I’ll Fit It Into My Life—Not the Other Way Around

When I first heard from my oncologist that the new treatment I’m undergoing for this recurrence didn’t have a set end date—even after a negative diagnosis—I told myself that even if it took a couple of years, I’d eventually be done with it.

But during my last infusion this week (I get them every three weeks), I asked him again because I’m planning a trip to Brazil and wanted to stay longer than three weeks. To my disappointment, he told me he still can’t predict an end date. There just isn’t enough data yet, and every case is different. The only thing he knows for sure is: if I stop, it could come back.

Not fun.

He told me that ultimately, I’ll have to be the one to decide if skipping an infusion for something important—like staying longer in Brazil—is worth it for me.

Hearing that hit me with a mix of emotions. It took me two days to even write about it. I never imagined I’d go through breast cancer once, let alone twice. No genetic markers, no family history, no unhealthy habits. And still—here I am. Again.

And now, knowing I’ll need to rely on this medication for an unpredictable amount of time is heavy.

You might think, “What’s the big deal? Some breast cancer survivors take daily pills for 5 or 10 years.” But for me, it’s the fact that I need to go to an oncology facility every three weeks. That I have to take pre-meds that mess with my mind—especially the steroids. That I lose an entire day because they make me tired. That I depend on someone to drive me. That I can’t just plan a trip to visit my family and friends for more than three weeks without considering treatment.

My whole life has to be planned around infusion days.

Thankfully, I had my port removed, because the thought of having it as a “forever friend” for who knows how long was too much. That thing bothered me so much.

Right now, the only thing I can do is reframe this. Maybe it’ll take some time—or maybe not—but I need to find a way to fit this treatment into my life, not the other way around. I don’t want to feel like a slave to it.

This whole cancer journey—both times—has brought so much to reflect on. And especially, to adapt to.

It’s a lot to process. But the only way I know how to move forward is to reframe each little challenge… and be grateful. Yes—grateful for the experiences, the possibilities, the strength we find within ourselves, and the support we’re lucky to receive. Give me a few days. I’m reframing it.

The Purple Bow Tie

One of the stories my mom always loved to tell and remember is about how I used to obsess over certain accessories or clothes as a child, without any clear reason or inspiration. I would simply fixate on something, and I didn’t care about odd looks or whether people thought it was tacky or weird. The most notable story? The bow tie.

Yes, that’s little me in the school photo, wearing my unmistakable purple bow tie

Around the age of seven, I became obsessed with wearing bow ties. I had a favorite one in purple fabric and another plastic one that I used less often. I even wore a lilac crochet tie—yes, crochet! But the one I loved the most and felt was the coolest was that purple fabric bow tie. I paired it with all kinds of looks. What mattered was having the accessory with me. It was mine, and no one else had anything like it. I remember so many times when we were about to go out as a family, and my mom would ask, “You’re really wearing the tie?” And I had no doubt: yes. Maybe a bit embarrassing for a mother, but I was convinced I looked awesome.

I never brought this up in therapy, but it would be interesting to explore one day. Recently, while doing a marketing strategy exercise, we were asked to look back at who we were as children—our dreams, what we wanted to be, our strong traits—and there she was again, in full fashion force: the purple bow tie.

Reflecting on this strong symbol, I realized that even as a child, I carried this sense of not belonging to just one group or category. And back then, that didn’t make me anxious or confused—it just meant fully living my identity. I had the freedom to be who I was, even when faced with disapproving looks, and I kept going.

Later, that became something like being ahead of my time—often saying too much, oversharing more than was “appropriate.” In adulthood, there were moments when I hid that bold, unapologetic side of me—when I silenced or adapted myself too much. But whenever I sat down to write something personal, themes like belonging, self-acceptance, and embracing identity always showed up in my work.

Since my first cancer treatment in 2022, this subject came back with full force. And now, during this second round (which is over, bye-bye, cancer!), it exploded completely. The purple bow tie became my internal symbol—a reminder to be who I am, without shame, without needing a reason not to fully live it.

I still believe in the importance of being flexible and adapting to life’s circumstances. After all, being true to yourself isn’t the same as being stubborn or trying to shock those who are different. With maturity, you learn that. But adapting to every single social, professional, and family situation has a limit. That limit comes when you ask yourself, “Where did that child go?”

Well, I’ve found my purple bow tie again. And you?

From Big Boobs to Little Cherry

Since buying my first bra, going to the beach wearing a “top,” through my teenage years in school, and even in the caricatures I drew of myself (or others drew of me), I was always the girl with the big boobs.

2011 and my first boudoir photoshoot <3

When silicone implants became more common in Brazil — around the early 2000s — I overheard two women chatting in a movie theater bathroom about how people were going overboard with implant sizes. As I walked out of the stall to wash my hands, they stopped talking. Maybe they thought I had implants too — my boobs were that big.

Some random flings from my past have told me they still remember my boobs from school. Finding a dress shirt that fit my small back and large chest? A nightmare. Triangle bikini? Not a chance. Going braless? Sweet illusion. I carried these big boobs through life, always kind of thinking I’d reduce them one day — but that thought felt far off. I was terrified of surgery.

Now, after four surgeries (and heading into a fifth in two days), I laugh at that fear.

When I was 14 years old

Having big boobs, just like having a prominent nose, a certain type of mouth, or legs shaped a certain way — it becomes part of who you are. It might sound silly, but me, Rita with the big boobs, was one version. And this new version that’s emerging — who I affectionately call “little cherry” — is definitely another. Not better or worse. Just different.

This new version will need new tops, “no bra” moments (that I always dreamed of), new necklines. Maybe she’ll be bolder — who knows? Different, for sure.

When I got my first breast cancer diagnosis in 2022, my first question was: Will I have to remove my boobs?The oncologist said no. In my case, the chance of recurrence was the same whether I removed them or not. So we went with a lumpectomy (removing just what was left of the tumor after chemo). I was relieved — still very attached to my big boobs. I knew I’d have to reduce them eventually, and honestly, I kind of wanted to. But I kept them — still a big part of my identity.

In my 20's

When the cancer came back less than two years later, mastectomy was the only option. Initially, they considered removing both breasts, but later decided to remove only the right one, where the cancer had returned both times. I panicked.

The panic only eased when I saw the reconstruction options. I realized I could still have breasts that reflected my “booby personality” — not massive anymore, but with presence.

My hubby's description of me

The unilateral mastectomy happened. And the recovery? It was rough. June was a complicated and delicate month because of the skin on that side, previously treated with radiation, now as fragile as tissue paper. I had two urgent surgeries within 10 days, and my breast was reduced by half — until it became the “little cherry.”

I haven’t had the final implant yet. Right now, I’m still using a tissue expander, which stretches the skin in preparation for the implant. The other breast? Still the same ol’ big one — but it’s going to get a reduction soon too, to match the cherry.

Have I cried through this process? Absolutely. And I’m still figuring out who this new Rita is — the one with the small boob.

But now, I welcome this new woman: bold in her attitude and courage, with a small breast that, thanks to a side lift and the future implant, will stand perky for quite some time — proudly saying: "I made it."