My name is Frances Malinis. I’m a Filipina woman living in Las Vegas, a mom, HR manager, patient advocate, traveler, foodie, introvert, and somewhere along the way, I became a New York Fashion Week model too.

That last one still surprises me.

In 2023, at 39 years old, I was diagnosed with Stage 1B triple-negative breast cancer. Two years later, at 42, cancer changed the story again. I was diagnosed with Stage IV metastatic triple-negative breast cancer. I am also BRCA2+.

There are a lot of words that can become attached to you after a cancer diagnosis. Patient. Survivor. Metastatic. BRCA-positive. Advocate.

All of those words are part of my story, but none of them tell you everything about me.

I am loyal, curious and hopeful. My children are my greatest joy. I love traveling the world with my family, discovering new places and finding something good to eat with my best friends. Give me Filipino, Korean, Chinese, Thai or Vietnamese food and I’m happy. I love seeing what is waiting for me somewhere new, but as much as I enjoy traveling, nowhere makes me more comfortable than home.

Cancer has taught me how much life can change when the plans we make suddenly become irrelevant.

One of the biggest lessons I have learned is that life does not have to go according to plan to still have purpose. Sometimes when it feels like everything is falling apart, the pieces are actually falling into place. Some of my greatest blessings have arrived right in the middle of the mess.

In 2026, metastatic breast cancer somehow took me all the way to New York Fashion Week. Never in a million years would I have imagined adding “NYFW model” to my cancer story.

That’s the strange thing about this life. Grief and gratitude can exist together. Fear and faith can occupy the same space. I can acknowledge the reality of metastatic breast cancer and still experience joy, opportunity, purpose and hope.

For me, being a Breast Cancer Baddie means refusing to let cancer have the final say in who I am.

Finding My Voice

Something people are often surprised to learn about me is that I am an introvert.

Advocacy did not come naturally because I wanted to be the person in front of the room or the loudest voice in it. Advocacy pushed me far outside of my comfort zone. It taught me that sometimes purpose requires you to use your voice, even when you would much rather stay quietly in the background.

That’s also something I wish every newly diagnosed woman knew: You are allowed to ask questions. Using your voice does not make you difficult. Asking for clarification does not make you a problem. Wanting to understand your options does not make you challenging.

It makes you an active participant in your own care.

I advocate because I know access, representation and health equity can change outcomes. I want the patients coming after me to have to fight a little less to be seen, heard, represented and cared for.

Thinking Beyond My Own Diagnosis

One issue especially close to my heart is access to genetic testing and the need for interconnected health record systems.

I think about what could be possible if our family medical histories were more accurately connected and documented across generations. Important patterns and hereditary risks can be lost because relatives receive care in different places, at different times, through different health systems.

When that fragmented history is paired with limited access to genetic testing, families can miss information that might help them understand their risk earlier. As someone who is BRCA2+, this isn’t abstract to me.

I imagine a future where more families have the information they need to make informed decisions about screening, prevention and care. A future where we prevent more cancers when possible, detect others earlier and reduce the number of families who have to hear the words “late-stage cancer.” That’s part of why I use my voice.

Not because speaking up suddenly became comfortable, but because I’ve learned that my voice can have purpose beyond me.

Holding Hope

Metastatic breast cancer comes with uncertainty. I can’t pretend otherwise. But uncertainty has not taken away my ability to hope. My children bring me hope. This community brings me hope. My faith brings me hope.

I have learned that I can carry grief and gratitude, fear and faith, at the exact same time. I don’t have to choose one emotion to make the other real.

My mantra is simple:

“Where God guides, He provides.”

I don’t know every place this life will take me. If the last few years have taught me anything, it’s that I probably couldn’t predict it anyway.

So I’ll keep being curious. I’ll keep traveling. I’ll keep eating good food with people I love. I’ll keep showing up for my children. I’ll keep asking questions. I’ll keep advocating.

I’ll keep using my voice, even when the introvert in me would rather stay in the background.

And I’ll keep believing that even when life doesn’t go according to plan, there can still be purpose in the pieces.