There I was, alone at 5 am, wide awake.
My husband was away on a business trip, and I found myself standing in front of the mirror, staring at a woman I didn’t want to look at. Forty years into my life, I had finally reached a place where I felt satisfied with my appearance. The year before had brought my first breast cancer diagnosis, and I felt lucky that it was caught early, Stage 0, Ductal Carcinoma In-Situ, allowing me to escape the harsh effects of chemotherapy. Through the practice of my own body knowledge, intuition, and advocating for my health, I had stopped cancer dead in its tracks before imaging could even pick it up. I felt like I had superpowers.
After a bilateral mastectomy with immediate reconstruction and a year of painstaking recovery, everything seemed to align for the first time in my life. I was at the weight I wanted to be, my hair had grown to a length I felt proud of, and I could wear clothes that made me feel confident.
Finally, I was living my best life, until I wasn’t, because there it was—my hair, lying in patches on the bathroom sink after a month of chemo—a cruel reminder that I wasn’t one of the lucky ones after all.
My breast cancer wasn’t stopped in its tracks despite my best efforts; this one was aggressive, and I was now at Stage 2.
Childhood bullies and impossible beauty standards had programmed me to believe that my worth was tied to my appearance. By the time I reached 40, I had internalized those voices so deeply that I had become my own bully, and those childhood memories stood ready to validate the cruel whispers I told myself: I’m not worth much. As I looked at my reflection, I could feel the confidence I had fought so hard to build slipping away. My worth, once so tightly bound to my appearance, was unraveling before my eyes.
It was time—finally—to confront myself.
In the years leading up to my diagnosis, I poured my heart and soul into creating Sanara, a body care line that means "you will heal" in Spanish, paying homage to my Latin heritage and providing solace for people like me who battled skin conditions such as psoriasis. At the time, I didn’t fully realize it, but my subconscious was desperately seeking a way to connect with my mind, body, and spirit. I was crafting products and rituals that encouraged others to reconnect with themselves, to find peace and balance in their own lives, yet I was still grappling with my own sense of self-worth. I was trying to escape the prison of fleeting appearance while pouring my idea of perfection into Sanara.
When the second diagnosis came, I was faced with a fear I had long tried to escape: losing my hair—it was the one thing I felt “lucky” in. It wasn’t just about the physical loss; it was about the deep emotional ties I had to my appearance. I sought stories from friends who had gone through breast cancer before me, hoping their experiences would provide some comfort, some insight into how I could navigate this loss. But no matter how much advice I gathered; nothing gave me comfort.
A year earlier, when I was trying to reconnect with myself, I had done an exercise where I sifted through old childhood photos, searching for the one that captured the essence of who I truly was. I found it—a picture of me at age six, 1988, surrounded by my older sister and six neighborhood friends at my birthday party. The yellow wallpaper in the background set the scene, and on the table in front of us was my favorite—a homemade strawberry cake with vanilla icing and candles, baked in a simple pan. Balloons and presents were scattered around, adding to the festive atmosphere. My sister, embarrassed to be caught in the moment, covered her face at the audacity of her little sister planning her own birthday party. But none of that mattered to me then—I was a little girl full of pride and happiness, knowing I had brought everyone together to celebrate—me.
As I contemplated how I would honor the impending loss of my hair, and the advice from my friends didn’t resonate with me, I kept coming back to that picture. I looked at little Rebekah, with her wide smile and infectious joy, and I realized that she held the answer.
I was going to throw a party. Instead of mourning the loss, I would honor it. Instead of retreating into fear, I would celebrate. Suddenly, I was forced to think of who I was from the perspective of little Rebekah, with her wide smile and infectious joy, still untouched by the impossible beauty standards that would later try to define her.
The day of the party arrived, my hair was thin, having lost half of my hair in just a weeks’ time and as I looked around the room, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions—nervousness, anticipation, but also a quiet resolve. The room was bright, brunch themed, filled with the scent of fresh flowers and the soft hum of conversation. My closest friends and family with mimosas in their hands gathered around, their faces full of love, warmth and encouragement. A table in the corner held cupcakes with pink frosting, a nod to the childhood cake in the photo that had inspired this moment.
We headed outside, and I sat in a chair while my friend began shaving my head. My husband stood by my side, holding my hand as my friends and family watched. The cool breeze brushed against my skin, mingling with the hum of the clippers. At one moment, fear gripped me, and I blurted out, “Wait, can we stop?” The crowd laughed, hearing the lighthearted fear in my voice. They, too, were in awe that I was doing this in front of them, where they could see my every reaction in real time. The clippers paused, and I caught a glimpse of my cool mohawk in the mirror. I couldn’t help but laugh because I kind of liked it, and the tension broke. I looked at my husband, then back at my friend. “Okay, let’s keep going,” I said, smiling as the clippers buzzed back to life.
It was done, my head was shaved, and the room erupted in applause and tears, and one by one, my friends took turns coming up to me to give me a hug as I held my head into my hands in total shock of the moment. My oldest niece, caught up in the emotion of what her Auntie had just done was bawling, “You are beautiful,”. The sound of laughter and music filled the air, and for the first time in months, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders.
Surrounded by the love and support of those closest to me, I looked around the room, my head now covered in a patchwork of short hair and realized, that this wasn’t just about losing my hair—it was about shedding the fears and false beliefs that had held me captive for so long and reclaiming my power in the presence of my friends and family. I let go of the last remnants of the old belief that my worth was tied to my appearance. It was a moment of transformation, realizing that true beauty and strength are not defined by what’s on the outside but by the light that shines from within and for the first time in my life, I truly felt seen.
Being bald has taught me that beauty isn’t about what others see—it’s about how I see me. I learned to redefine beauty on my own terms, recognizing that my strength, wisdom, and compassion are far more powerful than any physical trait.
Baldness was more than a physical change; it was a metaphor for stripping away layers of doubt, insecurity, and fear. In the mirror, I no longer saw someone defined by society’s standards but a woman who had fought her way to the surface of her own self-worth.
The lesson in being bald was about confronting the harshest of critics—myself—and embracing the freedom that comes when you stop allowing others, or even your own past beliefs, to define you. It was in that naked vulnerability that I finally learned to trust myself. I became aware that my power came from within, and no external force could take that away from me.
Today, I am a different person. I no longer retreat or determine my worth through the lens of impossible beauty standards. Instead, I see a woman who has learned to trust her intuition, fights for her voice to be heard, and keeps coming back to her true self no matter what life throws at her. Our greatest power lies in our ability to embrace who we are, perceived flaws and all and that worthiness is not a feeling; it’s an action that we decide to make every day. We each have the power to decide. Deciding, I am worthy to be seen, deciding that my voice is worthy to be heard, deciding I am worthy, just because I am—bold, beautiful, and unapologetically me.
