This piece was written by one of our dear readers—a woman with something real to say. Each month, we handpick the best submissions for Dear Reader because we’re after that PROVOKED bite: truth, intelligence, and heart. These stories come from women our age—women who’ve lived enough to know better and still care enough to tell it anyway. Because being seen and heard matters. Because storytelling is how we stitch ourselves to one another. And because when one woman speaks her truth, another finally recognizes her own. — Susan Dabbar, Editor-in-Chief
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’ll be grateful when Pinktober has been put to bed … at least until next year, when the pinkwashing cycle begins again.
19 Responses
Like you, I have never liked PINK and also want to say I have never had breast cancer and yet can completely understand your aversion to the October recognition and commercialization and how it can be traumatic to survivors.
I am curious about you hiding your diagnosis because as you said, “I didn’t want the pity, platitudes, or invasive questions.” Maybe you can help those of us confronted with someone’s diagnosis to know what to say that doesn’t come off as pity, platitudes or invasive. I imagine it must have been isolating, and frightening to navigate your diagnosis under the radar, and it must take lots of energy to hide it as well. Any suggestions on how friends can help friends when they are told of their friend’s diagnosis? Do we offer help to go to chemo or radiation appointments? Do we take their lead? Is saying nothing better than saying anything that might offend? I recently saw a family member who was diagnosed with metastatic stomach cancer and ended up not asking very much as I didn’t want anything to sound like pity or platitudes but wondered if I then seemed insensitive? Lots of people who love their family and friends want to support them and want them to know that they are not alone. Maybe another article on this topic?
Thank you again for this insightful assessment.
Crystal, thanks for asking these thoughtful questions! I appreciate them as a cancer survivor. I was diagnosed, at nearly age 46, with stage 3 ovarian cancer at the very beginning of COVID. Treatment consisted of major surgery (taking me from not even being perimenopausal yet to being postmenopausal) and five months of weekly chemo infusions. Thankfully I reached NED (no evidence of disease) status and have stayed that way with no recurrences, even though ovarian cancer has a high recurrence rate. My surveillance period ended in 2025.
I’m going to be super wordy here, because that’s just how I roll. I apologize!
I took a different route from the author here: I was very open about my cancer once I got the full pathology report two weeks after surgery. I laid it all bare on Facebook and in texts and phone calls to everyone outside of work. At work I only told my boss and work friends, but I let them know that it was okay if they wanted to tell others.
I was open with folks not to siphon pity out of them but because awareness is so important with ovarian cancer. Many people know nothing about it; I wanted my fellow middle-aged female friends to know the symptoms and stats. Plus, there’s still low-level taboo energy surrounding gynecologic cancers, so I ultimately chose to lay all my cards on the table to abolish that shame/secrecy.
I can understand why the author and others take the opposite route. My route led to a result that I wasn’t really expecting. Namely, people came out in droves to support me, including people I really wouldn’t have expected that from. People can’t help you if they don’t know you need help, so in my eyes that’s one argument for not keeping a cancer diagnosis completely under wraps.
Nobody knows what to say to a cancer patient, and that discomfort drives too many of them away. They’re uncomfortable and feel awkward so they just sort of fade away from the person at a time when that person probably needs their friendship the most. To that end, I think the best route is honesty. Admit you don’t know what to say and ask, “How can I best help you? What can I do to help lighten your physical or mental load? You don’t have to answer me now; this is not a one-time offer. Maybe you can tell me tomorrow or in a month. Whenever you’re ready, I’m here.” I personally think that saying something is better than saying nothing. It could be written in a card/letter/email, if that is more comfortable.
Their needs and mental bandwidth are likely to fluctuate, perhaps with their energy levels. That was certainly the case with me. Maybe acknowledge this and let them know that what they do or don’t need from you now might fluctuate and you understand this. “Your needs may change but my desire to support you will not.”
You may have to flat-out ask the person if there is an approach they prefer. Maybe they want lots of positivity and cheering, lots of distractions. Maybe they want realism and the freedom to cry on your shoulder, talk about their fears, and complain about the downsides of treatment. Maybe they want a mix. Maybe they want people to treat them normally (not with kid gloves) or maybe they are okay with sometimes being treated with tenderness and fragility, like a sick kid finding comfort from their mom being extra soothing and motherly.
Everyone is different and their needs are different, but from a personal perspective, these are the things I liked and disliked most:
Liked:
1. People acknowledging the simple fact that it SUCKS to have cancer, that it’s cruel and unfair. Having them validate the awfulness of the situation and bare witness to it meant a lot. I didn’t want anybody to dwell on it and talk about it constantly, but the acknowledgement was important. Some cancer patients might hate getting that acknowledgment at all, though, because they see it as a form of pity.
2. Thoughtful gestures. I received loads of cards, which I loved. I kept them displayed until chemo ended and I still have them tucked away. I received many gifts from people, too, which was lovely. I didn’t expect anything but did appreciate the thought and effort. The gifts ran a gamut from weird “WTF?” gifts to incredibly useful gifts; cool handmade gifts; and poignant, meaningful gifts. I received offers for help, too, but most weren’t really doable anyway, thanks to COVID lockdowns. For example, a friend offered to come to chemo with me as much as possible to keep me company, but that was forbidden. I still appreciated the offers. I felt like they were genuine and not just said to be nice.
As advice for you, I will say: Send great cards with handwritten messages! Send more than one, even! If you want to send a gift but aren’t sure what to send and don’t want to ask, stick with something that’s practical and likely to make their life a bit easier. For example, an Amazon or Instacart gift card, a card for meal delivery, a gift subscription to a service like Readly (which will allow them to read magazines on their tablet—a nice activity during chemo when reading anything substantial might be difficult), etc.
Or be the gift yourself and offer to take them to chemo, run errands for them, set up a meal train for them and contribute to it, do things around the house, etc. I personally would’ve loved if someone had gifted me a few sessions of housecleaning from a maid service, because cleaning was absolutely the last thing I wanted to do, and the exhaustion at times made it impossible anyway. That said, I know this is a gift many people wouldn’t want. But maybe they’d want you to come over and help them tidy up, run the vacuum they’re too weak to run, sort through that pile of mail, and so on. Just remember that their treatment might not be like mine (over in six months), so consider the fact that their life could be in an upheaval for years. Keep those offers coming past the point when other people in their life might have moved on to other things.
3. Humor. Dark gallows humor is my jam and my friends who know me best indulged that! They made me laugh in the best possible ways.
Disliked:
1. People talk about how they dislike the battle/warrior terminology affixed to cancer. I understand why, but I also didn’t like people thinking that I was some kind of hero or inspiration. It made me uncomfortable. I had the attitude of, “Please don’t think of me as heroic or brave; I am just a typically stupid, flawed human being who is dealing with a disease that millions of other people deal with each year. I’m just doing what I’m expected to do: trying to get through the treatment one day at a time, without curling up and dying. One foot in front of the other, slogging through the treatment and work and all the fears. I’m just doing what needs to be done. It doesn’t feel heroic to me.”
2. When friends would talk about their problems and I expressed sympathy and talked with them about it, inevitably they’d be like, “Oh, but it’s nothing compared to what you’re going through! It’s just first-world problems. I shouldn’t complain! I’ll shut up now!” That always made me feel terrible. I didn’t want anybody thinking that I was clamoring for sympathy or insinuating that I thought my cancer was more important than their problem when I consoled them about what was bothering them.
3. America loves its toxic positivity and I did get some of it when I was in treatment. Be mindful of that and don’t assume the person wants rah-rah talk all the time. If they indicate that this is indeed what they want, great, but I wouldn’t have it be my default right out of the starting gate and assume that they want it.
I say this because although a friend of mine with cancer wanted constant positivity, I personally hated it and cringed every time someone said, “You got this!” to me. (People said that to me a LOT.) People meant well and I truly did appreciate that, but I think many of us recognize that excessive cheerleading can almost become…well, if not full-blown toxic positivity, then at least unintentionally dismissive, and by that I simply mean that it’s a force that shuts down honest dialogue and expression of any less-than-cheerful feelings. Every time someone said/wrote, “You got this!” to me, I thought about how awkward it would’ve been if I had replied, “Actually, I don’t ‘got this.’ I’m scared, angry, depressed, drained, overwhelmed, exhausted, and losing hope.” It would’ve netted me some fumbled relies and a deer-in-the-headlights look. So, I just kept those feelings to myself.
4. Two people I know are really into the manifesting thing and when I would talk about recurrence odds and my nervousness about the cancer maybe coming back, they exclaimed that I mustn’t say or think those things because I was going to manifest a recurrence. Like…what? That’s not how disease works? And, again, it shuts down the conversation. Cancer patients should be free to talk about their fears and ruminations, if they wish to do so. Other people, when I talked about fears of recurrence, would immediately say, “The cancer’s not coming back.” No other discussion was allowed. It’s not very healthy because if I convince myself that the cancer’s not coming back and refuse to accept it as a possibility, then I am way more likely to miss/ignore symptoms of a recurrence.
My final word of advice to you will be to stay cognizant of the fact that when frontline treatment ends, it can be a scary time. People think, “Yay, it’s over; s/he can move on and reclaim normalcy!” But there is often no true normalcy, at least not for a while. The aftermath is when emotional processing really begins. It’s when the patient starts truly coming to terms with the trauma and the betrayal of their body. Plus, they might have a body that’s changed to some degree, through surgery, chemo/radiation, or both; they might barely recognize themself when they look in the mirror. There might be cognitive issues or other lingering side effects stemming from chemo. It can take months for weakness and exhaustion to fully abate. Maybe they have a partner/family/friends who didn’t step up to the plate during the treatment, and they have to come to terms with that. Maybe there’s medical debt that now needs to be addressed.
It’s also not uncommon for there to be anxiety and a sense of “What now? If there are still cancerous cells inside me, or if they return, what can I do to stop them now that I’m no longer in treatment?” As awful as treatment can be, at least something is being done. There’s a sense of power and purpose. A sense of: “I am taking this bull by the horns and leading him to slaughter.” When treatment ended, I actually felt a lot more helpless and passive. I worried about microscopic cells left behind that were now free to grow. It was a vulnerable time for me.
Within hours of me ringing the bell there were friends who were like, “You’re getting your port removed now, right?” They very much had an attitude of: “It’s over. It’s done. The end.” Yes, it’s a joyful time and normalcy is craved; looking forward is the default. But it’s not always a smooth road forward, and I think acknowledging this and letting the person know that you’re still there to help out and to listen is important. Let them know that you’re not expecting them to immediately return to normal. That they don’t have to be upbeat and dive back into their pre-cancer activities at full tilt. Cancer can really change a person, sometimes for the rest of their life. Often the person who gets that diagnosis isn’t the same person who emerges on the other side.
Starting today I will forever envision October as “Pinktober.” I love the brilliant wordplay.
I found the following statement thought provoking – “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.” Wow! Since there are so many additives and environmental issues believed to trigger cancer genes, I will now be paying special attention to the companies and products on the Breast Cancer Awareness Month bandwagon.
I wholeheartedly will now look at October in a different shade.
“And to be clear, the “me” I was before breast cancer didn’t survive.”
This. is a profound statement.
And I’m so sorry you’ve had to experience this.
I felt traumatized by menopause all on its own. Menopause on its own feels like a whole lot of undeserved punishment for a life of contributing to this planet. I cannot imagine living through all you describe in addition to or instead of.
And I get the pink aversion – I had never thought of the view point of survivors – so I thank you for bringing that to MY attention. It will help me be more sensitive in the future.
Why can’t people see the irony of constantly reminding survivors of their trauma and also flying in the face of those “warriors” who lost the battle. I had two dear friends who were the latter. One who bore the suffering and indignity of treatment silently, only to announce on Facebook that her next experience would be “heavenly” shocking friends with this dire news. My other friend did everything right and still “lost the battle.” She once said to me that she felt the analogies to battles, warriors and winners were hollow and insulting to those who did “all the things” and fought as hard as they could but still lost. My concern has always been where does the money go? Where’s the proof that actual women have been helped by this influx of cash? Why has it been decades and we are still treating this disease in much the same way we did back when I was a child? Lop off the offending part and then pump the body full of poison. There are other inroads out there that are not being accepted into the mainstream but that could make a difference in lengthening survival time (like targeted treatments like those developed by interventional radiologists that go directly to tumors via image guidance and zap them with nuclear isotopes or chemotherapy that does not travel throughout the body). Last word, choose the cancer organizations you support very carefully. I’ve read that for many, the money they raise goes to fund the awareness activities and little else.
Ellen, thanks for this thoughtful comment. Yes. Survival isn’t a contest — and women shouldn’t have to justify their suffering to be seen. And we would all like to see more transparency on where the money goes. Thank you for naming it.—susan
I am so glad that there is more awareness about breast cancer and early detection- I think the pink movement has a worthy goal there and has been hugely successful getting the word out to save lives. Pink has always been my favorite color, and I refuse to have it tainted by profiteering. I have long declined to buy “pink”, since the plethora of products strike me as purely commercially opportunistic. If I want to support cancer research, I will give to an appropriate charity and ensure the dollars are going where intended.
Exactly — awareness matters, and the pink movement changed the game on early detection. The problem isn’t the color, it’s the commercialization. Thank you for calling that out and for choosing to give where it truly helps. So glad you are here. —susan
Amazing article! I am grateful for the insight. As a breast cancer supporter (of friends who have had the disease), I look at it as a positive celebration of surviving. I will forever look at it differently now. I know for some, it is a celebration and a ‘badge of courage’ but for others, it’s more like a scarlet letter. Thank you again for the insight!
Shannon, Thank you so much for reading — and for supporting the women in your life who’ve walked this road. You’re right: for some, it’s a badge of power; for others, it’s a reminder of loss. Holding space for both truths is how we honor every survivor.Thanks for sharing. —susan
There is so much to love about this writing. Thank you.
“I beat the disease, but it also beat me”. That is precisely my experience with breast cancer but that succinct sentence says it all. It ruined so much. And I also live an amazing life I am grateful for. The pink-washing is a sunny/scummy/scammyveneer on the reality for many of us.
I too hate how much “breasts grab the attention”. I see your use of that verb! It’s insidious and yet more objectification. I wonder, what would t-shirts look like with an enlarged liver cleverly turned into a graphic?! Maybe we should start a bile-coloured ribbon for funding research into the agonies of pancreatic cancer. Let’s see how that sells!
Thank you for writing this and thank you for printing this in your magazine. You have a new subscriber.
Emma, Thank you so much for this generous, gutsy comment — and for becoming a new subscriber. I’m grateful you’re here.
And yes… that line. “I beat the disease, but it also beat me.”
It’s the quiet truth so many women carry because the world won’t hold it for us. I’m sorry you had to live both sides of that sentence, and I’m glad you’re still claiming your happiness and life.
You’re absolutely right about the pink-washing — the sunny/scummy/scammy veneer that flattens what breast cancer actually does to a woman. It’s marketing and exploitative to many who don’t want any part of it.
Your bile-colored ribbon idea? Laughing. But you’re also making the exact point: some diseases get branded, others get buried. And breasts? They always get attention in a way no other organ does. That verb choice was intentional. You caught it.
Thank you for seeing this piece so clearly — and for adding your own fire to the conversation. Keep in touch and keep telling what is hitting and what is not.
Welcome to PROVOKED. So glad you are here. —susan
You wrote my thoughts!
As my mother, who survived anal-rectal cancer, used to say, “No one has a Tshirt that says Save The Assholes!”
Thank you for writing this. As a survivor, I feel exactly the same way whenever October rolls around. I don’t need a reminder of breast cancer awareness month, or to be told to get my mammogram. Dressing it up with pink ribbons doesn’t make it more appealing or fun. Wishing you only the best going forward!
HI Gina, So many survivors feel exactly what you’re expressing — October can feel less like awareness and more like a reminder no one asked for. The pink ribbons don’t soften the reality, and they certainly don’t make it “fun.” Wishing you strength, ease, and only good things moving forward. Grateful you’re here.—susan
I totally relate and share your beautifully articulated disdain for the Pinkification of Breast Cancer. As someone who survived two separate primary attacks, several years apart, and who, like you, fought hard to get well and reconnect with my healthy self, I feel assaulted every October by the non-stop, in-your-face, traumatizing reminders of terrifying times. I gladly donate, and rush to help and comfort friends when all kinds of illnesses enter their lives, but I run the other way when I see Pink.
Hi Lonnie, Thank you for sharing this — and I’m so sorry you’ve had to face it twice. What you’re describing is exactly why so many survivors feel ambushed every October.I’m grateful you added your voice to the conversation. Thanks for being here. —susan
Thank you for voicing this, for having the courage to speak your truth. My mom is also a breast-cancer survivor, and I’ve often thought about how all those pink ribbons feel, really feel to her. Now, I’m going to ask, so I can show up for her more during October…and for all my beloved friends who’ve endured this disease.
And, thank you for publicizing how OVERDONE this is! I hate how our culture commercializes everything…how it becomes a bandwagon and somehow the deeper meaning gets lost in the spotlight and the sales numbers. Breast cancer shouldn’t be a marketing opp, it’s a horrific, deeply personal, and difficult health condition.
My heart goes out to you. Again, thank you for sharing this.
Thank you for this — and I’m glad you’re going to ask your mom how it feels for her. That simple question is something so many survivors never get, and it matters. Commercialization and overdone, Yes. Thank you for sharing and being here. —susan