Mastectomy during pregnancy: Reconnecting with my body after breast cancer

Between working part-time in a sustainability role at a catering company, teaching a graduate-level leadership class at the University of Pennsylvania, caring for my bubbly toddler, and preparing for the arrival of baby number two, I had little motivation to add another appointment to an already full schedule. But I finally went.

As the ultrasound tech prodded my right breast, she reassured me that the lump looked normal. “See, nothing to worry about. Why did you waste your time coming here?” I thought.

A minute later, the radiologist came in, took charge of the wand, and scanned slowly all around my breast. Something shifted in the room. A few minutes later, they wrapped my pregnant stomach in two lead shields for a mammogram. At 38, it was my first.

I sat afterward staring at the image of my breast on the screen, waiting. The radiologist walked toward me with a look of concern, handed me a card for the breast cancer center, and said I should schedule a biopsy. “It might come back benign,” she said. “But if it doesn’t, you’ll have to move quickly with treatment options.”

Not exactly reassuring.

A biopsy followed. Then, on April 26, 2023, the last day of my class, I spent most of the day refreshing my patient portal for the biopsy results.

When class ended, I checked my phone and saw multiple missed calls from an unknown number. I called back, and the doctor answered. She suggested I sit down.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I don’t have good news for you.”

I lowered myself into a desk in the empty classroom. There’s never a good time to receive a cancer diagnosis. Receiving one while pregnant is particularly shitty timing.

The diagnosis

I had ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS), a noninvasive breast cancer contained within the milk ducts. It was so widespread throughout my right breast that a lumpectomy was not an option.

My DCIS was hormone receptor-positive, meaning that it could grow in response to pregnancy hormones and increase the risk of invasive breast cancer. My doctors recommended a mastectomy, ideally before the end of the second trimester to avoid the risk of preterm labor. I worried about what losing my right breast would mean for feeding my baby, but my doctor reassured me that my remaining left breast should produce enough milk.

It was a kind of whiplash: bad news, good news. Urgent surgery, but no chemo or radiation. A cancer diagnosis, yet my baby was still healthy and growing. With the third trimester fast approaching, I didn’t have much time to sit with my uncertainty.

After second opinions and a tumor board review, the recommendation was the same: surgery. As soon as possible. Living Beyond Breast Cancer (LBBC) connected me with a breast cancer expert experienced in caring for people diagnosed during pregnancy. The expert helped me understand the information behind the recommendation of my breast surgeon. LBBC also introduced me to another woman who had received an almost identical diagnosis while pregnant — my breast cancer “twin.” Those connections helped me feel more informed and less alone.

To this day, I remain confident I made the right decision given the circumstances. Still, it wasn’t easy. In the days leading up to the mastectomy, I let myself sob when I needed to sob, but I also tried to stay grounded for me and my baby.

I kept reminding myself that I wasn’t alone. The baby growing in my belly was with me through it all. We had endless support from loving friends and family waiting for us on the other side of this. I also knew that other women had faced many of the same fears and decisions I was facing.

Because I hadn’t been able to get an MRI before surgery (pregnancy and MRI tables aren’t exactly compatible, which you’d hope modern medicine had figured out by now), I wasn’t a candidate for a nipple-sparing procedure. I opted for a skin-sparing mastectomy and went flat on one side, with plans to revisit reconstruction after the baby arrived.

Left: After the biopsy                                                                                               Right: With my breast cancer “twin”

Losing a breast while growing a baby

On the morning of surgery, my feelings were a swirling mix of frustration, anxiety, and unanswered questions. “What if I’m not making the right decision? What if something goes wrong? What if one breast doesn’t produce enough milk to feed this baby? Why is this happening right now?” I thought.

I was in a bad mood, and I wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. Along the drive to the hospital, my husband and I stopped and sat by the river for about an hour. I remember wanting so badly to stay there and keep the body I had taken for granted my whole life until then.

When we arrived at the hospital, the receptionist at surgery check-in asked, “Are you here for a C-section?”

“No,” I said. “I’m here for a mastectomy.”

Going into the operating room was the hardest part. Tears streamed down my face. They played “I Wanna Dance With Somebody,” and the surgeon held my hand as I drifted off.

Surgery went smoothly, the baby was safe, and I had only minimal pain afterward. My recovery took place at my in-laws’ vegetable farm in south New Jersey. It was springtime. Things were starting to take root and grow, while I was in hibernation mode — mourning the loss of a beloved body part, quietly watching my belly get bigger by the week.

I started preparing for the baby’s arrival and held out hope that I could still breastfeed. I unpacked maternity clothes and replaced the empty bin with shirts and dresses I knew I wouldn’t feel comfortable wearing for years. Before showering, I generally avoided looking at myself in the mirror. Sometimes the thud of the prosthetic hitting the floor while I undressed was enough to bring me to tears.

In those months, the physical healing proved much easier than the psychological. The asymmetry was hard, even with a husband who was unfailingly supportive and loving. He told me he would love me “one boob, two boobs, no boobs, three boobs.” I knew he meant it.

Left: One last photo before surgery                                   Middle: Before surgery                                       Right: After surgery

Shifting sense of identity

My mom sent me a pink ribbon package shortly after surgery. Upon opening the box and seeing its contents, I immediately closed it and threw it away. I felt a nagging, quiet guilt about it for a while. Why was the thought of wearing the pink ribbon paraphernalia so off-putting to me?

The truth is, I didn’t fully identify as a breast cancer survivor. The label felt like it belonged to someone else. Someone who had endured the hard path of chemo, radiation, hair loss, the full weight of it. I had stage 0. A mastectomy, yes, but no further treatment. Who was I to claim that identity?

What I’ve come to understand is that comparing suffering is a trap with no exit. You can always find someone who had it harder, and measuring your experience against theirs doesn’t make yours smaller. It just makes it lonelier. The fear and grief were real. Those things don’t need a qualifier to count.

My body, winking at me

Around this time, a close friend gave me a book: The Wisdom of Your Body, by Hillary L. McBride. There’s a chapter that draws a distinction between body acceptance and body positivity. Body positivity asks you to love what you see. Body acceptance asks something more subtle: to make room for the body you have, as it is, without forcing a feeling about it. This stayed with me, but I struggled to make the book’s lessons my own. My body looked so different now, and not in a way that I liked. How could I make peace with it?

Then, one morning while getting ready for work, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

My left side: one eye of sorts, the nipple.

My right side: a fold of flat skin, scrunched just so, a closed eye or a wink.

My body, winking at me.

I laughed out loud, alone in the bathroom. It was the first time since surgery I had looked at my reflection and felt something close to warmth. A small, odd nudge that this was all going to be okay. My body looked different now, marked by surgery, but that didn’t make it broken. I realized I didn’t need to wait until I felt beautiful to move forward. I could accept myself as I was in that moment and find lightness in it.

Just over 3 months after my mastectomy, my daughter Margot Rose was born, healthy and hungry. She latched without issue, and the milk flowed freely. I tried not to be self-conscious around the nurses and doctors at the hospital. This was my body now, and it was fully capable of feeding this sweet little child. My remaining breast produced more than enough milk, and I breastfed Margot exclusively for her first 6 months of life. The human body is amazing!

Living in this body now

In November 2024, I opted for an elective mastectomy of the left breast. I wanted to feel balanced and symmetrical again, and I didn’t want the ongoing anxiety of alternating mammograms and MRIs every 6 months.

Two weeks after surgery, the pathology report came back showing DCIS on that side too, even though a mammogram 5 months earlier had looked completely normal. My doctor was as surprised as I was. I’ll never know whether my intuition led me to that decision, but the outcome has given me the reassurance to always trust what my body is telling me.

In March 2025, I had bilateral reconstructive implant surgery and, my final stage of reconstruction, areola tattooing in June 2026. More than 3 years from my first mastectomy, I feel comfortable and confident in my body again.

Last year I went to a wedding and wore a low-cut red dress I never thought I’d put on again. It felt good to look good. And yet. My appearance only runs skin deep. It’s part of my identity, but it’s not a defining feature of who I am. On the other side of these surgeries, I’ve gained a greater appreciation for my body as a vessel for the continuation of life, both mine and my daughters’. I didn’t realize how much of my self-image was contained in my breasts until I had to let them go. It surprised me how liberating it was to end up loving my body more without them.

This experience has taught me a lot about surrender and acceptance. I learned that life can change in the space of a phone call. I felt numb and dumbfounded at first, and then I found a way to put one foot in front of the other. I never felt particularly brave or strong in all this, but I did what I had to do, supported by people who love me, carried by the body I was still learning how to accept and appreciate.

My body has changed. But I am still here, still myself, still moving forward, still growing.