I’ve been struggling with how to share as Breast Cancer Awareness Month approaches.
Do I keep things professional, or do I let you into the personal side of my story?
I’ve always tried to keep business and personal life separate. It’s important to me to set boundaries and protect my kids’ privacy — we live in a small town, and I want them to carve out their own paths, not live in the shadow of my business.
But sometimes, sharing the personal side is the best way to truly connect. It’s a way to be real, to be raw, and to remind others that behind The Twisted Hippo is just me — a mother, a spouse, a daughter, a business owner — walking through life’s curveballs one day at a time.
Last October, I opened up about my breast cancer journey. I was diagnosed in November 2023 with two tumors that together measured seven inches. I had my first lumpectomy that December. Yes — first, because more cancer was found. January 2024 brought a second lumpectomy, and in February, a lymph node biopsy and yet another lumpectomy. Finally, I got the all-clear for radiation.
I finished five weeks of radiation in May 2024. I rang the bell, felt relief wash over me, and thought: That’s it. I’m cancer free.
“I rang the bell and thought I was done. Then in August, everything changed.”
My doctors told me my chance of recurrence was low — about 5% or less within five years if treated with surgery and radiation. Hearing that felt like a safety net. I held onto that number like a lifeline.
And while I was cancer free, my life still revolved around appointments: oncologist check-ins, radiology visits, mammograms, and MRIs. I felt like I was constantly answering the phone with another update or test order.
Then came August 5, 2025. My second mammogram of the year — just a few months after a clean MRI. When the technician came back in and said they needed a few more scans, I knew.
I took a deep breath, put on my brave face, and braced myself.
“There’s a spot we aren’t sure about. Let’s get it biopsied, just to check it out.”
It wasn’t there in January. It wasn’t there in May. Yet here it was.
The results hit my patient portal before I even met with the radiologist. For two days, I carried that knowledge. By the time I sat in the office with the radiologist, I was numb. I nodded, said Okay, and rode home in silence.
The tumor is small — just 5 mm — but its sudden appearance is unnerving. Over the last five weeks, I’ve been back and forth to doctors, piecing together a plan. My oncologist. My plastic surgeon (who told me implants aren’t the best option because of prior radiation). And now, I’m preparing to meet with a surgeon who specializes in DIEP flap reconstruction.
After weighing the risks and hearing recommendations, I’ve decided that the next step is a double mastectomy. It’s not a choice I ever imagined making, but after two years of surgeries, treatments, and “watch and wait,” I know this is the best chance to put cancer behind me.
And part of preparing for DIEP reconstruction carries its own emotional weight. I may have to gain more just to qualify, since I don’t have enough fat to reconstruct two breasts. After already putting on weight this year, the thought of forcing more feels heavy — another layer of stress added to this journey.
And in between all of that? I find myself taking deep breaths daily, as my mind drifts to what this all means. I don’t feel like I have time to worry about how surgery will affect me — instead, I worry about how it will affect our home and the business.
At home, I’m the one who keeps everything moving — from school routines to clean clothes to bedtime rituals. Yes, my spouse can step in, and he will, but the truth is it’s always fallen on me. Who’s going to handle the laundry, the dishes, the grocery runs? I catch myself mentally planning freezer meals when my focus should be on healing.
And then there’s the business. I tried to time surgery around our slower season, but I can’t be out too long. I can’t let The Twisted Hippo slide. Anyone who runs a small business knows — it’s so hard to build momentum, and so easy for it to plummet. Yes, I have loyal and supportive customers, but those algorithms tank fast, and clawing your way back up is brutal.
So here I am — balancing scans, surgery plans, home life, and a business I’ve poured my heart into — plus physical therapy twice a week that will continue for months. All while trying to push away the thought of a 10-hour surgery and weeks of recovery.
I think about the inconvenience it could be to others. Am I going to come out of recovery feeling overwhelmed because the house is a train wreck, no one has clean socks, and we’re all living off ramen noodles?
I know I’m not alone — I truly do. But I’m still losing sleep, worrying about how to balance it all.
“I’m still losing sleep, not about cancer itself, but about how to balance it all.”
And then there are the thoughts I don’t say out loud.
I wonder if it’s fair for someone to sit through a 10-hour surgery just to find me groggy and asleep — yet deep down, all I really want is someone to hold my hand before I go in and be there when I wake up.
Because I know waking up alone would be emotional. But that’s how my last surgeries have gone. I’ve gone in alone, and when I opened my eyes afterward, someone was there just to drive me home. Because there are still jobs to be held and kids to be taken care of.
As I step into this next chapter, I know I’m not walking it alone. Sharing my story now is one way I can breath, but the truth is — every message, every order, every word of encouragement matters more than you know.
Our Breast Cancer Awareness Collection is deeply personal to me this year. Not only does it spread awareness, but the funds directly help my family as we navigate bills, meals, and the time I’ll need to recover. If you choose to shop it, know that you’re not just wearing pink — you’re standing with me, with my family, and with so many others who find themselves in this fight.
"I'm not okay
But it's all gonna be alright"
Shannon
