Catherine Gigante-Brown

After I got over the initial devastation, I pulled myself up by my big-girl panties and got on with it. Chemo was no picnic—but it was do-able.

At first, I felt like an abandoned ten-year-old, dropped off at a remote summer camp—with the extra added attraction of no cell phone reception or Wi-Fi. I thought the hardest part of the weekend was going to be picking out a robe. Boy, was I wrong!

Makeup and I have always had a love/hate relationship: I love it; it hates me.

I realized my father was from a generation that never said those three little words. He was saying he loved me without them. But I didn't realize it then.

My husband and I agreed: raising a child with an independent spirit who made decisions for himself was a good thing.

I’m a firm believer that Tiny Kindnesses can change the world, one sweet, loving gesture at a time.

We’ve pieced ourselves back together in a patchwork quilt of ragged emotions. The aftermath of 9/11 wasn’t easy for us, yet it was much easier than for some. People standing 50 feet away from Peter didn’t come home that night; he did.

That’s the thing about being a breast cancer survivor — it’s always there: it never goes away. The scars, the fear that lurks in the back of your mind like a boogeyman. You’re going along nicely, living your merry life, and you’re fine, until you’re not.

The heartbreaking saga of a 14-year-old Black prostitute who was murdered in cold blood by her (maybe) pimp on Christmas Eve in 1900 Savannah.

I’m boycotting you until you start recognizing breast cancer survivors like me by carrying mastectomy bras.