An Artist’s Journey Through Breast Cancer
I don’t think it was a coincidence that I was in my art studio when I got the call that my biopsy tested positive for breast cancer.
The colors, the mess, and the wet brushes held me in that dark moment. You see, I have always viewed the world around me through the eyes of an artist—and especially now, as a woman with breast cancer, being an artist has lent me the power to use my art materials to make sense of the chaos around me.
As a painter, when I sit down to start a painting, the first thing I do is seek out the lights and the darks of the subject that I’m painting. I don’t jump to create the correct shape of the eyes, or the lines of a nose. I begin by locating the interplay of lights and darks. And then, I mark them, like a back and forth dance. Darks. Lights. Darks. Lights. And all of a sudden, like magic, the features of the face begin to emerge. And a beautiful form surfaces.
I find myself returning to this wisdom constantly, especially over the last year and a half. On the day I was diagnosed, July 16, 2024, after my very first mammogram, I was thrown into a maddening sea, the currents throwing me upside down, stripping me of my ability to locate which direction was forward. And as each decision and each day turned into the next, I sought out my lights and darks.
The Darks.
5 months of chemotherapy, 5 weeks of radiation, a double mastectomy surgery, and then an additional year of chemotherapy infusions.
The hours of attaching my body to a machine, the agonizing space between a test and a result, throbbing body aches, tingly fingers, and restlessness.
The drastic halt in life’s momentum while everyone else’s rhythm remained unchanged.
The desire to simply sit and play with my kids but lacking the energy to do so. The way they looked at me with worry in their eyes.
The heavy, thick waves of anxiety nestling into my chest. The unknown. The endless fluid dripping from an infection. The inability to sleep on my back, or my side. The absolute Lethargy. And missing out on so. many. things.
The Lights.
The absolute wonder that is the body and the reverence that I’ve grown for its extraordinary endurance.
My ability to slow down time and linger in the richness of presence with my family.
The ease I now have in deciphering what simply doesn’t matter.
The commitment and strength of the band of people that surround me, feeding me the most savory love.
The beautiful understanding of myself that I have gained, what makes me me, my pure strength, and my unrelenting power to choose fun and life over any challenging symptom.
The intimate and personal connection I’ve established with God, growing in my ability to trust the things that are in His hands.
People that held me.
Sharsheret, for providing me, and women all over the world, with a place to go when I was pushed into many dark corners. For setting me up with women to talk to, for helping keep calm in my house by tending to the needs of my kids, and for this incredible opportunity to turn my voice into that of a leader and my journey into an expression that teaches others about the realities of breast cancer, the importance of getting tested early, and the powers that can help get us through any situation that life throws our way.
Since that dark day in July, my artist’s eyes have adjusted to my new reality—I find contentment by attending to the lights and the darks together, with equal awareness and care, to honor my pain as readily as I celebrate my joy—and there are days that I step back to look at the canvas and only see a mess.
But it is in those moments that I have found my faith. In Hebrew, the word for art—Omanut—comes from the same root as the word for faith—Emunah.
By putting my absolute trust in the process, in myself, and in God, I have learned that through each of my lights and my darks, a beautiful expression has magically begun to take shape and the simple act of living becomes my most meaningful and beautiful work of art yet.