The Shape of Survival: Living Flat by Choice, Not by Default

Hi friends—it’s been a while.

I haven’t written here on Pink9to5.com in almost a year. While I could easily fill a post with all the projects I’ve buried myself in (and there are many), the truth is more personal. I stepped away from this space—and in many ways, from being “seen” at all. I kept my head down. Focused on work. Focused on staying afloat. I don’t think I realized just how much I’d ducked out of life until recently.

Some of it, I’m sure, has been depression. Grief, too. Coming through cancer treatment changes you—physically, emotionally, and existentially. And after being diagnosed with breast cancer, all the surgeries, the treatment appointments, the well-wishers, and the pink flowers, there’s the silence. The part where you’re supposed to “go back to normal,” except nothing feels normal anymore.

And then there’s the part where you look in the mirror. Flat.

This post is about that.

Let’s start with the basics: clothes.

I’ve always enjoyed fashion. But post-mastectomy, shopping became a minefield. Tops gaped in weird places. Fabric clung where it shouldn’t. Necklines that used to feel bold now feel… vulnerable. I learned quickly that “flattering” is a relative term. I’ve spent hours in front of a dressing room mirror turning, tugging, trying to find something that felt like me—and didn’t scream “post-op.” Sometimes, I nailed it. Other times, I cried in the car.

Then there’s the staring. 

Most people are subtle, but not all. I’ve caught people doing double takes, their eyes flicking down and back up, confused. I don’t wear prosthetics, and while I don’t exactly flaunt my chest (or lack thereof), I also don’t hide. Women who choose to go flat make a conscious choice. It’s a decision that took some guts and still requires some days.

Then, there’s the inner commentary.

It’s funny how something as simple as getting dressed can turn into a full-blown pep talk. Some mornings, I feel put-together and powerful. Other times, I catch my reflection and think, “Well, this top looked better in my imagination.” I’ve learned to laugh at those moments, to give myself grace. Living flat means reintroducing myself to my body—and doing it with patience, humor, and a growing sense of ease. I’m not striving for perfection—just peace. And maybe a shirt that fits.

And yet—there is beauty here.

“There’s freedom in no longer chasing a version of my body that no longer exists. There’s peace in accepting this one.”

There’s the morning I stepped out in a V-neck and didn’t overthink it. The time I saw my reflection, I didn’t flinch. I had a conversation with a woman at the grocery store who whispered, “I went flat, too.” There’s freedom in no longer chasing a version of my body that no longer exists. There’s peace in accepting this one.

Living flat is not the absence of something—it’s the presence of survival. Opting out of reconstructive surgery for aesthetic flat closure is a valid, powerful choice. It’s a declaration that healing doesn’t have to include breast reconstruction to be complete.

In some ways, going flat has aligned with a deeper shedding of old expectations and the need to perform for others. I’ve stopped explaining myself so much and apologizing for my absence or my presence.

Living flat after mastectomy.

Living flat—choosing not to reconstruct after a mastectomy—is not something I planned for, but it’s something I’ve come to own. And I want to be honest about what it’s really like. 

At first, there was an overwhelming sense of loss, a feeling that something fundamental had been taken from me. I remember staring in the mirror, grappling with the reflection of a body I didn’t quite recognize. The absence of my breasts felt like a stark reminder of my battle with cancer, of the hospitals and the treatments, the uncertainty and fear that had consumed me for so long. But as the weeks turned into months, I shifted my perspective.

Living flat became a journey of self-discovery.

I started to redefine my femininity—not by societal standards or the expectations of others, but on my own terms. I began to embrace the freedom that came with my decision. No more worrying about uncomfortable bras or the constraints of clothing designed to enhance what I no longer had. I reveled in the simplicity of choosing outfits that felt good without the added layer of concern over how they might accentuate my chest.

Yet, the experience was not without its challenges. There were moments of vulnerability, especially in social settings where I felt the weight of scrutiny or the unasked questions hanging in the air. I learned to navigate conversations about my body, using humor or candor to deflect the discomfort. And while I found solidarity in sharing my story with others in breast cancer support groups who had faced similar choices, I still felt isolated in my decision.

There were also unexpected joys. I discovered a new appreciation for my body in its entirety, learning to celebrate the strength and resilience it embodied. The scars became symbols of survival rather than reminders of loss. I found empowerment in my choice to live flat, reclaiming my body as my own narrative, one that didn’t require validation from others.

Redefining Healing and Wholeness

If you’ve read this far—thank you. Whether you’re a fellow survivor, someone considering going flat, or simply navigating your own version of hard—I see you. I’m with you.

This path isn’t always easy and doesn’t always feel brave. But it is honest. And in that honesty, I’ve found a deeper connection—to myself, to others, and to what matters.

Living flat has taught me that healing doesn’t have to mean returning to who you were. Sometimes, it means becoming someone new—more grounded, open, and whole in ways you never imagined.