How My Empowerment Was Compromised With One Breast

And how I healed

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I never understood how much my breasts identified me as a woman until I lost one.

I’ve always preferred to be reasonably feminine, but I’m not a bow-in-my-hair or floral dress kind of girl. As a farmer’s daughter who spent her first eight years of life jumping over the backs of sheep, it took a few years of boarding at an all-girls school to connect with that graceful part of me.

Just when I thought I was figuring out who I was, my mother and grandmother both passed away from breast cancer when I was 16. I plummeted into a rebel phase for a while as I fiercely navigated (or rather avoided) the monster of my grieving emotions.

It wasn’t until I went through a difficult journey of growing up, getting married, having kids, experiencing abuse, and surviving a toxic divorce that I finally realized I needed to learn to love myself in order to find happiness again.

When I turned 40, I celebrated. I decided to no longer hide my true nature. I said yes to new opportunities and connections. I said no to all requests for my phone number or casual “Netflix and chills.” At that time, anyone and anything slightly less than hell yes was a fierce hell no.