The Brown Ribbon Journal: A Personal Journey of Resilience while Navigating Cancer

The Brown Ribbon Journal is a space for truth-telling, healing, and honoring the lives of Black and Brown people impacted by cancer. Through stories, resources, and community, we reclaim our narratives and ensure no one fights alone or unseen.

My journey began in the summer of 2023. I had been ignoring calls and text messages from the radiology center that previously performed my mammogram. They were persistent, reminding me it was time to schedule my annual screening—but I kept putting it off.

Eventually, I replied to one of their messages and tried to make the appointment. But I became discouraged when one of the intake questions asked if I was experiencing nipple discharge. If so, they said, I’d need to see a primary care physician first. That was yet another barrier—I didn’t have one.

Still, I found a way around the system and booked a Friday appointment—one of my cherished summer Fridays off work.

The radiology center was packed that day with patients waiting for all kinds of scans, but mammograms were the most common. Women of all backgrounds and ages were there, all of us silently asking the same harrowing question: Do I have cancer?

When it was my turn to get “squashed,” I was understandably nervous. The technician was friendly and gentle as she lowered the machine—aka the device from hell. We even cracked a few jokes to ease the tension. Afterward, she asked me to wait while the images were reviewed by the radiologist.

Then she called me back in.

My stomach dropped.

The radiologist explained that I needed further testing—an ultrasound and a biopsy—to better understand the size and nature of a mass they had seen. I was far from thrilled. The thought of a biopsy made my skin crawl.

When I tried to schedule the ultrasound, I was told it would be weeks before I could get in. That wasn’t going to work. I had to press—hard—to make it clear this was urgent. Finally, I was given a sooner date.

When I arrived, the patient service staff were friendly and helpful. The ultrasound tech, a young woman of color, and the doctor performing the biopsy, a middle-aged white woman, were both kind and thoughtful. I was glad to see someone who looked like me in the room—not just behind the desk. I didn’t realize then how hyper-aware I would become of the lack of Black and Brown representation in the oncology healthcare system.

Then came the waiting. Days passed as I hoped for the best.

When the call finally came, I was at work.

I wasn’t surprised—not entirely. My mother had breast cancer, too. But still, you think, It can’t happen to me. I’m healthy, right? I had just completed both the Brooklyn and NYC Half Marathons. I thought I was in great shape.

It took a moment for the words to register: “You have cancer.”

I had to go straight into a meeting with my boss. I stayed composed and shared the news. He was sympathetic and visibly shaken. I reassured him: I’ll be okay. I didn’t know exactly what was ahead, but I believed I would be.

What I hadn’t mentioned was that, just weeks earlier, I had been told I would be let go from my job due to a workforce reduction.

Talk about a double whammy—losing my job and getting a cancer diagnosis in the same breath of life.

And so, my cancer journey began—with a mammogram, a biopsy, and the results that would change everything.