Barbie, Breast Cancer and the Power of Dolls in Healing

When my granddaughter unwrapped her new Barbie doll, the one with a white cane and sunglasses from the Barbie disability line, her little eyes lit up. “She can see with this stick,” she said proudly, moving the doll’s cane across the table. Watching her play reminded me of how powerful dolls can be in a child’s life. Through them, children learn empathy, courage and acceptance of differences.

That simple moment got me thinking about Barbie’s creator, Ruth Handler, and how her story connects so deeply with my own. I wanted to learn more about her, so I started scouring the internet and found a lot of information.

Ruth co-founded Mattel, Inc. with her husband, Elliot, and their friend Harold Matson, back in the 1940s. On a trip to Europe, she noticed that her daughter, Barbara, preferred playing with paper dolls shaped like adults instead of baby dolls. That observation gave Ruth an idea to create a three-dimensional fashion doll that allowed girls to imagine themselves as grown women, full of dreams and possibilities. In 1959, Barbie made her debut at the American Toy Fair. Named after Ruth’s daughter, Barbie was unlike anything the world had ever seen. She was stylish, confident and independent, a true reflection of the woman who created her.

But Ruth’s story didn’t end with the invention of Barbie. In 1970, she was diagnosed with breast cancer and underwent a mastectomy. After surgery, she found herself frustrated by the lack of comfortable, realistic breast prostheses. Instead of settling, she took matters into her own hands. In 1976, she founded a company called Nearly Me and designed silicone breast forms that looked and felt natural. They were revolutionary, created by a woman who truly understood what other women needed.

Ruth once said, “When I conceived Barbie, I believed it was important to a little girl’s self-esteem to play with a doll that had breasts. Now I find it even more important to give that self-esteem back to women who have lost theirs.” (Source: Jewish Women’s Archive, Ruth Mosko Handler, by Susan Ware.) In her lifetime, she managed to give both little girls and grown women the gift of confidence through something as simple as a doll and as profound as compassion.

Over the years, Barbie has continued to evolve. There are now dolls of every shape, size and color. Some have prosthetic legs, wheelchairs or hearing aids. My granddaughter’s blind Barbie is part of that inclusive collection, and I love that she can play with a doll that reflects real people in the world around her. Mattel has even created bald Barbies to comfort children going through cancer treatment, helping them understand hair loss and healing.

Recently, while browsing eBay, I came across something special, a Pink Ribbon Barbie that came out in 2006. I believe it was part of a Susan G. Komen Foundation partnership. The doll wore a soft pink gown with a tiny ribbon on her chest, symbolizing breast cancer awareness. I bought her immediately. I didn’t want her just for myself, but to someday give it to my granddaughter. I wanted to help her understand what breast cancer is, and that her own grandmother went through it. Maybe one day she’ll look at that doll and realize it’s more than a collectible: it’s a reminder of survival, courage, and grace.

Still, as much as I love that Barbie, I can’t help but think there’s one missing, a Barbie that truly represents women who’ve had mastectomies. To my knowledge, Mattel hasn’t yet made a flat-chested Barbie or one with faint scars where her breasts used to be.

As a double mastectomy survivor myself, that feels personal. I had surgery in 2014. My children were grown by then, but I often think about how different it might have been if they were still small. How would I have explained my new body to them? How could I have eased their fears when they saw the long, straight scars running across my chest? If there had been a Barbie like that one without breasts, maybe with small, soft scars, I could have used her to show them that Mommy was still Mommy. I would have said, “This is what I look like now, but I’m still strong, still loving, still me.”

A doll like that could make such a difference. For children, it could replace fear with familiarity. For survivors, it would be a quiet symbol of courage and acceptance. And for families, it could start conversations about healing and hope.

Toys have quiet but lasting power. When a child sees a Barbie in a wheelchair, with a hearing aid or with prosthetic limbs, they learn that differences are simply part of life. They learn that beauty doesn’t come in one shape. So why not the same for women who’ve had mastectomies? Why not show that beauty still exists in every scar, every story, every survivor?

I like to think that Ruth Handler would agree. She was a dreamer who saw what others didn’t and made it real. She gave us Barbie to spark imagination and Nearly Me to restore confidence. A mastectomy Barbie would bring both legacies together, inspiring children to understand and women to heal.

As I watch my granddaughter play with her blind Barbie, I imagine a future where she might one day open a doll box and find a Barbie that looks like her grandmother, flat, scarred and strong. Maybe she’d call her “Survivor Barbie.” Maybe she’d see not sadness, but strength. And maybe she’d learn that true beauty doesn’t come from perfection. It comes from survival, courage, and love.

If Ruth Handler were still alive, I think she’d smile at that thought. She knew that dolls aren’t just toys; they’re reflections of who we are, who we love and who we hope to become. Someday, I hope a child will hold a mastectomy Barbie and see what I see, not loss, but life.

And maybe, just maybe, that child will understand what I’ve come to believe with all my heart that even after cancer, and even after the scars, God still paints beauty into every story. Sometimes, He just changes the shape of it.

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

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