But you look great!

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been hearing that from people I run into — at yoga class, during a theater rehearsal, in a work meeting, or at the fifth medical appointment of the month.

The “looking great,” in the eyes of those who know (or find out) that I’m getting chemo every three weeks, that I went through four surgeries in just two months, and that I’m still in the process of reconstructing the breast that was removed — and believe it or not, that process isn’t even over yet — seems to surprise them. Whatever “great” means, I honestly feel like crap.

During Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I always feel some responsibility to talk about it. But lately, I’ve been having mixed thoughts about speaking up. I’m a little tired of talking about cancer. First, because I’m tired — period. And second, because cancer doesn’t define me.

But going through cancer a second time — and this time in such a harsh, difficult way, with a unilateral mastectomy, countless reconstruction complications, and all the physical and mental adjustments to the implant — hasn’t been easy at all.

I’ve already received confirmation twice this year that I’m cancer-free, but I still do chemo as a precaution. The doctor visits, the parallel treatments, and all the things that come along with it still haunt me — every single day. It’s a daily act of living and surviving.

And recently, I found out I have skin cancer. Even though it has nothing to do with breast cancer, it’s always that feeling of, “Seriously?” The treatment and all its side missions have become a second job. Depending on the day, I spend three to four hours just dealing with treatment-related stuff. There’s no break. No rest. There’s home work, work work, and treatment work. And still, people say I look great.

This year, I really wanted to come here and share a message of strength for other friends and women who are in treatment — or about to begin. And even after all this venting, I want to say that despite everything — despite being fed up — I’m still positive. I still give thanks. I still have faith. But right now, it’s a daily mix of “get up, shake off the dust, and rise again,” and honestly, it gets exhausting. Fatigue knocks at my door almost every day. I try to ignore it, but sometimes I let it in. And people say I look great. Good for me, I guess.

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.

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."