Nagwa, Egypt

For years, I lived in a state of constant anticipation, waiting for a disease I felt was my destiny. Cancer had already stolen my mother at 48; she fought bone and lung cancer but was diagnosed too late. Nine years ago, it came for my sister. She was only 36. I watched her suffer through ovarian cancer until it spread to her bones. When she passed, she left me her three daughters to raise alongside my own three sons.

As a divorced mother and the sole provider for six children, I was the anchor of my family. But the doctors had been clear: with my family history, cancer wasn't a matter of "if," but "when." I lived my life looking in the mirror, waiting for the reflection to change.

A year and a half ago, it happened. I felt the lump.

I called Baheya Foundation and booked an appointment. It was there that they confirmed I had breast cancer, but to my relief, it was in the early stages. The MDT’s decision rewrote the story I had in my head: they determined that I would only need a lumpectomy followed by radiation therapy sessions, rather than the aggressive treatments I had witnessed with my mother and sister. While the medical prognosis was hopeful, my spirit was crushed. I thought cancer was a death sentence because, in my family, it always had been.

The hardest part was the thought of a mastectomy. Having lived much of my life without a husband, my sense of femininity was one of the few things I held onto for myself. I told my surgeon: "If you must remove it to save me, do it. But if there is any way to spare it, please save that part of my womanhood."

The surgery was a success. They removed the tumor and the affected lymph nodes while preserving my breast. Physically, I was healing. Emotionally, I was drowning.

Even though my children were young adults, they didn’t know how to support me. They were paralyzed by their own fear of losing me. I was surrounded by family, yet I felt entirely alone.

That was when I turned to the Psychosocial Support Department at Baheya. For the first time, I found people who spoke my language. I went on trips with fellow fighters who taught me that we are each other's safety nets.

My life, which once felt hollow and filled with dread, is now full of people who truly understand. I spent my life waiting for cancer to take me, but instead, it led me to a community where I finally belong. I am no longer just a caregiver; I am a woman who is cared for.