Mastectomy and Feeling Sexy
🌼 Date: Friday, July 10, 2026
⚡ Energy: Honest, tender, and a little bruised
❤️🩹 Status: Learning this new body
🤕 Outlook: Healing is not just skin deep
One thing I have discovered during this waiting-while-healing period is that mastectomy and feeling sexy are like oil and water.
They do not go together.
They do not live in my brain together.
And I definitely do not see it when I look in the mirror anymore.
There.
I said it.
And I know that is heavy.
But it is also true.
Whether you stay flat, choose DIEP flap reconstruction, go through expanders and implants, get tattoos, get nipples, skip nipples, keep scars, revise scars, or land somewhere in between, there is no way to fully prepare yourself for what it feels like to look at your body after breast cancer surgery.
People can tell you.
Doctors can explain it.
Pictures can be shown.
Options can be discussed.
Plans can be made.
But until it is your body, your scars, your chest, your mirror, your grief, your skin, your hands touching places that feel foreign and numb and tight and unfamiliar, you cannot fully know.
When you are first diagnosed with breast cancer, everything becomes about survival.
Surgery.
Pathology reports.
Margins.
Lymph nodes.
Treatment plans.
Chemo.
Radiation.
Medication.
Appointments.
Side effects.
Healing.
More appointments.
More decisions.
More things to Google at 2:00 in the morning even though you know better.
You are so focused on staying alive that feeling feminine or confident afterward barely even crosses your mind.
At least it did not cross mine in any real way.
I knew my body would change.
Of course I knew.
I signed the papers.
I had the conversations.
I saw the diagrams.
I understood, intellectually, that a double mastectomy meant my breasts were being removed.
But understanding something in your brain and living with it in your body are two very different things.
Because then one day, the surgery is over.
The drains are out.
The bandages are gone.
The appointments slow down.
The emergency part quiets a little.
And there you are.
Standing in front of the mirror.
Looking at your new body.
And it is strange because you still recognize yourself.
The eyes looking back are still mine.
The mouth.
The face.
The expressions.
The sarcasm.
The attitude.
The Tiny Tina stare that says, “Are you freaking kidding me right now?”
Still there.
But something feels different.
Something feels missing.
Something feels rearranged.
Something feels like my body and not my body at the same time.
The sparkle I once carried without even thinking about it suddenly feels harder to find.
And I am not talking about the outside sparkle.
I can still put on lip gloss.
I can still wear leopard print.
I can still throw on my Dr. Martens.
I can still accessorize like a woman who fully intends to be seen from space.
That part of me is still in there.
But the inside sparkle?
The quiet confidence?
The feeling sexy in my own skin?
That part feels harder right now.
I am still processing the scars.
Still adjusting to the expanders.
Still learning how my chest feels.
Still learning what parts are numb.
Still learning what parts hurt.
Still learning what clothes feel okay.
Still learning what looks like me.
Still learning what does not.
Still learning how to look in the mirror without immediately inventorying everything cancer changed.
And somewhere in all of that is the quiet struggle nobody talks about enough.
Rebuilding self-esteem.
Rediscovering confidence.
Learning how to feel feminine again.
Learning how to feel emotionally and physically comfortable with your partner again.
Learning how to exist in a body that has been cut, stretched, burned, filled, flattened, poked, scanned, marked, measured, and medically managed for months.
Cancer does not just attack your body.
It attacks your identity.
It messes with the way you see yourself.
It messes with how you feel in clothes.
How you feel naked.
How you feel being touched.
How you feel being looked at.
How you feel walking past a mirror.
How you feel when your partner tells you that you are beautiful, and part of you wants to believe them, but another part of you wants to point at your chest and say, “Have you seen this?”
And the thing is, I know Casey loves me.
I know he is attracted to me.
I know he sees more than scars and expanders and missing nipples and Barbie boobs under construction.
I know that.
But knowing it and feeling it are not always the same thing.
Because this is not about whether he loves me enough.
He does.
This is about whether I can learn to love this version of me enough.
And that is harder.
That is the part I did not know would be so complicated.
The body image part.
The intimacy part.
The femininity part.
The self-worth part.
The part where survival is not the finish line.
It is just the place where you finally have enough quiet to notice everything cancer took with it.
And maybe that sounds dramatic.
But honestly?
Mastectomy is dramatic.
Breast cancer is dramatic.
Having body parts removed so you can stay alive is dramatic.
Trying to feel sexy while your chest is still a reconstruction zone is dramatic.
This is not a cute little confidence dip.
This is grief.
It is grief for the body I had.
Grief for the breasts that fed my babies.
Grief for the way clothes used to fit.
Grief for the ease I did not even realize I had.
Grief for the version of me who could get dressed, look in the mirror, and not immediately think about cancer.
And I am allowed to grieve that.
I am allowed to be grateful to be alive and still miss what was taken.
Both things can be true.
I can be thankful the cancer is gone and still hate the scars.
I can be relieved I had the double mastectomy and still feel sad about my body.
I can joke about Barbie boobs and gummy bear implants and permanent headlights being off, and still have moments where I look in the mirror and feel crushed.
Humor does not erase the grief.
It just helps me breathe through it.
This is a side of breast cancer that does not get talked about enough.
Healing is not only physical.
Sometimes the deepest scars are the ones tied to identity, femininity, intimacy, confidence, and self-worth.
Sometimes the hardest part is not the surgery itself.
Sometimes it is learning how to stand in front of the mirror afterward and be kind to the woman looking back.
So if you are in that place right now, trying to reconnect with the woman you once knew while learning to embrace the woman you have become, you are not alone.
If you are grateful and devastated at the same time, you are not alone.
If you love your partner and still feel awkward in your own skin, you are not alone.
If you avoid mirrors some days, you are not alone.
If you make jokes because the truth is too heavy, you are definitely not alone.
I am right there with you.
Still healing.
Still grieving.
Still learning.
Still trying to find my sparkle again.
And maybe it will not look exactly the same as it did before.
Maybe it will be softer.
Maybe it will be harder earned.
Maybe it will come back in pieces.
Maybe some days it will be lip gloss and leopard print.
Maybe some days it will be standing in front of the mirror for five seconds longer than I did yesterday.
Maybe some days it will just be letting Casey love me while I am still learning how to love this body myself.
That counts too.
Because I am still here.
Still me.
Still Tiny Tina.
Still under construction.
Still worthy.
Still loved.
Still trying.
And maybe that is where feeling sexy starts again.
Not with perfect confidence.
Not with a perfect body.
Not with nipples or no nipples or tattoos or implants or scars.
Maybe it starts with this:
I survived.
This body got me here.
And I am going to learn how to live in it.
One badass day at a time.
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💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time
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