“I’m getting my Look Good Feel Better bag soon,” Lindsey said excitedly. “It’ll probably arrive by the next time you are here!” Lindsey, my big sister was 57 and had already been living in hospice for a number of months. I had spent the fall with her, accompanying her through her recurrence of ovarian cancer.
Only a few months earlier, we had heard the sweetest words from her oncologist: no evidence of disease. In true sisterly fashion, we celebrated with a shopping spree for makeup and skincare. Unfortunately, distressing headaches and dizziness followed, caused by a rare and devastating 5.5 cm brain metastasis. Soon we realized that no more treatment was possible, and that Lindsey could be best supported in the home-and community-like environment of a hospice.
I had spent most of the fall sleeping in her hospital room or helping her recover at our aunt’s house in Alberta, but now that she was settled in hospice, I visited from BC for one week of each month, taking up residence in the hospice guest room, drinking in all that precious time, and doing what I could to amuse, ease, support and facilitate… all of which felt like everything and nothing at the same time.
Makeup, skincare, makeover shows, these were Lindsey’s happy place, and we spent *hours* in hospice binge watching our favourite fashion series, researching the latest skin care, and discussing other people’s and our own (sometimes lamentable) fashion choices. It all represented the Land of Normal, the place of laughter, fun, possibility and transformation. And it also represented our old selves as sisters.
When that big Look Good Feel Better purple kit arrived one day when I was visiting, we dove in as if it were Christmas Day. Every product was spread out on her bed and table, tried and exclaimed over. Lindsey read every word of the accompanying materials and we both remarked over and over about how generous this gift was. It was just that – a gift.
For me, it was not just a chance to see Lindsey happy and excited about “goo” as we called all makeup and skincare, but it was a blessed opportunity for her to be… her. It was an opportunity for Lindsey to embrace her newly grown-back short steel grey pixie cut and set it off with a bold lipstick, for me to gently fill in her brows and add some colour to her pale cheeks, and then to capture it all on my cell phone camera.
Maybe everyone who receives LGFB’s Big Purple Bag has this type of story. I hope so. We called Lindsey’s time in hospice her butterfly days, in part because during those five months she more fully embraced who she was as an autistic person, fully owning her unique set of communication, processing and sensory needs. She also became more comfortable in her own skin and her own environment, which had somehow aligned perfectly to suit her needs and wants. She fiercely loved her curves, her green eyes and her sassy post-surgery new haircut. She loved the hospice volunteers, the supportive cancer care programs, audio books and her chair workouts — catheter, walker and all. Her room was filled with home baking, soft quilts, family art, photographs and cards. She enjoyed the other residents and was sure to have chocolate for breakfast every day.
As we know, autism is a spectrum, meaning that each autistic person has a unique combination of traits, need for levels of support, interests and abilities. These also can change throughout a person’s lifetime. Cancer can change things radically once again, requiring adaptation, education and re-evaluation on the parts of the patient, healthcare providers and loved ones.
Hospice life worked well for Lindsey’s deep need for routine and predictability; regular meals and cleaning schedules, friendly health care and support staff who she got to know. Hospice was far quieter and calmer than various areas of the hospital that had defined much of her cancer experience. Her sensory needs were not overcharged and over challenged by constant announcements, bed alarms, and IV poles dinging in the background. In hospice, she could socialize and access her cancer care programs one-on-one. The less hurried medical check ins with familiar healthcare providers allowed her to participate in all these more fully. This led to more time and space for her own decision making and consent about crucial medical and legal matters to occur in a supported and calm environment.
I am still balancing grief and gratitude. It seems ironic that this “ideal” environment for an autistic cancer patient occurred during Lindsey’s last five months of life. Was she leaning into an end-of-life freedom and joy and pride in her newfound “love me or pass me on by” kind of attitude? Seeing her goofy/ laughing/ everyday coral lipstick wearing/ hour-long facial every night self thrilled me after five decades of watching her be clipped, quieted, silenced, ignored and misunderstood.
I was equally astounded and delighted by her newfound love for musicals and micro gardens, her joy of favourites cat memes and long wanders down memory lane retelling favourite family stories. She abandoned her earlier cancer self-talk of “I should be wearing a wig” or “I should care about the weight gain from the high dose steroids”. She prioritized her sense of self and reveled in the most luxurious self care routine she could wrangle. Look Good Feel Better was an essential part of these butterfly days, and for that I am forever grateful.
I was diagnosed with breast cancer in May of 2022. I’d first noticed a lump in 2020, but I’d had a mammogram and the doctors had said not to worry. Then COVID hit, and I’m a nurse, so you can imagine how stressful that was. The lump wasn’t on my mind. But time passed, and the lump was growing – and it felt like it had a heartbeat. I got it checked out again and the news floored me.
My first reaction was fear like I’ve never experienced before. That first night, I went to bed crying and shaking. You know when you’re really cold, and you can’t stop shivering? It turns out, that’s what anxiety looks like. I lost control of my body. I don’t even know how I slept that night.
Those first days, I felt like I was in a tunnel and I couldn’t see the end. Fortunately, I soon got connected to a friend of a friend – a woman named Aza who lives in Spain – who had been through the same thing. We chatted via WhatsApp and something amazing happened: she brought me out of the darkness. She’d made it, so maybe I could. I’ll never be able to express how grateful I am for her. She brought me hope.
After that, I followed the path that Aza had set for me. I got a plan from my oncologist – chemotherapy, surgery, radiation, and immunotherapy. Aza had told me what to expect at every step of the way, and she was right. I just had to follow her footsteps.
My husband Jordi is the other person who I get emotional talking about. He and I are alone here in Canada – the rest of my family is in Spain – so he was my only caregiver. He was incredible. I have no words to express it, not even in Spanish. I don’t know what I would’ve done without him. And although it was difficult being alone, just the two of us, in a way, it made the journey extra special. It was me and him against cancer.
Losing my hair was difficult, but I invested in some beautiful wigs and now I have fun with it. Every day I look different. I attended the Look Good Feel Better (LGFB) skincare and cosmetics workshop and learned all these great little tricks, like how to apply eyeliner when my eyelashes have fallen out. It’s not something I felt I could ask my oncologist about, but it was important to me. Those little things brought me back my dignity as a woman, as a human being. I wanted to look beautiful – not just for my husband, but for myself. Jordi and I would go on weekly date nights, exploring different restaurants in downtown Montreal. We love Japanese food, Peruvian, or maybe steak and cheesecake, a glass of wine. I loved putting on my makeup and my wig and looking amazing – and feeling like just a regular couple out for dinner.
Even when I was feeling awful inside, being able to look in the mirror and to say, “Yeah, that’s me” – that was priceless. LGFB gave me this by teaching me how to feel good on the outside. LGFB teaches you how to pick a wig, how to mimic the look of eyelashes. These small things make a huge difference. It was a mental thing for me. I found that when I looked less sick, I didn’t feel as sick. Looking good was like a sunny day – it gave me a bit of energy, it gave me life. It made me feel good.
It also brought home for me how even in a tough situation, there’s always an opportunity to love myself. Maybe it’s the wig and makeup, or date night with my husband. Maybe it’s getting a massage to soothe my sore joints and muscles after immunotherapy, or doing some chair yoga. What better moment is there to show appreciation for my body by loving it?
When I learned I was diagnosed with breast cancer I was scared and disoriented. My whole life was derailed and my future became really unclear. I felt betrayed by my body.
Being non-binary, I’ve had to fight with the label of having a ‘woman’s cancer’ and being perceived as a woman in medical spaces and support spaces.
My relationship to my body and my breasts is different from much of what I’ve encountered or sought out. Most women never considered removing their breasts, whereas I’ve wanted to since being a teenager. Even my relationship to my hair — the hair on my head, my body hair is tied to my identity as a non-binary person. Losing the hair on my head – fine. Losing my moustache, leg, and armpit hair? Sad days! I cannot find this intersection of identity with chemo.
I felt supported in a non-judgmental space at Look Good Feel Better and came out of the workshop feeling more confident I could handle treatment. I left equipped with knowledge and beauty tools that will make treatment a bit more manageable, and give me a greater sense of control.
Natural, softer makeup and a simple skin regimen will go far for me in treatment. Learning about how my skin may behave and interact with makeup and lotions was very informative, especially regarding hygiene of makeup applicators. Tips to take care of my skin in treatment have been paying off.
It was special to sit in a room of other survivors from all walks of life and focus on feeling good. Moving through possible side effects of treatment alongside mitigation through beauty routines was a great way to marry knowledge to a reclamation of body and beauty. As someone who’s quite knowledgeable about makeup, I still took home information that I am applying to treatment and beyond. The products in my makeup bag were also a huge morale boost. Overall, it was a positive experience that gave me some autonomy back in this wacky cancer situation.
I’m a registered nurse, but when I learned that I had cancer, I forgot everything I knew. My mind immediately went into overdrive and my heart filled with fear. I had just lost my mom to cancer a few months prior; my step-dad not long before that. In our family, cancer usually doesn’t end well.
I became immersed in research, reading medical journals. I really struggled at the beginning and was very lonely. I was used to nursing others, not being nursed. Going through cancer became a powerful learning journey, though, and today it helps me to relate even more closely with my patients.
After watching my mom go through cancer, I realized that I wanted to work in oncology. I made the switch from obstetrics, and today I’m a cancer nurse navigator. I’ve never been so happy in my 15 years of nursing. This is where I belong. My family perspective and personal experience with cancer have been huge in helping me to connect with my patients. The work fills my heart and my soul – it’s very rewarding. When I go home at the end of the day, I know I’ve made a difference.
I act as my patients’ point of contact to coordinate care between members of the health care team and to support them on their journey – answering their questions, keeping an eye on their files, and following up with them regularly. And whether it’s managing body image challenges or end-of-life planning, my colleagues and I support our patients every step of the way and connect them with the resources they need.
Look Good Feel Better (LGFB) is one of those resources. It’s something that benefited me immensely when I was a patient. I truly believe that the LGFB workshops are the reason why I kept going. They gave me the strength and courage I needed to manage my journey as well as I did. The workshops were something to look forward to. Whether it was a tough treatment day, or dealing with complications from my surgery – I knew that online workshop was just for me. I could look forward to feeling good, having great conversations, and learning new things. Those workshops felt like Christmas. And, as someone who lives in an isolated, remote place (Yellowknife, NWT), the workshops gave me a way to connect with other people who were going through the same thing. They reminded me that I was important, that I wasn’t alone, and that I was beautiful. And even though I’m more likely to be out fishing than spending an afternoon putting makeup on, I just love the program so much.
It really works. And as a cancer nurse navigator now, I’m grateful to be able to tell my patients about this resource. LGFB gives cancer patients hope.
Family support was also important to my journey. My daughter Michelle was my #1 supporter. We can’t forget about our caregivers – they’re one of the hugest anchors in a person’s journey. And connecting to my spiritual, creative side was vital too. For me that looks like painting, connecting with the land and the water, going fishing, and watching the Northern Lights.
An interesting thing about my experience with cancer is that it allowed me to find myself. I’ve always been the good daughter, the good friend – but I forgot about me. Finding me means doing more of what I enjoy doing, and saying no to what I don’t want to do. It means recognizing my needs. And it means enriching my soul and spirit. I continue to do that today through the rewarding work I do with cancer patients.
Sout’s story is one of strength and independence. As a first-generation immigrant from Laos who moved to Canada when she was 19 years old, she chose to face her diagnosis alone, sparing her distant family from the weight of her struggles. In this solo journey, Look Good Feel Better emerged as an undeniable ally.
“The essence of who I am is a helper. I’ve always been there for others, offering a hand in difficult times. When I got diagnosed with cancer, Look Good Feel Better became a support network I could rely on—a source of strength and normalcy amid uncertainty.”
For Sout, maintaining a positive appearance became a way to shield loved ones from worry. She didn’t want to appear sick so that people wouldn’t feel sorry for her and be concerned.
The decision to shave her head, steeped in cultural significance, became a moment of liberation for Sout. It connected her with family across borders and anchored her to her roots. Attending a LGFB workshop also became an empowering moment in her journey.
“Connecting with the participants and the volunteers during the workshop was wonderful. Everyone was so kind, which was truly heart-warming – especially when you’re by yourself like I’ve mostly been throughout this experience.”
In the face of isolation, Sout found humanity and warmth in the camaraderie of Look Good Feel Better. It’s a tribute to the program’s ability to provide support beyond practical tips and tools. It illustrates the profound and transformative impact of Look Good Feel Better and our community of generous donors and volunteers who make our programs possible.
When I think back to having cancer and going through treatment, a lot of it is a blur. It was almost like a four-month-long out-of-body experience. I was 15 and in grade 10 when I was diagnosed. I was in the culinary arts program at my school in Toronto, which I had wanted to do forever. And so much was already going on in my life. It was a tough year. My dog had recently died, which was really hard for my family, and my grandmother had also had a cancer scare. And, things were hard at school. I’d met someone who turned out to not be a very nice friend, so I stopped hanging out with him and then I found out a few months later that he’d been writing mean stuff about me online. And then he started threatening me and following me around school. He was friends with a lot of my friends and it was hard to get away from him. And I had also just parted ways with my entire friend group, because they were just not nice friends. One of them even told me she had hated me from the moment she met me. That was hard. I’d dealt with a lot that year, and so getting cancer just kind of felt like an extra bonus. It was the cherry on top of some terrible sundae.
Suddenly I was spending pretty much every single day, hours and hours of the day, in doctors’ offices trying to figure everything out. I started failing most of my classes at school because cancer was suddenly taking up most of my time.
I got through it, though. My school supported me with my class work when they heard what was going on. I was able to make some great new friends who were kind and supportive. And I got through my treatment.
Chemo was hard but it wasn’t as bad as movies would make it seem. In some ways it’s true that chemo can be very intense, but it wasn’t as scary as I thought it was going to be. My surgery went really well. Heading into it, my parents were super nervous, but I was just like, “OK cool, I’ll see you guys later!”
My hair did fall out, which was not fun. I had really long curly hair, and I was sad to lose it. And I had a lot of skin problems – sore skin, chemo blisters that turned dark purple on my feet, a lot of sensitivity in my hands, and red marks on my shoulders. Doing a Look Good Feel Better workshop helped me feel a lot better. I loved not just playing with makeup – I love getting to express myself in that way – but also getting to meet other people who had cancer. They told me about their experiences, which was really helpful for me. It made me feel less alone.
That’s all behind me now, and I get to focus on being a teenager and doing what I love. I still enjoy being creative in the kitchen. Baking is my favourite. I’m really good at making chocolate cake – I think I’ve perfected it. I also like to crochet, embroider, sew, and do crafts. I’m glad that this is my life again, and that cancer is in my past.
Going for walks and spending in time in nature and by the ocean was one of the things I turned to consistently. There’s a reason that doctors recommend being outside for 20 minutes a day – it has so many therapeutic benefits. And studies show that exercise helps with chemo side effects. Yoga and meditation were invaluable to me too, as was cultivating a positive mindset. I set my mind that I was healing and developing into a more beautiful person than I was before as a result of everything I’ve been through. I did guided meditations for healing, imagining that the cancer was going away and sending that energy out to the universe.
Because I live in rural Nova Scotia, I had to travel for my breast cancer treatment, including moving to Halifax for six weeks for 20 radiation sessions – leaving my two teenaged kids home with my mother and step-father. It has been a long road to recovery, and it hasn’t been easy. But I’ve found ways to soften the journey and to process what I’ve gone through. I’m doing a lot of processing lately. I’ve checked all the boxes: surgery, chemo, radiation, hormone therapy, and immunotherapy (well, I’m still going through that last one). Now that I don’t have a million appointments to get to all the time, I have more time and space to realize all that I’ve been through and where I’m going next, and to come to a sense of peace with it all.
And that is how writing became another part of my therapeutic process. I got to know myself a lot better by facing cancer head-on and through writing and journalling. In the past, I’ve dealt with things by trying not to think about them – through denial, I guess. But with cancer, it was different. At first, I just wrote about what I was going through, but then I realized I could help other women going through a similar experience. For me, connecting with other people who had cancer was super helpful, and now I’m able to support others in that same way. I can appreciate what they’re going through. I’ve walked in their shoes.
I recently wrote a book called Sunshine in My Eyes: A Healing Journey. It’s about how I got through my cancer journey and it’s full of steps that others can take on their journeys. It has chapters for every stage of cancer treatment and for topics like parenting, going back to work, treatment after-math, and the road to recovery. The book also has a journal section for people to add their own reflections, self-affirmations, intentions, and more.
I want to show others that it’s possible to find joy during cancer treatment. I’ve had joy, I’ve had experiences of laughter and happiness and contentment and enjoying the day, even in what would otherwise be a really cruddy time in my life. Having cancer wasn’t just the most horrible time of my life – there was happiness in there, too. And I want to leave people with hope – to lift them up and encourage them. When I was going through treatment, so many people said to me, “You’ve got this.” I wish they would have followed that up with how I’ve got this. For example, “You’ve got this because you can take care of yourself,” or, “You’ve got this because I’m going to be there for you – you can call me or text me any time you need someone to talk to.” Now it’s my turn to offer support, and that’s what I aim to do with my new book.
Holly and I met in elementary school, when we were seven years old. We were pretty much best friends right from the start. After school, we’d go biking together and have all sorts of fun. I grew up with her family as my second family and was at their cottage all the time – hiking, biking, and snowmobiling. They moved away when we were 12, but Holly and I always stayed in touch. When she moved back to the GTA not long after, it was an easy reconnect. We enjoyed the joy of adolescence together – going to concerts, laughing, and just taking our pure friendship for granted, which is the best feeling. Holly’s energy, spunk, and lust for life were remarkable.
She left us far too early – 25 years ago, when we were about 27 years old. Even though she has been gone for so long, I still feel our lifelong friendship so closely in my heart.
Holly’s last four years were tough as she struggled with cancer. It didn’t stop her from getting married, though. She married her love, and her reception was on a boat cruise around Centre Island. The centerpieces were little fishbowls with goldfish – it was absolutely adorable. We were each other’s maids of honour.
During her wedding, I was pregnant with my son Matthew– and everyone was hoping that I wouldn’t have the baby onboard, because I was ready to pop. He was born just two weeks later. I always attribute his musical skill – which no one else in our family has – a little bit to Holly, who was a beautiful flute player.
I clearly remember Holly’s energy after she attended a Look Good Feel Better (LGFB) workshop with her sister, way back when. It was so uplifting for her. All these years later, I went through my own cancer journey and also attended the LGFB workshops. I felt a strong sense of reconnection with Holly – more than I expected to, to be honest. It blew me away how when it was my turn, the workshop lifted my spirits just as it had for Holly. LGFB brought forward this optimism, joy, happiness, and distraction from the struggles I was going through. It connects people who wouldn’t otherwise know each other. It’s a wonderful thing.
I’m so grateful for all the support I’ve had from my husband – and my amazing sons, Tanner and Matthew and feeling like Holly was with me at the workshop., Having them nurture and care for me has been the most heart-warming experience of my life. Tanner has accompanied me for almost every treatment, he makes sure I’m eating my smoothies, he takes me for walks – he literally takes care of me inside and out. And Matthew didn’t want me to be alone – he came over and took care of me. When I had to shave my hair, Matthew shaved his, too – and his hair was about 12 inches long. We held hands and shaved our heads together. That’s the kind of support I have from my kids. It’s immeasurable, really.
We’re certainly getting through this as a family. My husband, Chris, won’t let me start my day without him making me my fresh chia seed pudding with fresh berries. It’s such a sweet, innocent support that it’s almost hard to describe. It’s just pure love, I think.
It has helped me a lot to know that I’m not alone. The LGFB women, my family, Holly – they’ve all been by my side in one way or another.
One in eight women will receive a breast cancer diagnosis within their lifetime. We don’t control whether we’re going to be number eight or not. We don’t control the diagnosis. But we do control how we deal with it.
I realized early on that I didn’t have a lot of control over the whole medical aspect of it, but that I could control how I was going to deal with it. Was I going to cry in a corner, or was I going to say, “Let’s frigging get this done and move on.” I knew what was right me – I was always about just getting it done. I approached my breast cancer diagnosis like a job that I had to complete. I didn’t want to feel like a victim. I was going to be a survivor, and that was that.
I’ve always been a black-and-white type of person. I’m very factual and pragmatic. Give me the statistics, the numbers, the probabilities – I need to be informed so I got busy getting informed. I wanted to understand the tests I was undergoing, the different types of breast cancer, my treatment options, genomic testing, and on and on. Again, I approached it like a project that needed to be done. I had a squatter in my body and I needed to get rid of it. So even losing my hair, losing my nails, losing my breasts – I didn’t find it that challenging, personally. For me, it was getting the job done.
And listen, breast cancer is very common. My number came up, plain and simple. Knowing the numbers, the one-in-eight statistic, I realized that I wasn’t the first, I wasn’t going to be the last, and I wasn’t alone. This is something that many people go through. And the science, research, and advancements in treatments are incredible. I never looked at it as a death sentence – just as something that needed to be taken care of.
I approach my whole life this way – with a black-and-white, factual perspective. Some people are emotional beings and others are logical beings, and I simply tend to be more logical. I always say, control what’s in your control and know what isn’t in your control. There’s no point trying to control something that’s out of our control. We’ll just drive ourselves crazy.
I’ve had a long corporate career in the travel industry, and now that I’m finished treatment, I’m back at work. I needed to find “me” again, and “me” is not a patient. I was able to prove to myself more than anyone else that the old Bonnie was still there and could still lead a team. In my career, I’ve always been a team leader – I really enjoy developing a team and coaching them. The idea of “controlling what’s in your control” is something that I learned at work. As a leader, I can ask people to do something and generally they will – most people want to do a good job. But things fall through the cracks, people have bad days – and I can coach them, but I can’t demand or control, because it’s not my actions we’re talking about, it’s somebody else’s. That goes for everything. I could ask my daughter to put away her clothes, but I can’t make her. And so however they respond, whatever they do – I have a choice in how I react to that, but I don’t have control over it.
There are things in life I can control – how I reacted to my diagnosis, how I took care of myself, how I showed up every day, my attitude. How I looked and felt leaving the house – I could look frumpy and feel frumpy, or I could put on some eyeliner and have more confidence attacking the day. I could focus on staying in the moment and tackling my treatment plan one step at a time.
From the moment I got my diagnosis, I told my daughters that this is happening for a reason – and that something will have to come from it. If I can help one person through their journey, then maybe that’s my reason. It may not be a black-and-white answer. It may be something that comes in stages. I’m a very logical person so I look for that black and white, but I’m also open to all of that grey area in between.
My kids were just two and one when I was diagnosed with breast cancer in January 2022. It was challenging to explain to them what was happening with mommy and why I was so sick.
Within just a few months, I had a mastectomy, which led to an emergency surgery the day after due to complications and ended up requiring a four-day hospital stay. I then underwent chemotherapy after discovering that the cancer had spread to my lymph nodes. It was a whirlwind time.
No one talks about what it’s like post-treatment. We know about the surgery, chemo, physical changes, nausea, and so on, but no one talks about how to move past that once the treatment is finished. On the last day of my chemo, July 11, 2022, a psychosocial therapist called me while I was undergoing treatment. That was the first time I cried. I let it all out. I finally started processing everything that had just happened.
The post-chemo phase has really taken a toll on my mental health. I experienced severe brain fog and memory issues. I had two back-to-back car accidents, including one with my kids in the car. That’s when I decided to take a break, stop driving, and see a therapist for a few months. I eventually started getting over the fear of driving, but I still don’t drive at night—I haven’t gotten that fear yet. It’s been a year since my accidents, and I still have a lot of trouble getting on the highway without panicking.
Although I’m cancer-free, I’m still dealing with it. I’m undergoing hormonal therapy and taking other medications, which we’ve had to switch up a few times because my body was reacting badly to them. Now, we’re considering the possibility of another surgery to remove my ovaries. And I still don’t feel at home in my own body.
My kids are a bit older now, and they understand a little more. I’ve tried to keep things light, positive, and fun with them. Before cancer, I’d always had long hair—so before having to shave it, I started cutting it gradually and had fun with different hairstyles. When I finally buzzed it, my kids loved it. My son would laugh and say, “Mommy, why did you do that to your hair? Mommy, can I touch your head?” The Look Good Feel Better (LGFB) workshop helped me a lot in navigating my appearance changes, especially with my kids.
Today, I’ve become more spiritual because of my experience. After my emergency surgery, I felt like I was given another chance at life. I’m much calmer now. I move through life at a slower pace and don’t stress as much. I’m also more patient with my kids. My son is at an age where he always asks, “Why?” about everything, and I always take the time to explain things to him.
Before, I was so consumed with work, and when I wasn’t working, I was busy with household chores. Now, I just want to spend time with my kids, answer all their questions, and play with them. Work will always be there, and household chores will never end. But I got a second chance to come home to my kids, and now I feel like I must be there for them more.
I was also inspired to completely shift careers. I became certified as a permanent makeup artist and now offer a variety of services through my new business. Part of my mission is to provide free support for cancer survivors, and the LGFB workshop is what inspired me to do that.