How a people-pleaser became a Tough Twinkie
Guest opinion by Shea Courtney
October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and I’d like to honor the recovering people-pleasers — like myself, who apologize to furniture after bumping into it (only after swearing for stubbing a toe).
The statistic still stuns me: 1 in 8 women in the U.S. will experience breast cancer (National Breast Cancer Foundation, Inc.). Fascinating insights are emerging: women are more likely to develop disease as a result of long-term stress (The Swaddle). Americans are Olympic-level at dragging emotional baggage and labeling it “resilience.” For me, it took cancer for it to finally sink in.
This year kicked off with breast cancer just before my 33rd birthday. The diagnosis came after a series of imaging. I went in for my first mammogram and nothing appeared because of what experts called “dense breast tissue.” Considering family history, I was flagged “high-risk,” so an MRI was ordered. That’s when a suspicious clump showed in my left breast. Next was the ultrasound, the biopsy, and finally, the pathology report.
PSA: Breast cancer is showing up in younger women. My advice? Get tested and learn your breast density (it’s not cup size nor shape). Women with dense tissue are more likely to experience breast cancer (CBS Colorado).
Genetic testing revealed an environmental cause and not an inherited cancer gene. What could that be? Let’s play detective, Sherlock. Perhaps drinking from mountain streams while backpacking, collecting parasites, ingesting microplastics and pesticides on food, absorbing toxins in beauty products, sipping too many cocktails, COVID playing the long game… but a definite answer may never come. Instead, let’s consider the link between disease and long-term stress.
Reflecting on growing up in Carbondale, where the peaks are high and the competitiveness even higher, I learned to tightrope over egos and juggle expectations before I could parallel park a clown car. Well, first I had to cram my tall body into one. Contorting myself to balance everyone’s comfort labeled me polite — but therapy called it self-abandonment. Potato, poh-tah-toh.
When “mentors” were the shame-paparazzi (spoiler: not motivational), I continued the circus act of crowd-pleasing, like small-town pleasantry to maintain “peace” (because running into the same folks on repeat was guaranteed). It carried on long after leaving Carbondale. As an adult, I tried not to boomerang back here because of the trapeze of expectations. Despite my protests, the “Sopris Curse” summoned me back to the very place where I perfected the art of people-pleasing. Now, it was the center ring for the breast cancer journey.
This time, I twisted differently and flipped into self-empowerment. No more somersaults. After all, I am a Tough Twinkie — a nickname that I adopted from a term my grandmother used for, “get tough”.
Chemotherapy, followed by surgery, tested my patience. As did my 8-year-old niece’s announcement about vanishing hair. One day I asked, “Wanna shave off my eyebrows?” She gasped! To my surprise, she declined.
Hair loss was strange, and I couldn’t dodge the other symptoms either. So I chose to grow with treatment. I discovered how strong my body is and how powerful my mind can be. To the shame-paparazzi, y’all can simmer down now.
Joy and resilience became my focus. I leaned into the discomfort and I became the Ring Master — showing up to the party with a disco ball. I declared the treatment could dissolve the tumor like cotton candy, but it couldn’t dissolve my character. A Tough Twinkie stays intact.
On a short trip, my fiancé and I met a woman who spent seven years in treatment and she hid from the world. I understood why. Fear was real, especially with environmental cancer. Plus the daily side effects were emotionally dehydrating and sharing them on repeat was exhausting. However, I refused to hide. I created a blog to release the pain, laugh at it, and update everyone all at once: www.toughtwinkie.blogspot.com.
Through months of treatment, I realized the world can be a dark place. I asked myself, “If my time is ticking then what disco am I throwing?” The answer glowed back, one that’s enthusiastic and shines like neon. Turns out, my role isn’t to dim the lights for everyone’s comfort (but I’ll keep the Snuggie); it’s to be courageous and live with joy. This recovering people-pleaser has finally learned that honoring yourself isn’t selfish — it’s how you heal.