I’ve gone back and forth about whether to share this, because opening up publicly doesn’t come easily. But this feels important. Knowledge is power, and every single woman deserves to be breast aware. This is shared to empower, not to scare.
Four weeks ago, on December 6th, I made the decision to have a preventative double mastectomy with immediate implant reconstruction. This means removing almost all of my breast tissue to significantly reduce my risk of breast cancer, while preserving the skin and rebuilding my breasts straight away using implants.
Breast cancer has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. I lost my beautiful mum to it and three other women in my family have had it too.
Because of the extent of my mum’s cancer and our family history, her surgeon told me it was very likely genetic and encouraged me to be tested for the BRCA genes. I was in my early twenties and knew, very clearly, that I didn’t want that knowledge at a time in my life when I wouldn’t act on it. I chose to live my life and decided I’d look into it after I’d had children.
I did just that. I’ve had a wonderful life, but breast cancer was always there, niggling away in the background. That time wasn’t without fear, especially whenever I noticed changes in my breasts.
My mum was diagnosed at 52, after being misdiagnosed for six years despite annual mammograms and ultrasounds due to family history. She had both lobular and ductal carcinoma. Lobular cancer can be particularly difficult to detect, as it doesn’t always form a clear lump. When they finally found it, after she pushed for a biopsy, she underwent three surgeries. The last being a full mastectomy without reconstruction. Treatment was initially successful, but a few years later she was diagnosed with terminal cancer.
She wore her flatness proudly. She was strong, positive, and endured years of appointments, scans, chemotherapy, radiotherapy, and significant pain. She was given one year to live and fought on for four. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live with the knowledge that you’re dying. I know, without a doubt, that if she’d been given the choice I’ve had, she would have taken it.
I didn’t truly worry about my own risk until after my daughter Lily was born. My first scare came in my early thirties. I found a lump and went straight to a consultant. From then on, I had four more scares: finding something, seeing a specialist, waiting, scans, results. Each time utterly terrifying.
Over the years, I developed PTSD around ultrasound scans. If you’ve been there, you’ll understand. Watching the consultant’s face in real time – the stopping, the measuring, the silence. It took everything in me not to get up and run.
At 40, because of my family history, I began annual mammograms. They weren’t pleasant, but I preferred them because you don’t get the results immediately. For me, that was far easier than ultrasound. Still, the months leading up to each appointment, and the weeks waiting for results, were brutal. Every year for six years followed the same pattern.
The last couple of years were already heavy. My daughter was diagnosed with a rare bone disease (she’s absolutely fine and lives a normal, pain-free life), and my husband was hospitalised with meningitis. He’s also fine. But during that time, I was terrified I might lose them both. After years of testing and waiting, my nervous system lived in a constant state of high alert. I developed health anxiety, but only for anything that could possibly be cancer.
So when I went for my mammogram earlier this year, it felt different. Scarier. And in January, I got my first-ever call-back.
I remember that phone call like it was yesterday. I genuinely thought: this is it. It’s my time now.
I had to go in for another ultrasound. Pure hell. Thankfully, they didn’t need to biopsy me. The issue was a new area of density and cysts they wanted to characterise. That’s when I learned I have D-grade dense breasts – the densest you can have. This not only increases the risk of breast cancer, but also makes it easier for cancer to hide and be missed.
I did what I do best: a deep dive into research (not always helpful). I learned that up to 20-30% of breast cancers can be missed on mammograms, and that percentage can be higher in women with dense breasts. Even with an all-clear, I didn’t feel 100% safe. I kept thinking: what if something is hiding, like it did with my mum?
This statistic isn’t shared to frighten you. It’s to highlight the importance of knowing your own breasts. Screening is vital, but it isn’t perfect. Check your breasts regularly, at the same point in your cycle. Know what’s normal for you. If you notice a change, get it checked. Most of the time it’s nothing, but early detection is everything.
My mum and other relatives had lobular breast cancer, the type that can scatter and not form an obvious lump. When my mum was finally diagnosed with three tumours, doctors later realised it had been visible on scans for six years. She was 52 when diagnosed. That made her 46 six years earlier. Her sister was also 46.
I am 46.
Suddenly, it felt terrifyingly real.
I knew I didn’t want to walk this path. I wanted to do everything I could so my children would never have to experience what I did. I had my children later than my mum had us – they would be much younger if history repeated itself. That was not a risk I was willing to take.
One of my biggest fears wasn’t even just the cancer itself, it was the endless cycle of scans, tests, and waiting. At its worst, an NHS letter, a call from an unknown number, even an iPhone ringtone could trigger a full panic response: racing heart, dry mouth, numb hands, needing to run to the loo. I did EMDR therapy, which helped enormously, but this fear wasn’t irrational. The risk was real.
Not long after being given the all-clear, something shifted. I realised I couldn’t live the rest of my life like this.
As one of my best friends back home in New Zealand said to me:
“You divorced your breasts a long time ago.”
They had done their job, and they’d done it brilliantly. They nourished my babies. They weren’t sitting where I wanted anymore, they were bigger than I liked… and most importantly, they felt like time bombs.
I felt empowered. I was going to get my boobs off.
There were four key factors behind my decision:
- My family history and a 35% lifetime risk of breast cancer
- My fear of ongoing testing and waiting for results
- My breast health: dense tissue, microcalcifications, cysts
- My family: my children’s happiness and peace
The first consultant I saw asked, “Do you want to feel like your boobs aren’t your own?” Of course I didn’t. But I wanted breast cancer even less. He referred me to a breast oncologist that same day, who referred me for genetic testing. I was tested for around 12 genes linked to breast cancer – it’s not just BRCA1 and BRCA2.
My results were negative, which was great. But the NHS algorithm still calculated my lifetime risk at 35%. That takes into account family history, personal factors, and breast density. A one-in-three chance. You wouldn’t get on a plane with those odds.
My options were:
- Intensive lifelong screening – MRI then Mammogram and ultrasound – alternating every 6 months.
- Risk-reducing medication
- A mastectomy, with or without reconstruction
The first two don’t prevent cancer, they just aim to catch it earlier. I chose surgery.
Although the NHS agreed my risk warranted discussion of a prophylactic mastectomy, the wait was long. Cancer patients and those with known mutations rightly come first. I couldn’t wait. I felt at peace with my decision and needed to move forward. I was fortunate to be able to self-fund.
After multiple consultations, a psychological assessment, and an MDT meeting, I was approved. I had surgery four weeks ago. My surgeon is extraordinary – skilled, kind and deeply empathetic.
I looked at my breasts on day one fully expecting to be emotionally difficult and I was genuinely surprised. They looked great. Swollen and up around my neck, but great. A few weeks later, they even feel like my own. They’ve dropped significantly and will continue to ‘drop and fluff’ over the next 12 months. I know this isn’t everyone’s experience and I feel incredibly grateful.
I also wrote a letter to my breasts. I thanked them for nourishing my babies and explained my decision. I wanted something to read if I had moments of doubt. It helped. They helped me find a mate (!). They fed my babies. And now, to protect them, they needed to go. It felt like a season, a natural rhythm, with a beginning, a purpose and an end. It was only right to say thank you and goodbye.
Recovery has been far easier than I imagined. Pain was minimal. The drains were annoying – twelve days of carrying around what my daughter called “my puppies.” I’ve had the odd nerve zap and a strange cold sensation, but overall it’s been very bearable. I’ve only needed paracetamol and ibuprofen since day two and stopped these around the 2 week mark.
Emotionally? I feel incredible. No doubt. No anxiety. Just peace.
Pathology was my final hurdle. Ten days post-op, my surgeon called. All clear. No more scans. No more mammograms. I burst into tears.
My risk has dropped from 35% to around 5 – 8%, if not lower.
I feel deeply grateful – for access to care, for my recovery, for my supportive husband, my beautiful daughters, my friends and family, my amazing KKL team, my GP who never dismissed me and fought my corner, my surgical team… and yes, my new boobs. They look great, they’re back where they belong, and they feel like mine. I can’t wait to buy pretty bras instead of the industrial ones I wore before.
I’m sharing this because the information isn’t always clear:
- You don’t need a known gene mutation to be high-risk
- There are many genes involved in breast cancer, not just BRCA
- Screening is vital, but it isn’t perfect
- Know your breasts – this matters most
- Check them monthly
- Know your Tyrer-Cuzick risk score
- Don’t ignore a niggle – get it checked
This may not be the right decision for everyone, but it was the right decision for me.
As a US OB-GYN said on the ZOE podcast: every woman should know her social security number and her Tyrer-Cuzick risk score. “Are you at high risk of breast cancer? Follow this early detection guide. Dr. Thais Alibadi.” It’s worth a listen.
I also want to take a moment to acknowledge every woman who has faced or is facing breast cancer. Your courage, resilience, and strength are truly inspiring. I sometimes feel like a cop-out making the decision I did, because I don’t know if I’d have the strength to go through what you have. Having the surgery I’ve had, some call us “previvors.” To be honest, I’m not sure how that sits with me. What I’ve gone through is a lot easier than what so many of you have faced, and I want to acknowledge that. I deeply respect the strength of every woman who has lived through breast cancer, and I hope this post honours you. I wish you health, happiness, peace, and all the support you deserve. You remind us why awareness, early detection, and self-care matter so much.
If this encourages even one woman to check her breasts or advocate for herself, it’s been worth sharing.
Important note: I’m not a medical professional. Everything shared here is my personal experience and understanding. Everyone’s risk and circumstances are different. If you have concerns about breast health or family history, please speak to your GP or a specialist.
UK Support, Awareness & Helpful Resources
If you’re looking for trusted information, support, or guidance, the organisations below offer excellent UK-based resources for anyone affected by breast cancer, or wanting to better understand their risk and breast health.
