I was diagnosed with breast cancer a year ago. Please stop calling me a fighter.

I was diagnosed with breast cancer a year ago, and with Breast Cancer Awareness Month underway, I have a confession that feels almost sacrilegious: I hate breast cancer culture.

I hate the “fighter” and “warrior” labels I didn’t ask for, and I especially hate the over-the-top pink branding that I see so much.

I didn’t want to lose my hair to chemo or have my breasts amputated.

I didn’t choose to worry about whether my kids and relatives might also develop this horrible disease.

I’m grateful for my treatment and that I’ve weathered it all relatively well.

I just feel pissed that this was my lot in life.

As I reach the anniversary of the day my “before” split into the “after,” I don’t know what I’m supposed to call myself now. “Fighter” doesn’t feel right. “Warrior” definitely doesn’t, and “survivor” is complicated.

I understand that people mean well when they call someone a fighter.

They want to acknowledge what she’s enduring and remind her she’s strong.

Pink ribbons and awareness campaigns can raise money and encourage screenings, and those are all wonderful things.

But in the rush to turn cancer into a story about courage and hope, there’s little room for the less inspirational feelings: anger, resentment, exhaustion, and fear.

I didn’t fight cancer in the way people seem to imagine.

I showed up for appointments, followed my doctors’ recommendations, and endured treatment because I wanted to live.

I didn’t have some extraordinary reserve of bravery.

I didn’t earn a special title by going through chemotherapy.

I was a person with a disease who wanted to get better.

Sometimes I was just trying to get through the day.

Pink products, pink merchandise, pink marketing campaigns.

Sometimes the branding feels like a cheerful coat of paint over a genuinely terrifying experience.

Losing your breasts isn’t a lifestyle rebrand or a “free boob-job.” Buying a pink water bottle doesn’t necessarily make anyone feel less alone in a hospital room.

I don’t begrudge anyone who finds comfort in a pink ribbon or a community of fellow patients.

My problem is with the expectation that breast cancer should come packaged with a neat, uplifting message.

What if I don’t want to embrace this experience?

What if I don’t feel grateful for the lessons it taught me?

I’d happily trade every bit of perspective I’ve gained for the life I had before my diagnosis.

Treatment ends, and everyone wants to celebrate that you’ve made it through.

But you’re also left processing what happened to your body, what you’ve lost, and what the future might hold.

As much as I try to go back to my “before” life, I’m constantly holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to potentially drop.

Before cancer, I didn’t spend much time thinking about my identity.

I was busy being a mom, wife, sister, daughter, and working woman.

Now, I’m still figuring out how much space cancer deserves in my life.

I don’t want every conversation to be about my health.

I don’t want people to expect me to inspire them simply because something terrible happened to me.

I’m grateful for my doctors, the people who showed up for me, and the advances in medicine that gave me treatment options.

I’m grateful that I’ve come through this in relatively good shape.

But I can appreciate the care I’ve received and still be furious that I needed it.

As I reach this anniversary, I don’t need a label to make my experience meaningful.

I don’t need to turn cancer into a lesson or find a silver lining in every awful moment.

If you want to support someone with breast cancer, you don’t have to call her a fighter.

Acknowledge that what she’s going through is hard.

Offer an ear or, better yet, a DoorDash gift card.

As for me, I’ll mark this anniversary with gratitude, anger, uncertainty, and the knowledge that I’m still here.

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