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A color worn especially in October to honor survivors now feels more like exposure than support. Here’s why I refuse to wear it—and what the pink ribbon gets wrong.
The first Saturday in October, I went to a local diner with my family for breakfast and faced a stack of supersized pink ribbons at the check-in counter. Staff invited survivors to write their name on a ribbon in black Sharpie and paste it on their back wall—as if enduring cancer in your most private parts is something the world gets to gawk at on a public bulletin board.
My first thought: Oh. Hell. No!
My second: Can I hide under the covers for the rest of October?
Before I was diagnosed in 2022, October was my favorite month of the year. But after I heard the dreaded words, “You have breast cancer,” every autumn has been swallowed up by the phenomenon known as “Pinktober.”
While the parade of pink may end on Halloween, the horrors of the season remain in the form of an emotional hangover of a month drenched in pink.
When Pink Stops Helping
I’ve never been a fan of pink. Growing up, I shunned the color because it felt too “girly.” But during the month of October, pink ribbons on cereal boxes, pink Oreos, and even the pink socks covering my sons’ feet during baseball games make me feel queasier than the chemo cocktail that coursed through my veins nearly four years ago.
And to be clear, the “me” I was before breast cancer didn’t survive.
Yes, I “beat” the disease, but it also beat me. It stripped me bare (even down to my pubic hair), scarred my body, shook my psyche, robbed me of natural menopause, and transformed me into a creature I didn’t recognize. I went into hiding during treatment, choosing not to tell friends and family about the diagnosis. I wore broad-brimmed hats and big dark glasses when I walked the dog, ducked out of grocery stores when I saw a familiar face, and took a hiatus from volunteering at my kids’ school. I didn’t want the pity, platitudes, or invasive questions.
Helen Marlo, Ph.D., a clinical psychologist who works with cancer patients and dean of the School of Psychology at Notre Dame de Namur University in Northern California, said my reaction to all things pink isn’t unique. Navigating breast cancer can be traumatic, almost like a physical assault. For some patients, the tidal wave of pink in October can trigger symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). “Even the color pink can kindle a trauma response for some women,” Marlo explained.
The Dirty Laundry Behind the Pink Ribbon
Sure, the pink ribbon means well. It has increased funding for breast cancer research and underscored the importance of screening. But even the ribbon’s origin story leaves a metallic taste in my mouth.
In the early 1990s, Charlotte Haley handmade peach ribbons to highlight underfunded breast cancer research. When a few corporate giants offered to commercialize her campaign, Haley refused. The corporate solution? Sidestep her by swapping peach for pink—and the global symbol for breast cancer awareness was born.
But most breast cancer survivors don’t need more awareness. “What most patients want to know is whether the money spent during Breast Cancer Awareness Month is funneled into research that will make a difference,” said Stephanie Davidson, Psy.D. a, breast cancer survivor and psychologist in the supportive care department at City of Hope, a cancer research and treatment organization.
What they’re getting instead: “Pinkwashing,” a term Breast Cancer Action coined to describe companies that claim to care about breast cancer while at the same time pushing products laced with chemicals linked to the disease.
But there are companies doing solid work. The Estée Lauder Campaign (which popularized the pink ribbon), has reportedly funded more than $144 million for global research, education, and medical services—with more than $114 million supporting medical research through the Breast Cancer Research Foundation. And the natural beauty company, Aveda, has contributed nearly $7 million to the cause, funding more than 135,000 hours of breast cancer research.
The key, of course, is transparency. If companies don’t disclose how they’re using funds raised during Breast Cancer Awareness month, you may want to give directly to an organization whose mission clearly aligns with protecting patients. The Susan G. Komen Foundation, Breast Cancer Action, and The Pink Fund are just a few examples.
Survival Isn’t a Parade
Now that I’ve done my share of spouting off, it’s important to note that many survivors say they get an emotional high from sporting their pink every October—a way to turn their pain into purpose. I don’t begrudge them that. But, according to Davidson, just as many survivors want nothing to do with pink.
“Every patient navigates survivorship in a way that feels comfortable to them and for some that means reflecting on cancer at times when it feels safe to do so,” said Davidson. But it’s nearly impossible to decide how and when to engage with thoughts about cancer against the onslaught of pink every October.
Now that we’re firmly past that month, I see fewer “thrivers,” “warriors,” and “survivors” parading their pink on their clothes. Merchandise adorned with pink ribbons has been cleared out. My boys’ sports socks are back to black.
And yet, I remain painfully aware that I had cancer—when I think back, when I think ahead, and when I try not to think at all. I’m aware when I grapple with how tamoxifen is wreaking havoc on my sex life, and when I think twice before ordering a glass of wine on date night.
Though I still can’t stomach pink, I know I received support that eluded my friends navigating less popular cancers. I continue to feel guilty that breasts grab the attention in our society while other organs and tissues are largely ignored. But—and—these patients also don’t have to confront a pancake house teeming with ribbons that scream “Would you like a trigger warning with your pumpkin short stack?”
For now, I’m grateful Pinktober has been put to bed … at least until next year, when the pinkwashing cycle begins again.
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