In August 2009, just a year after my twins were born, I was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of breast cancer. I was 35 years old and still recovering from the fog of sleepless nights. When I first got the diagnosis, my then-husband had two broken hands. And while I was navigating treatment—chemo, surgery, and the terrifying unknown—our son was diagnosed with autism. It felt like my life had split open, like I was being asked to find strength I didn’t know I had.
After chemo ended, I chose to have a double mastectomy and reconstructive surgery. At the time, it felt like the right decision—a way to feel whole again. But in the years that followed, I struggled with persistent symptoms: deep fatigue, brain fog, anxiety, and inflammation. I often worried it meant the cancer had returned.
Discovering breast implant illness
Then, in 2019, I had a biking accident where I flew over the handlebars. The right side of my chest landed directly on one of the handlebars—full force. The impact shook something loose inside of me, and, for the first time, I began to question my implants.
I spoke to my naturopathic doctor, and, for the first time, I heard the words breast implant illness. I started researching and realized my symptoms mirrored what many other women were experiencing. I also discovered I had textured implants manufactured by Allergan—implants recalled that same year for their link to a rare cancer.
I decided to have my implants removed and scheduled the surgery for that September.
An explant isn’t a simple procedure. The implants had been placed beneath my pectoral muscles, and surgery involved not only removing them, but also carefully extracting the surrounding scar tissue. It was more complex than I expected, and post-surgical complications meant it took a long time to heal. But the symptoms I’d experienced for almost a decade diminished soon after the surgery.
Healing through art
This journey has not been linear. There are days I feel strong and radiant, and days I still grieve. I’m still working on making peace with losing something so sacred, so tied to my identity and womanhood. But I am learning that healing is not about “getting over” something. It’s about integrating it, honouring it, and making space for it—and then asking: How do I want to move forward from here?
Recently, I took a powerful step forward by inviting several dear friends to help me with a deeply personal part of my healing. Melanie Mason from West Coast Karma, an intuitive artist, used a mix of henna and jagua [a South American skin dye like henna, but dark blue – Ed.] to create art across my chest while Meredith Rose, a gifted photographer, documented the process.
This experience unfolded in the garden of another close friend. While Mel painted and Meredith photographed, I was surrounded by women I love—each of them bearing witness and holding space for me. Together, they helped me reclaim a vulnerable and sacred part of myself. There is something incredibly powerful about being seen, being supported, and being reminded that we don’t have to walk the path alone.
The experience was about adorning myself—not as decoration, but as a reminder of who I am and a celebration of what I’ve survived. I’m not ashamed. I’m here, vulnerable, and alive.
Moving forward
That’s why I’m sharing my story and photos. This isn’t about pretending my path hasn’t been hard. It has. But what has emerged for me is a kind of healing that I am still walking toward—but no longer hiding from. It takes courage, but it leads to deeper connection, real intimacy, and new truths. And when one woman speaks her truth, it lights the way for others.
If you’re walking through your own version of loss or transformation, I hope you know this: Your body is not wrong. Your pain is not weakness. Healing is beautiful.
The most profound power doesn’t lie in what was taken. It lies in what we choose to create in its place.
Watch Shannon’s TEDx talk, “The Gift of Failure: How Discomfort Shapes Success,” here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-_jBtXjyvss
