When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer, I didn’t just fear for my life—I feared I’d lose my identity.
Not just my breasts. Not just my energy. But my whole damn self.
As a queer woman of color, I walk through this world already layered in complexity. Add breast cancer to the mix? Now I’m navigating pink ribbons, survivor circles, and support spaces where I rarely saw anyone who looked like me or loved like me.
I remember attending my first breast cancer support group and introducing my partner—my girlfriend at the time—and getting blank stares, awkward smiles, or that polite-but-painfully-obvious silence. Let’s be real—there’s still a lot of unlearning that needs to happen in the cancer world when it comes to LGBTQIA+ folks.
But let me say this: We exist. We thrive.
Loving Out Loud While Healing in Private
Being lesbian doesn’t make my story any less valid. But too often, it made me feel like I had to shrink parts of myself to fit in.
Like maybe if I didn’t mention my partner, I’d be embraced more easily.
Like maybe if I just smiled through it, I wouldn’t have to explain that no, I don’t have a husband at home, and yes, my family looks different.
But let me tell you what helped:
Finding spaces where being queer and being a woman of color wasn’t an afterthought—it was the main thought. That’s why I found my home in communities like For the Breast of Us. Attending Breast Cancer BaddieCon this past spring reminded me that being a Breast Cancer Baddie means bringing your full, unapologetic self to the table.
One thing I wished is that the Breast Cancer Community could embrace us fully. Don’t get me wrong, they have made steps in the right direction but, they can do better. Here are some ideas I have:
1. Representation matters.
Put LGBTQIA+ voices—especially Black and Brown ones—front and center. In campaigns, in leadership, on panels, in research. We’re not invisible, we’re just often overlooked.
2. Ask, don’t assume.
Not everyone has a “husband” or a nuclear family. Ask about support systems without gendering them. Make space for chosen families.
3. Create affirming environments.
Support groups, healthcare providers, and wellness spaces need to actively work toward being inclusive. That means education, language training, and safe zones that aren’t just performative.
4. Celebrate all identities.
Don’t just slap a rainbow on your logo in June—do the work year-round to make LGBTQIA+ people impacted by breast cancer feel seen, safe, and celebrated.
What Pride Month Means to Me
Pride isn’t just rainbows and parades.
It’s protest. It’s presence. It’s saying, I deserve joy. I deserve health. I deserve to live fully.
Pride, for me, is walking into a clinic with my head held high—scars, softness, queerness and all—and knowing I’m not less than.
Pride is loving my partner out loud in a hospital hallway.
Pride is holding space for other LGBTQIA+ Baddies who are just beginning their journeys.
Pride is reclaiming my body, my femininity, my queerness—and knowing they can all coexist beautifully.
So, this Pride Month, I raise my glass (ok, green juice if we’re keeping it healthy 💚) to every queer Baddie who’s ever felt unseen in pink spaces.
We’re here.
We’re healing.
And baby—we’re powerful AF.
