The Courage to Let Go

FINDING STRENGTH BEYOND THE MIRROR

Photo by Melanie Gail Photography

"In the quiet surrender of letting go, I have found the strength I never knew I had. My beauty is not defined by what I've lost but by the grace with which I choose to rise."

My Hair Does Not Define Me...I had envisioned this campaign as something grand—a resplendent black gown layered with tulle, echoing the timeless elegance of a Dolce and Gabbana creation. In my mind, Melanie would write across my back, "My hair does not define me." But as the day drew nearer, an undeniable truth weighed heavily on my heart: I couldn't do it. The sorrow of losing my hair was too raw, too overwhelming. My hair, after all, has always defined me.

Writing about this chapter has been an immense challenge. The grief I feel lies deep within my soul, so profound it's almost unspeakable. I know that to make a real impact, I must be brutally honest, but how can I share my truth with the world when I've barely admitted it to myself, let alone to those who love me most?  

Before I could continue to write, I had to have those difficult conversations with Bayan and my children. They deserved to know the depth of my feelings before reading it here. Once again, I was torn between protecting my privacy and embracing the honesty needed to effect change. How many others feel this same anguish but are too afraid to give it a voice?

I am this family's eternal optimist, the one who devises plans, who picks everyone up when they're down.  I'm the one who believes everything happens for a reason and who insists on finding the silver lining no matter the storm. But how do I show them how terrified I truly am? How do I admit that I'm not sure I can hold myself together when I'm the one they've always relied on to do just that?

My relationship with my hair has been a tumultuous one, to say the least. From shades of strawberry blonde to auburn and, somewhere in between, a mousy brown. Over the years, I experimented with highlights, eventually settling into the blonde I was meant to be.  

I've straightened, permed, coloured, and extended it—it's always been my crown. When I needed to face a challenge, a confrontation, or a high-stakes moment, my hair was my armour, blow-dried to perfection, giving me the confidence to conquer anything. It has witnessed every high and low of my life, framing my face through each celebration and every heartbreak.

Losing my hair has been one of the most challenging days of my life. I understand it's a small price to pay for the chemo to work its magic and the fact that my hair started falling out after the first round meant my body was responding to the treatment. But the absolute terror of washing my hair and seeing it blanket the shower floor was unbearable. Each pass of my fingers through my hair sent strands flying everywhere. Brushing it became an ordeal, each stroke drawing tears and dread. I had a choice: continue to be traumatised daily or let it go. Everyone said it would get easier once I made the decision to let it go. I wasn't convinced, but I took the plunge. My tribe encouraged me.

So, on a gloomy Sunday morning, I crossed the threshold of my beloved salon—a place that had always been a sanctuary of transformation and joy for me. But today, the air felt heavy with sadness. The salon opened just for me, giving me the privacy I desperately needed. Their kindness and understanding are something I'll forever cherish. I'm not sure I could have endured this in the bustling vibrancy I love about this space on a regular day. Joanna took the razor, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror, both brimming with tears. Agniezska's words, filled with wisdom and encouragement, resonated in the silence surrounding me as I watched each layer of my hair fall to the ground. It was another stark reminder that nothing in my life is as it once was.

While I genuinely appreciate the compliments about having a beautiful head and the ability to rock a Sinead O'Connor or GI Jane look, the truth is, I feel desperately naked. In the grand scheme of things, I know it's a small sacrifice for the gift of healing, but the woman staring back at me in the mirror scares me. I don't recognise her. She cries when no one is watching and retreats into silence because it's easier than admitting she's not as brave or strong as she pretends to be. I know the stats; I'm not naïve. Can the woman in the mirror defy the odds? Can she dig deep and hold onto every shred of positivity and hope as always? Can she be the 5%?

I mourn my hair. I've bought beautiful wigs, scarves, and hats, each one an attempt to reclaim some semblance of normalcy. Perhaps one day, I'll find the courage to venture out into the world with a bald head, but if I don't, that's okay, too. Please, don't judge me.

I know it will grow back, but I have no idea what colour or texture it will be.  I know with absolute certainty that I will never take it for granted again. I will treasure every strand, protect it, and count it among my daily blessings.  To all the women out there who are brave enough and don't feel the need to cover it, I am in awe of your strength and courage. You are beautiful, and I see you.

This journey through cancer is deeply personal, yet I've chosen to share it, committed to remaining authentic and honest, no matter how difficult it may be. I'm not someone who will document every moment, every meal, every treatment. But what I do share will always come from my heart to yours.

To Bayan and our children, I love you with my entire being.  You are all the most important humans in my life.  I could not do any of this without your constant love, care and support.  While I know that I am the one carrying this disease, I am acutely aware of the impact it has on you.  I see it etched in your faces and the pain and sadness reflected in your eyes.  I see the toll on my family and friends, I know deeply this is not easy for any of you.

A beautiful friend and survivor shared this poem with me, and it has meant the world to me (Thank you, Shaz).

“One day, the mountain that is in front of you will be so far behind you that it will barely be visible in the distance.  But the person you become in learning to get over it?  That will stay with you forever – and that is the point of the mountain.”

Thank you for climbing the mountain with me, for pushing me up when the next step is so physically, emotionally, and mentally challenging, for encouraging me, for walking with me, and for holding my hand.

If my dad was still with us, his words would be… “You’ve got this baby shoes” and I know deep in my core that I do.