Bonnie Annis is a breast cancer survivor, diagnosed in 2014 with stage 2b invasive ductal carcinoma with metastasis to the lymph nodes. She is an avid photographer, freelance writer/blogger, wife, mother and grandmother.

Bonnie Annis

Bonnie Annis is a breast cancer survivor, diagnosed in 2014 with stage 2b invasive ductal carcinoma with metastasis to the lymph nodes. 

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer, my world changed in an instant. Like so many others who hear those words, “You have cancer,” my mind flooded with fear, uncertainty and a thousand questions. I wondered what had caused it, what I could have done differently and how I could protect myself — and my family — from ever hearing those words again.

In the years since my diagnosis, I’ve noticed that my children have changed too. They’ve become what I like to call “cancer-aware.” They don’t just accept the world at face value anymore, and they certainly don’t buy products without reading labels. Whether it’s shampoo, deodorant or even the food they put on their table, they’ve learned to pause, read and research before buying.

It’s both heartwarming and sobering to see how my experience has shaped their habits. My daughters, especially, are vigilant about what goes into and onto their bodies. They research ingredients I can’t even pronounce, cross-check brand reputations online and discuss recalls as casually as some people discuss the weather. Sometimes, I’m amazed at how much they know about chemical compounds, parabens and the Environmental Working Group’s safety ratings. But at the same time, I can’t help but feel sad that this kind of caution has become necessary in everyday life.

Just last night, I received a text from my youngest daughter that perfectly captured this new reality.

“Mom,” she wrote, “what kind of blood pressure medication are you taking?”

I paused before responding, wondering what had prompted her question. I sent the name of my prescription, thinking she might be curious about side effects or possibly comparing medications. Within minutes, she replied, “Good. I just saw that a blood pressure medication called prazosin hydrochloride was recalled for containing a cancer-causing ingredient.”

I felt an immediate wave of relief that I wasn’t taking that particular medication, followed quickly by a pang of worry. Who would ever think that something prescribed to help your heart could potentially harm your body in such a devastating way? It was another reminder that even the most seemingly harmless or necessary products aren’t immune to contamination or oversight.

It makes me wonder — how are ordinary people supposed to keep up?

Between personal care products, cleaning agents, processed foods and medications, it can feel like we have to become super detectives just to survive without fear of getting cancer. We research, we read, we cross-reference — but still, the risk lingers in the back of our minds. The truth is, even if we do everything right — eat clean, exercise, avoid toxins — cancer can still find us. That’s the hardest part to accept.

When I think back to life before cancer, I realize how little attention I paid to things like product labels. I trusted that if something was on the store shelf, it must be safe. I used whatever deodorant smelled good, whatever shampoo promised shine and whatever cleaner made my home sparkle. I never once thought about the long list of unrecognizable chemicals on the back of those bottles.

Cancer changed that. It changed everything.

Now, I read every label like it’s a test I can’t afford to fail. I look for words like “paraben-free,” “phthalate-free” and “sulfate-free.” I buy organic when I can and try to choose glass containers instead of plastic. And while it can feel overwhelming, it also feels empowering. Knowledge is power, and I’ve learned that taking small steps toward safer living matters — not just for me, but for my family, too.

It’s encouraging to see that my children have adopted that same mindset. What started as my personal mission to live cleaner and healthier has rippled outward, touching their lives as well. I see it in the way they shop, the way they feed their families and even the way they talk about health with their own friends. Cancer awareness, for us, isn’t just about knowing the signs or scheduling regular screenings. It’s about living consciously, making thoughtful choices every day to protect our bodies as best we can.

Still, I sometimes grieve the innocence we’ve lost. There was a time when life felt simpler, when you could trust the products in your home and the food on your plate. Now, it seems like every week there’s a new report of a contaminated brand, a toxic additive or a recall for something we thought was safe. It can feel discouraging and even frightening.

But rather than letting fear rule, I try to let it fuel a deeper sense of purpose. Cancer has taught me to be vigilant, but also to be grateful — for modern science, for watchdog organizations, for the ability to access information instantly. My children’s awareness may have been born out of fear, but it’s grown into something positive: empowerment, protection, and love.

When my daughter sent that text about the recalled blood pressure medication, she wasn’t just sharing information — she was expressing care. She was saying, in her own way, “I love you, Mom. I want you safe.” That realization turned my initial worry into gratitude.

And maybe that’s the balance we have to find in this new age of awareness. We can’t control everything that happens to our bodies, and we can’t predict every outcome. But we can choose to be informed. We can choose to pay attention, to question, and to look out for one another.

In the end, cancer changed more than my health — it changed my family’s mindset. It made us question what we once accepted, learn what we once ignored, and care in ways we once took for granted. That kind of awareness, as exhausting as it can be, is a gift. It’s a way of honoring not just the life I’ve fought to keep, but the future my children now fight to protect.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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Articles

A breast cancer diagnosis profoundly altered the author's life, instilling a heightened awareness of potential carcinogens in everyday products. This vigilance extended to her children, who now meticulously research product ingredients and safety. The family's shift towards conscious living underscores the pervasive fear of cancer, despite efforts to minimize risk. The narrative highlights the balance between fear and empowerment, emphasizing the importance of informed choices and vigilance. Ultimately, the experience fostered a deeper familial bond and a proactive approach to health and safety.

Cancer has taught me to be vigilant, but also to be grateful — for modern science, for watchdog organizations, for the ability to access information instantly.

Becoming Cancer-Aware: How My Diagnosis Changed the Way My Family Sees Everyday Products

For the past eleven years, I’ve worn the title breast cancer survivor with quiet gratitude. Each year that passed felt like another mile marker on a long, hard journey — a reminder that God had given me more time. I celebrated birthdays, family milestones, and everyday blessings with the confidence that the darkest chapter of my life was behind me. But life has a way of surprising us and sometimes fear returns when we least expect it.

A small, hard knot just beneath the skin on my chest — nothing new, really. I’d noticed it several years ago and thought little of it at the time. It wasn’t painful, didn’t seem to grow, and after what I’d already been through, I suppose I just didn’t want to borrow trouble. But a few weeks ago, I noticed it had changed. It had grown larger, redder, and tender to the touch. That’s when the fear came rushing back.

You see, I’m a breast cancer survivor — eleven years cancer-free. I remember the day I got the “all clear” like it was yesterday. I cried, prayed, and promised myself I’d never take another sunrise for granted. For years, I’ve celebrated each milestone — five years, eight years, ten years — thinking I was safely beyond the danger zone. I’d read somewhere that the risk of recurrence drops sharply after the first decade. In my mind, that meant I was home free. Until that lump.

When I first noticed how much it had grown, I didn’t know which doctor to call. Should I go back to my oncologist or see my dermatologist? I’d been through enough medical appointments to know how easily one leads to another, and I wanted to start in the right place. So I made calls to both offices and decided whichever one returned my call first would be the one I’d see. The dermatologist won.

This morning, as I sat in the exam room waiting for the doctor, I tried to calm my nerves. The paper gown rustled every time I moved, and the sound reminded me of hospital beds and biopsy tables. The memories were all too close. When the dermatologist and her assistant came in, I apologized before they even took a look. I always do. I tell them up front that I’ve had both breasts removed — not because I’m ashamed, but because I don’t want to startle them when they first see my chest. Even now, eleven years later, I still feel the need to prepare others for what I’ve learned to live with.

The doctor examined the lump closely. “How long has it been like this?” she asked.

I told her about the years I’d had it, how recently it had begun to swell and ache. She nodded thoughtfully and reached for a small tape measure. I watched as she stretched it across the red, raised area. “It’s about two inches by four inches,” she said. I was stunned. I hadn’t realized it was that large — and the realization made my heart race.

She called it a cyst but said it was quite inflamed. She offered steroid injections to calm it down and prescribed an antibiotic. Then came the words that made my stomach drop: “Once it’s settled, we’ll schedule surgery to remove it.”

Surgery. That single word brought back a flood of memories — the sterile smell of operating rooms, the grogginess of anesthesia, the long healing afterward. But more than that, it brought back the fear. The same cold dread that had once lived in my bones — the fear that cancer had come back.

I texted my daughters afterward to let them know what was going on. They all responded with love and concern. “We’ll be praying, Mama,” one wrote. Another said, “Keep us updated, please.” None of them said the word “cancer,” but I knew they were thinking it. We all were.

Just a few days ago, I’d been talking with a friend about how many women I’d known who had breast cancer. Some had survived and thrived for years, only for the disease to return without warning. I’d said then that I couldn’t imagine going through it again. And yet, here I was, facing that same possibility.

According to the American Cancer Society, there are more than 4 million breast cancer survivors in the United States today. That’s something to celebrate — a testament to early detection and improved treatments. But the truth is, recurrence can still happen. Roughly one in five women with early-stage breast cancer will experience a recurrence, sometimes decades later. Those statistics are sobering. Still, they’re not the whole story. Because what numbers can’t measure is faith, and hope, and the human will to keep going.

As I left the dermatologist’s office, prescription in hand, I took a deep breath. The fear hadn’t disappeared, but it no longer felt as suffocating. I realized that surviving cancer doesn’t mean you stop being afraid — it means you learn to walk through the fear anyway. You remember what it was like to face your mortality, and then you remember that you survived. That reminder alone can give strength for whatever comes next.

I don’t yet know what this lump will turn out to be. Maybe it really is just an angry cyst. Maybe it’s something more. What I do know is this: I’ve faced cancer before, and if I must, I’ll face it again — but not alone. My faith, my family, and the prayers of those who love me will go before me, just like they did before.

Tonight, as I write this, I’m reminded of a verse that carried me through treatment all those years ago:

“When I am afraid, I will trust in You.” — Psalm 56:3.

Those words feel just as true today as they did then. Fear will always try to sneak back in, but faith will always meet it at the door. And that, I’ve learned, is how survivors keep surviving.

A Note to My Sisters in Pink: If you’re reading this and you’ve ever faced breast cancer — or you love someone who has — please remember: vigilance matters. Know your body. Check your scars. Report any changes, no matter how small they may seem. The average risk for a woman in the U.S. to develop breast cancer is about 1 in 8, and early detection saves lives.

Mammograms, follow-up visits, and self-exams aren’t just medical routines; they’re acts of faith and self-care. Each one says, “My life matters, and I’m not giving up.”

And if fear ever comes knocking again — as it sometimes will — remind yourself of this: you’ve already conquered one of life’s fiercest battles. You are not alone, and you are stronger than you remember.

For more news on cancer updates, research and education,

A breast cancer survivor reflects on the fear and uncertainty that resurfaced after discovering a new lump, despite being cancer-free for eleven years. The experience underscores the importance of vigilance and early detection, as recurrence remains a possibility even years after initial treatment. The narrative highlights the emotional journey of facing potential recurrence, supported by faith, family, and community. It emphasizes the significance of self-awareness and regular medical check-ups as acts of self-care and resilience, reminding survivors of their strength and the support available to them.

Eleven years after surviving breast cancer, I found a new lump that reignited old fears, reminding me that faith and vigilance remain vital to survivorship.

When the Fear of Cancer Creeps Back

If you’d told me last week that I’d be walking down aisles full of fake boobs like a kid hunting for toys at Toys “R” Us, I’d have spit out my sweet tea laughing. But there I was, stepping into a boutique that looked just like that old toy store I used to drag my kids to — except instead of millions of toys for kids of all ages, it was millions of boobs for grown-ups who’d survived something.

Rows and rows of options greeted me: perky, modest, full-on glamorous and even “swim boobs” that promised a perfect beach silhouette. Some were silicone, some were foam, some practically wiggled with personality. I felt like a kid in a candy store — except instead of picking candy, I was picking parts of myself I never imagined shopping for.

I half expected a clerk to hand me a catalog and say, “Pick one, sugar, and don’t drop it.”

I wandered down the aisle, and I swear it felt exactly like the toy aisles of my youth. There were “boobs with bells and whistles” over here, “classic everyday boobs” over there, and the “swim boobs” section had me laughing out loud. I picked one up and imagined strutting down the beach like some kind of glamorous mermaid — or maybe a confused old lady who didn’t quite know what she was doing. I leaned in and whispered, “Well, Lord, at least I’m not shopping for a pony this time.”

The “party boobs” section caught my eye next. They were all perky and proud, practically yelling, 

wear me to a cocktail party and own the room! 

My reflection in the mirror gave me a cheeky wink. I could almost hear them saying, 

Honey, we’ve got more pizzazz than you’ve had in decades. 

I laughed so hard I startled a woman in the next aisle.

I tried on a small, modest pair. Too shy. Then a medium — maybe. Then I dared a larger one — and nearly tripped over my own feet, imagining what would happen if someone bumped into me. Would they know? Would they notice my new additions? I muttered, “Good grief, these things have a mind of their own!”

By the time I got to the swim boobs again, I had half a mind to march straight to the beach, flip-flops optional, and see if anyone could guess they weren’t “real.”

The sales woman smiled patiently as I shuffled from table to table, my arms shielding my chest like I was protecting a nest of fragile eggs. And then it hit me: these boobs weren’t just fake — they were freedom. I could put them on or take them off whenever I wanted.

Some days, I wanted them. Other days, I didn’t. Most of the time at home, I went flat.

Comfort won every time, and my family had gotten used to it. My husband barely blinked, my kids shrugged, and my grandkids didn’t even notice.

At nearly 70, I was learning not to care too much what anyone else thought.

Who I am isn’t measured in ounces or cup sizes.

As I held the options in my hands, I imagined them in everyday life. What would breakfast be like with these perky ones bouncing gently while I reached for the cereal? Could I rock the mailbox with confidence on my morning walk? Would the mailman notice, or just politely pretend he didn’t? The thought made me snort-laugh right there in the aisle, and the clerk gave me a patient, knowing smile.

I finally made my choice: a pair that felt right, not too big, not too shy, just enough to make me smile when I caught my reflection.

Like any good shopping trip, I left feeling a little richer, a little braver and a lot more like myself.

I realized that even in this silly, nerve-wracking, utterly ridiculous experience, there was a kind of empowerment in picking what made me feel good, on my terms.

And honestly? Some of the fancier options could double as Halloween props or party accessories — which is just the kind of versatility I can get behind at my age.

Some days I’d put them on for style, some for fun, some because it just tickled me to see what kind of mischief I could get away with. And at the end of the day, whether flat or fabulously full, I was still me — laughing, living, and fully, gloriously, myself.

A woman humorously recounts her experience shopping for prosthetic breasts after surviving cancer. She likens the boutique to a toy store, with a variety of options ranging from "party boobs" to "swim boobs." The experience is both empowering and liberating, allowing her to choose what makes her feel good on her own terms. She embraces the freedom to wear them or go flat, emphasizing that her identity isn't defined by her appearance. The journey is a celebration of self-acceptance and living life with humor and confidence.

Shopping for prostheses reminded me of being in a very popular old toy store.

A Breast Cancer Survivor's Delightful Dilemma 

Going through breast cancer has pushed me to do things I never thought I would. A significant part of that newfound freedom comes from the influence of a famous icon and fellow breast cancer survivor, Kathy Bates.

My youngest daughter has witnessed how drastically my life has changed since my breast cancer diagnosis. She has seen my struggles to find and accept this new season of life. Sometimes, she has had to witness moments I wish she hadn’t, like when I lie on the floor of my closet in tears because I can’t find a blouse that camouflages my breastlessness, or when I throw something across the room out of sheer frustration. Throughout it all, she has made it clear that I don’t have to pretend around her; I can be myself, and that’s what I’ve tried to do.

I cherish the moments when she finds YouTube videos she thinks will help lift my spirits. Occasionally, I discover something in my inbox from her, and I offer up a prayer of gratitude. She truly gets me. In contrast, my other children seem to struggle to understand what living past breast cancer is like. They adopt a more serious attitude and attempt to “sweep my outbursts under the rug,” pretending they don’t exist. However, the frustrations of dealing with breast cancer—both during and after treatment—are real, and survivors have every right to feel them.

Recently, my youngest sent me a message through Facebook Messenger that included a lip sync battle from Jimmy Kimmel’s Saturday Night Live spoofs. When I opened it, I immediately smiled. The star of the battle was Kathy Bates, one of my favorite actresses and a breast cancer icon. Although I had only seen one or two lip sync battles in the past, I always found them amusing as actors tried to “out-sing” the original artists. The skits provide a good dose of laughter and always brighten my day.

In this specific lip sync battle, Kathy Bates strides onto the stage wearing dark sunglasses, a fur coat, and a stylish fedora, exuding confidence. As Bruno Mars' song “That’s What I Like” starts playing, the audience erupts with excitement. The cheering reaches its peak as she sheds the coat, revealing a button-down leopard print shirt, a dazzling piece of jewelry, and her braless self. I must admit, my jaw dropped when I realized she had the courage to perform without prostheses! To this day, I still struggle with the confidence to go anywhere without my fake breasts. Yet Kathy owned the stage, dancing joyfully as the song played, while the crowd cheered her on.

While the song is undoubtedly uplifting, Kathy offered much more than just that. She brought her authentic self—warts and all, or in this case, breastlessness and everything cancer had taken from her.

Oh, to have the bravery that this wonderful woman displayed on stage! I would give anything to experience that kind of joy and carefree attitude in front of a crowd.

I’ve watched the video my daughter sent about ten times now, and each time, I smile even more than before. I can’t get enough of it.

Many may not realize all that Ms. Bates has been through in her life, but I do. I have followed her career closely for years. Not only have I enjoyed every one of her movies, but I’ve also admired how she has overcome one challenge after another.

As breast cancer survivors, we need icons like Ms. Bates to remind us that life is worth living, and that we can be brave in a world that often struggles to accept those of us who have chosen to forego breast reconstruction. Women can empower each other to do things we never thought we could achieve, and I must applaud Ms. Bates for reminding me that I have the power. As Glenda, the Good Witch, said to Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, “…My dear, you’ve had the power all along.”

I hope that one day my granddaughters will look up to me the way I look up to Kathy Bates, and that a smile will spread across their faces with pride as they say, “That’s my grandma! Look at her go!” And if they happen to see me doing something without my prostheses, I hope they’ll appreciate it and applaud even louder, recognizing that it took immense courage to embrace such moments with sheer abandon.

Breast cancer has profoundly impacted the author's life, leading to newfound freedom and inspiration from fellow survivor Kathy Bates. The author shares the emotional journey of coping with breastlessness and the support received from her youngest daughter, who helps lift her spirits. Kathy Bates' fearless performance without prostheses serves as a powerful reminder of embracing authenticity and courage. The author aspires to embody similar bravery and hopes to inspire future generations. The narrative underscores the importance of role models in empowering breast cancer survivors to live boldly.

Going through breast cancer has pushed me to do things I never thought I would.

Bonnie Annis

Becoming Cancer-Aware: How My Diagnosis Changed the Way My Family Sees Everyday Products

When the Fear of Cancer Creeps Back

A Breast Cancer Survivor's Delightful Dilemma

A Lighthearted Look at Breast Cancer Freedom

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