25/02/2026
Here I am — floating, topless, weightless in the water.
No bra. No breasts. Just skin meeting sky, scars meeting sunlight, and a heart that still beats like it has something to prove.
I was so angry when they took my breasts.
I screamed at the mirror the first time I saw the flat, stitched-up plane where my curves used to live. I mourned the way dresses used to cling to me, the way my body once filled out a neckline and turned heads. I hated cancer for stealing the soft, feminine silhouette I’d spent years learning to love.
Some nights I still do.
But then there are days like this.
Hot sun, cool water, no fabric cutting into my ribs, no underwire reminding me of what’s missing. Just me, swimming topless like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Easy. Free. Almost defiant. The water doesn’t care what my chest looks like. It holds me anyway.
And then come the other days.
The terrifying ones. I’ll catch sight of a woman with my old body type — full, soft, spilling beautifully out of a sundress — and the grief punches me straight in the sternum. I remember exactly how that felt. How powerful. How seen. How much I took it for granted. The envy rises hot and sharp, and for a second I want to look away, to hide, to disappear.
I feel it all.
The rage.
The relief.
The longing.
The liberation.
The fear that I’ll never feel beautiful in that particular way again.
And still… I float. I swim. I breathe.
This body — the one cancer tried to break, the one chemo is still waging war on — is still mine.
Still strong enough to carry me through the water.
Still brave enough to be seen.
Still vital enough to hope.
If you’re reading this and your body has been changed by cancer, surgery, or anything that stole pieces of the “old you”… your feelings are not too much.
Rage when you need to.
Grieve when the memories hit.
Celebrate the small rebellions (like swimming topless on a scorching day).
And on the terrifying days, come back to the water — literal or metaphorical — and let it remind you:
You are still here. Still floating. Still moving forward. Still brave as hell.
My scars are not the end of my story.
They are the beginning of this new, raw, powerful chapter.
Be brave with me. Swim anyway. Live anyway. Shine anyway.
(Photo taken the day I chose to stop hiding.)
