We Are Not Too Young, Too Old, Too Anything

She was twenty-seven when she found the lump. Not during a self-exam. Not in a moment of empowered body awareness. Mariam found it while trying to wrangle her left boob into a bralette that was clearly designed for someone with less ambition and more symmetry. It felt like a pebble, small, firm, and annoyingly persistent. She poked it. It didn’t move. She poked it again. Still there.

She did what any rational millennial would do: She Googled “lump in breast at 27 years old.” The results were a mix of Reddit panic spirals, Mayo Clinic calm, and one blog post that said, “It’s probably nothing, but get it checked.” She closed the tab. She opened TikTok. She watched three videos about “hot girl fall” and one about a girl who shaved her head after chemo. She didn’t cry. She made coffee.

The next morning, Mariam called her OB-GYN. The Dr squeezed her in. The doctor was kind. She didn’t say “don’t worry,” which was appreciated. She said, “Let’s check it out.” That’s how it began.

The ultrasound technician was quiet. Too quiet. He kept his eyes on the screen and his mouth in a tight line. she asked, “Is it bad?” He said, “I’m not allowed to say.” She said, “That’s not comforting.” He said, “I know.”

A week later, she got the call. Stage I invasive ductal carcinoma. Treatable. But terrifying. Mariam told her mom over FaceTime. Her mother cried. She didn’t. She told my situationship over text. He ghosted her. She told her best friend in person. She brought wine and a notebook titled “Operation: Save the Titties.”

She started chemo two weeks later. Her hair fell out in clumps. She shaved it off and posted a selfie with the caption: “Bald, bold, and still bad.” It got 312 likes and one DM from a girl who said she’d just been diagnosed too. They became friends. They called themselves “The Boobless Baddies.” They sent each other memes, wig tutorials, and late-night voice notes about how weird it felt to be young and sick.

Here’s the thing no one tells you about breast cancer in your twenties: it’s lonely. Most of the pamphlets are pink and pastel and feature women in their fifties smiling with their grandkids. The waiting rooms are full of people who talk about retirement plans and grandchildren. Mariam was still figuring out how to file taxes and whether she wanted bangs.

She learned to advocate for myself in rooms full of white coats and fluorescent lights. She learned to ask questions like, “What are the long-term side effects?” and “Will this affect my fertility?” She learned that strength isn’t stoic, it’s soft. It’s showing up. It’s saying, “I’m scared,” and still going to the appointment.

Medically speaking, breast cancer is a disease where abnormal cells grow uncontrollably in breast tissue. It can start in milk ducts or lobules. It may be non-invasive (in situ) or invasive (spreading to nearby tissue). Risk factors include age, genetics (BRCA1/BRCA2), lifestyle, and sometimes just bad luck. Symptoms can include lumps, changes in breast shape, nipple discharge, or skin dimpling. Detection methods include mammograms, ultrasounds, and biopsies. Treatment varies surgery, radiation, chemo, hormone therapy, targeted therapy. It’s a lot. But it’s survivable. Especially when caught early.

Emotionally speaking, breast cancer is a plot twist. It’s the moment you realize your body isn’t invincible. It’s the moment you stop waiting for life to be perfect before you start living it. It’s the moment you learn to love your body not because it’s flawless, but because it’s fighting.

She had a lumpectomy in December. The scar is small, but it changed everything. She used to hate her boobs. She thought they were uneven, too soft, too loud. Now she look at them and think, “You made it.” She wear crop tops over my scar. She takes selfies in dressing rooms. She stopped apologizing for taking up space.

She’s not here to be inspirational. She’s here to be honest. Cancer didn’t make her stronger. It made her slower. It made her softer. It made her grateful for things she used to ignore like the way her best friend holds her hand when she was scared, or the way her mom texts her “good morning” every day now, just to check in.

She’s 28 now. Her hair is growing back. Her body is healing in ways she didn’t know it needed. Her heart is softer, her boundaries firmer. She still has bad days. She still cry in the shower. She still gets scared when she feel anything unfamiliar in her chest. But she also laugh more. She dance more. She say “I love you” more. She live louder.

And she’s not alone.

There are women in their twenties, like Mariam, who never imagined cancer would interrupt their dating lives, their careers, their sense of invincibility. There are women in their thirties juggling chemo with childcare. Women in their forties who caught it early and became advocates. Women in their fifties who’ve survived and now mentor others. Women in their sixties and seventies who’ve faced recurrence, resilience, and rebirth. There are Black women whose symptoms were dismissed. Latina women navigating language barriers in clinics. Trans women fighting for recognition in medical spaces. Disabled women whose care is complicated by access. Immigrant women balancing treatment with survival. Indigenous women whose stories are often left out of the narrative entirely.

Breast cancer doesn’t discriminate but the world sometimes does. And that’s why awareness matters. Not just in October. Not just in pink. But in policy, in access, in empathy, in storytelling.

So here’s to all the women, cis, trans, nonbinary femmes who’ve faced the diagnosis, the treatment, the fear, the fight. Here’s to the scars, the shaved heads, the reconstructed bodies, the quiet courage. Here’s to the ones still in it, the ones who’ve come through, and the ones we remember.

Here’s to the aunties, the sisters, the daughters, the lovers, the friends.

Here’s to the ones who advocate, educate, and hold space.

Here’s to the ones who laugh through the pain and cry without shame.

Here’s to the ones who remind us that healing isn’t linear and strength isn’t one-size-fits-all.

And here’s to you, reader. May your body be honored, your story be heard, and your life be lived fully, fiercely, and without apology.