When I first started experiencing unusual symptoms – constipation, bloating, heartburn, abdominal pain – in the summer of 2024, my first instinct was to put pen to paper. I drew a diagram of my body and wrote down all the things I’d been feeling. That’s the art therapist in me. When I showed the illustration to my doctor, she immediately recognized the signs of ovarian cancer. A CT scan revealed a large tumour over my right ovary, confirming her suspicions. I was completely shocked and devastated.

My career as a clinical counsellor and art therapist with preteens and teenagers abruptly stopped when I was diagnosed. It was such positive and enjoyable work. And not only did I have to leave my private practice, I had to stop doing things that gave me pleasure and joy in life. 

I love being active: Zumba, belly dancing, strength training, circuit training. I also enjoy cooking wonderful food and travelling. But quite suddenly, my life was now filled with endless medical appointments. Testing, scans, blood work, chemotherapy, surgeries. It was surreal. 

With my psychology background, I knew I had to look after the other parts of myself. The physical was being cared for. What about my emotional self, my sense of self, and my need for connection? 

It had seemed that all the joyful activities in my life had come to a halt, but I was able to resurrect some activities that I hadn’t done in a while – things that I could go back to. Those included reading and art. I love art, especially drawing and painting with watercolours, and it has always been my resource during the tough times in life. It’s a wonderful outlet for sorrow and other emotions that need to be released. 

I had no words for what was happening to me, and so I started to draw. I drew myself sitting in the middle of a tsunami wave – the tsunami of grief after diagnosis. I painted myself at nighttime in a jungle, with moonlight pouring down – standing in the garden of hope. I created more and more art, navigating the back and forth between despair and hopefulness. 

I also talked with my caring partner, Bill. I cried a lot. I got a counsellor. I connected with friends. And I found community. When I first heard about Look Good Feel Better (LGFB), from a woman in the cosmetics department at Shoppers Drug Mart, a little spark went off. I signed up right away. At the workshop, I was amazed by how supportive it felt to be in a space with other women who I could relate to. I wasn’t alone – we were all going through it. The workshop was so informative, helpful, positive, and uplifting – something I dearly needed. And with my body having surrendered to all the necessary medical procedures, learning how to use makeup to my advantage was a way to take back my sense of dignity and to connect with my femininity.

LGFB brought me a respite from my sorrow and loss. It was a bright light, bringing a sense of community and breaking the isolation I was feeling – just like my art. Body, mind, and spirit are all integrated parts of us, and throughout my cancer journey, what really needed tending was my emotional side. It was stormy and intense – it needed to be expressed. We don’t have to be positive and brave all the time.

I can’t control everything, but I can control how I care for myself. Eating well, staying connected, and doing things I enjoy – reading, creativity – have made all the difference. 

I’ll never forget my first interaction with Look Good Feel Better (LGFB). It was about 20 years ago, when I was first diagnosed with breast cancer. Going to the LGFB workshop was my best day at the cancer centre. Most of my time there wasn’t cheerful or enjoyable, but my experience with LGFB was just lovely. The people were so kind and helpful, and it was great fun. I look back on it fondly. 

I got diagnosed with cancer again last year. This time it was what doctors called a “complex case”: three distinct cancers – endometrial, ovarian, and fallopian – in three different places. 

One of the first things I did was to connect with LGFB again and sign up for a workshop. Getting to attend the workshop again, after all these years, was a shiny, happy moment in my cancer journey. Who knew that chemotherapy could include highlights? It was the same supportive experience with people who were genuinely interested in helping me feel my best. I loved how they now provide a helpful booklet with makeup tips, so I didn’t have to take notes during the workshop. 

The workshop isn’t really about makeup or skincare for me, though. It’s about the opportunity to chat with other people going through the same experience. And to have a good time – for example, everyone had a good giggle with some of the ladies modelling their wigs and making wonderful faces in the mirror. Sometimes, we just need a day where we’re thinking about nothing other than having fun. There’s no other agenda. It was so helpful in terms of my spirit – just enhancing my mood and joy. It’s more beneficial than therapy or a self-help group for me. LGFB cultivates such a supportive, uplifting environment. It was a very restorative afternoon – such a gift, truly. Whoever came up with this idea deserves immense credit. 

Cancer and its treatment affect us all so differently. They can tell you what to expect during chemotherapy, but you never really know what’s coming your way until it’s there. It’s the same way with how cancer treatment’s side effects impact our appearance and self-esteem – it’s so individual. We may respond with acknowledgement or disbelief or rejection or anger. There’s a plethora of possible responses. 

In a way, I think it comes down to your willingness to accept your own reality. My personal attitude is one of total acceptance. “It is what it is” – that’s my mantra. I look at whatever’s happening in my life – cancer treatment, or a broken shoelace, or a scenario in one of my past careers in education and social work – and I assess what’s going on and how to deal with it. How best can I move forward? What’s my next step? What’s the most useful and functional response to a situation? Is there a possibility to enhance the situation, to make it better? 

That approach has served me well in life, and it’s serving me well now. I change the things I can change, and accept the things I can’t. I like to be realistic about what’s possible. 

These days, I’m looking forward to what’s next. I’ve finished my treatment and I’m enjoying being retired. I love to make art – I also teach watercolour classes – and to spend time with my grandchildren. I’m looking forward to getting back to travelling, and specifically to going on a cruise. I just want to be on a ship somewhere warm. I love cruising, it’s my favourite thing. No cooking, no cleaning, just art classes, ocean air, and leisurely afternoon naps. And if I can’t be on a ship just yet, I’ll take an afternoon like the one LGFB gave me any day – one with kindness, laughter, and light.
 

It was in the middle of a day doing something I love — golfing — that I finally had to admit to myself that something was wrong. I couldn’t even swing the club — the pain in my back had become unbearable. I went to get it checked out, and soon what I had already known deep down was confirmed: my breast cancer had returned, spreading to my bones. 

Now, at 54, I’m facing a stage 4 diagnosis. I’ll be on treatment for the rest of my life. But here’s the thing — I’m not one to dwell on doom and gloom. As a Christian, I believe I’ll eventually go to heaven and have an eternal life. In the meantime, I’m determined to live life with grace, strength, and, most importantly, gratitude.

My cancer journey began in September 2020, during the height of the pandemic. I had noticed a lump in my breast and, after some tests, received the diagnosis that no one wants to hear: stage 2 breast cancer. I soon found out that I actually had cancer on both sides, which my doctor said wasn’t common. I always said, “It is what it is.” I worked for an insurance company, so I knew my odds for this type of thing. And two of my maternal relatives had breast cancer, so it wasn’t really a shock.

The treatments were tough— surgery, double-dose chemotherapy, and radiation. I was off work for a year and a half and was grateful to my workplace for their support, including offering everything I needed to make my time off as comfortable as possible. I was also so grateful to live in a place like Toronto, where so many supports are available.

I joined several Look Good Feel Better (LGFB) workshops, which were online during COVID, and they were so helpful. They helped me feel more like myself again, especially after losing my hair. I learned how to wear wigs and scarves, and how to take care of my skin. 

After months of treatment, I was relieved when my treatment ended in May 2021. Life started to feel a little more normal again, but my cancer had been aggressive and deep down I knew there was always a possibility it could return.

When it did, I decided to go back to the Philippines, where I’m originally from, to visit my parents before I started treatment. Their health wasn’t good and they weren’t able to travel. It was so good to see them and to connect. While I was in Asia, I also went to Japan and ate a lot of sushi. And when I came back, I was ready to dive into a new round of treatments.

During my recurrence, I also signed up with LGFB for a second time, but this time for the skincare & cosmetics workshop. I really enjoyed getting to attend the workshop at Sunnybrook Hospital — it felt so much more personal. And I was impressed that they gave me custom skincare and makeup recommendations based on my East Asian skin type. Everybody’s skin is so different, so this really stood out.

Looking good became much more important to me this second time around as well. When I first had cancer, it was during COVID, and no one could go out. But now the world is open again, and I want to be out and about. And for me, if I don’t look well, I don’t want to go out. When I look well, I feel well, and then I’m more likely to go out and socialize, which in turn helps me feel emotionally better. It’s like a cycle — a positive, uplifting cycle.

I choose to focus on the positive. As I move forward in life, my faith reminds me that life here is temporary. Whatever the future holds, I know I’m not alone.
 

When my doctor told me I needed to fast-track fertility treatments if I wanted to have more children in the future, I was overwhelmed with emotion. I was 33 and suddenly the option of having more children — the spontaneity, the joy of it — wasn’t mine anymore. I didn’t want to tell my partner, who didn’t have any children of his own yet. I felt like I was robbing him of an experience he might have naturally had with someone else, someone who wasn’t going through breast cancer. It made me feel flawed, as though something was wrong with me. 

Eventually I did tell my partner, and he was very supportive. He accompanied me to my treatments. But opening up about my diagnosis was hard. In Caribbean culture, especially among the older generation, people tend to be very private about their health. When I found out I had cancer, I wanted to keep the news to myself — even from my partner, family, and friends. But as things progressed, I realized I couldn’t do it alone. 

I’d had a lumpectomy years ago, for a benign lump, which I had kept secret. I thought I could do the same this time — have a bit of chemo and downtime and then go back to my regular life and work as a nurse, with no one the wiser. I didn’t want my mother to worry. “Here we go again,” I said to myself. “I can do this.” But this time was different. I didn’t realize how much my treatment would break me down physically. Suddenly, I couldn’t even walk to the bathroom or wash my face on my own. I told my family and they stepped in to help. 

My sister was an absolute godsend. She moved in and helped with all the day-to-day stuff — laundry, groceries. But most importantly, she really helped with my 10-year-old daughter. She took her to the movies, did her nails, and took her to her dance lessons and recitals, making sure her life wouldn’t be completely turned upside down.

I had trouble breaking things down and explaining what was going on to my daughter. Kids learn about cancer at school through Terry Fox, so naturally she asked if I was going to die like he did. I couldn’t answer her questions without falling apart, so having my sister there — and also getting my daughter into a children’s support group — was essential.

My treatment — chemo, a mastectomy, radiation, and IV therapy — took everything from me physically, mentally, and emotionally. I felt like cancer had stripped me bare, leaving me with no say, no control, nothing.

And then I was introduced to Look Good Feel Better (LGFB). Honestly, I wasn’t going to go. I was feeling awful and I didn’t want to socialize. I was very closed off and isolated. But I put my fear aside and attended the workshop, and I’m so grateful I did. The air felt so loveable when I got there — so welcoming, inviting, uplifting, and warm. It ended up being the most amazing experience. Everyone was talking and joking around, being so supportive. I didn’t expect to feel beautiful when I walked out. LGFB is like a sisterhood. When I was feeling broken and bare, it lifted me up and helped me to feel loved. 

Today, I’m getting used to a new normal. I’ve had to accept that I’m never going to feel the way I did before cancer. But I’ve also realized that it’s okay to lean on others and to find strength in sisterhood.

I’d already survived a life-changing event when I was just 16 years old. It was the first day of summer. I was fresh out of grade 10 and excited to be doing my very first parachute jump. But the parachute didn’t open, and I plummeted 3,000 feet to the ground. The impact left me with a spinal cord injury, and I’ve used a wheelchair ever since.

I was able to move on with my life I went back to school and got a university education. I got married and had a daughter, who’s in her 30s now. I had a fulfilling career as a French immersion teacher. I also got very involved in wheelchair sports, from curling to hand cycling. My life was moving forward in a positive, productive way.

I thought that surely my spinal cord injury was the biggest challenge that life would throw my way. Cancer had never been on my radar. I was feeling great. When I discovered the lump, I didn’t panic. I’d been getting regular mammograms with nothing showing up. But when the nurse called and said, “There’s a 97.5% chance it’s malignant,” everything changed. It felt like the world had shifted beneath me once again, just like that day in 1981 when my parachute failed.

My breast cancer diagnosis was shocking. It was an aggressive cancer with all these names I’d never heard before: ER-positive, PR-positive, and HER2-negative. I had no idea there were so many forms of breast cancer. And it felt extremely unfair. I had already been dealing with a spinal cord injury for most of my life – wasn’t that enough? Hadn’t I experienced enough traumatic moments? I was also initially very concerned that I was not going to survive, as I’d watched my mother die of cancer. I was devastated.

My spinal cord injury changed my life, but cancer was even worse. It wasn’t just physically brutal – it caused an immense emotional toll, invading all aspects of my life and leaving me constantly on edge, with the steady fear of recurrence looming over me. And navigating the complexities of cancer care treatment was especially challenging because of my spinal cord injury. For example, the chemo table was too high for me to get up onto on my own. I had to lobby the hospital for better accessibility.

In the past year, I’ve gone through a lumpectomy, what felt like endless chemotherapy, radiation, and ongoing hormone therapy. I’ve gone from having long blond hair to short grey hair with chemo curls. I still don’t recognize myself when I look in the mirror. It’s like I’m a different person now, in many ways.

Amid the whirlwind of treatments and fear, finding support became essential. Having an organization like Look Good Feel Better (LFGB) was so helpful. Peer support is one of the big methodologies used to help people with spinal cord injuries. You can have a doctor explain about the injury and physiotherapy and occupational therapy, but peer support – meeting someone else living with the same condition – is often far more valuable. It was the same with having cancer. When I got my cancer diagnosis, I didn’t have any friends or colleagues who were going through it. I didn’t feel like there was much of a community or people I could speak with. No one in my family had had this diagnosis or any type of cancer treatment. I found that sense of peer support from LGFB’s workshops – peers getting together, and volunteers who are well-versed in cancer treatment. For me, the more I can meet others going through similar circumstances, the easier it is to go through the experience. I’m not alone. I’m part of a shockingly large community of women dealing with the same thing. This is an additional piece to the recovery process.

Other things that have helped in my recovery and my holistic approach to treatment are taking care of my appearance, staying active in my communities, and travelling. I’m aware of my mortality in a new way now. I no longer put things off. Cancer has taught me to live each day with intention and gratitude, embracing each moment to the fullest.