years. Would I like to be? Sure. But right now, I need to focus on me. I’ve spent so much of my life caring for others, and now it’s my turn.

Let’s be real. Some of us have real struggles with our sex lives, our bodies, our relationships. Sometimes we don’t feel like being touched. Sometimes we don’t feel like being perfect. And a lot of people just don’t get that. They don’t see how heavy things can be physically, emotionally, mentally. And when we’re already carrying all that? Performing for someone else isn’t even on the radar.

For me, decisions about my body, intimacy, and relationships come down to one thing: I do what’s right for me. No one else gets to choose. And the people who love me? They respect that.

Yeah, it would be nice to be held, to feel close. But I also know my hormones, my age, my lifestyle — even my mental health — all shift what I need and want right now. And I’m okay with that. I’m learning to honor where I am.

I’ve been thinking more about how we take care of ourselves, not just physically, but emotionally. We need more than sleep and food. We need connection. We need to feel safe. We need to feel seen. And when we don’t? It weighs on us.

Loving this body — in all its strength and softness, in the hard days and the healing ones — takes practice. But I’m learning. And I’m giving myself that time, that space, that grace.

What I want you to know

To the newly diagnosed: You are powerful. You get to make your choices. You are not alone. Cancer may be one of the hardest challenges you'll ever face, but it does not get to define you. You’ll feel fear. You’ll cry. You’ll be angry, and tired, and frustrated beyond words. But also, you’ll laugh. You’ll dance in your kitchen. You’ll feel joy. And you’ll experience victory in ways you never imagined.

Let people in. Let them love on you. And love yourself even harder. You deserve every ounce of it.

Looking back, looking forward

Before cancer, my weekends were all about errands, family time, movies, and my favorite pastime, shopping at the mall. These days, my life looks a little different. But one thing hasn’t changed: I smile. People tell me, “La-Trenda, you look good, like nothing’s wrong!” And I say, “That’s the light I choose. Not the darkness.”

If I think back to that moment in the shower when I first felt the lump, I just want to reach through time and say “You did the right thing, girl.”

You paid attention. You didn’t brush it off. You followed through, even when it was scary.

I didn’t know then where this road would take me, but I know now: That moment was the beginning of me standing up for myself in a whole new way.

This is just a chapter, not the whole story. I’m still here. Still healing. Still laughing. Still me.