To my Amazing Community,

 

Today is October 1, 2026, and kickass advocates like Cancer Fashionista (Melissa Berry), Aisha Patterson, Dear Cancer It's Me (Asha Miller), Brooklyn Olumba, and so many others are reminding us to feel them on the first. I often wonder what would have happened if I had said something when I first felt that lump the size of a pea in my breast. I hoped it was just a clogged milk duct, even though some part of me knew it was something much worse. Would my cancer have been caught earlier? How would my life be different? Would I have caught it before I nursed my daughter from an infected breast, which is one of my greatest regrets?

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I sleep with the grief of staying silent. as it wraps around my body like a tainted memory that I can't shake. I wake with frustration that my choices look eerily like cowardice when I reflect on the fear that routinely slid down my spine. That fear that can still raise goosebumps that were the farthest thing from pleasure and excitement. Instead they reek of the shame I still carry like a lodestone in my heart. Every time I look into my daughter's beautiful almond eyes, I wonder if I exposed her to the inevitability of fighting the same beast I am still trying to slay. When I wrap my arms around my teenage son, who would rather be anywhere but in my embrace, I can still smell his fine baby hair after a bath. I remember our bubble fights from long before he understood the words I use to express my deep, unflinching, immovable love for him. I feel a heavy, quiet guilt that my DNA could expose him to a fate that would break my heart to witness.

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Yes, I know these fears may seem unreasonable. But how do I shed emotions that I've shoved so deep into my soul that they are invisibly stitched into every fiber of my being? I am so ashamed that I didn't take advantage of all the early mammograms I fought so hard to receive. So, just like these amazing advocates, I'm asking you to feel them on the first. If something feels different, say something, no matter how big or small the change may seem. Do it for yourself and for the people whose unconditional love propels you forward every day.

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This month is so important for breast cancer patients, previvors, survivors, thrivers, and everyone across the cancer continuum. It isn't only about advocacy. It's about taking action in this moment, even if that action is five minutes in the shower with your arms raised as you check for lumps, bumps, dips and divots, or you standing in front of an audience to tell your story, influencing women as a credible messenger on social media, or throwing a mammogram party for you and your friends to let them know that you love them for life and never to death.

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As a breast cancer survivor, this month is so important to the journey of my story and the story of my journey. It is just as important to share the stories of so many women: the women who walked this path before me, the women who share this space with me now as we advocate in our own way, and the women who will unfortunately come behind me. This month is about more than a color or a ribbon, and it's about more than breast cancer. October is also Domestic Violence Awareness Month (DVAM).

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Not long ago, I shared the story of one of my breast cancer sisters who was silently locked in warfare for her safety and her life, when all I saw was confidence, joy, beauty, and a vibrancy that hid her experience from my eyes and the eyes of others who were also unable to see beyond the façade. I vividly remember the day that we worked on a project together. Afterward, as I was sitting in the back of my Uber on the way home, I kept thinking that she was one of the most amazing women I'd ever met. She had on this royal blue shirt that matched the effervescence of her personality, and it just permeated the air around all of us. Just seeing her wide, encompassing smile, which truly enhanced the obvious beauty, made me smile.

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She, and all of our fellow advocates, inspired me to be a more effective champion for the cancer community by being thoughtful and intentional when choosing if, where, why, and how I use my voice. For the time we were there, she gave us a Masterclass in illustrating our collective cause of eliminating health disparities in communities of color, a cause that reached beyond our own stories and experiences to the other melanated communities that look like us. Now, it breaks my heart to know what she hid so well. There was a larger beast casting a long shadow over her life that could have taken her at any time before or after a cancer diagnosis that she never asked for but fought so hard to conquer... just like the violence that is, thankfully, in her rearview window.

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Now it breaks my heart to know what she hid so well. A larger beast was casting a long shadow over her life, and it could have taken her at any time before or after the cancer diagnosis she never asked for but fought so hard to conquer. Thankfully, just like her cancer, that violence is now in her rearview mirror.

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As I think about her, I wonder how many other women are wearing a mask of happiness that camouflages their sadness, their fear, and the helplessness of trying to escape a violent cycle that has become routine. How many women are learning the art of walking on eggshells in their own homes? How many are projecting fulfillment while the people who love them and would protect them are literally within arm's reach? How do we crack the outer husk of "I'm doing alright," "I'm fine," or "Everything is great"?

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I tried to open myself to her story slowly, incrementally almost the way you inch your toe into the cold deep end while gripping the hot sun heated stainless steel pool ladder for balance. Eventually you realize you have to release your hold. You gather yourself, breathe deeply, and take the plunge, allowing your body and mind to fall into the familiar shock of an experience you once swore you would never revisit. As I tried to understand her history with domestic violence, I felt my own emotions rising, a mix of protectiveness and recognition that was intense yet not entirely unexpected. When I hear the stories of other people, I try to fully understand their experience, but this one was a challenging row to hoe. Not because I did not understand or could not understand. It was the exact opposite. I understood more than you could possibly imagine.

And then there is the contrast. For some of you, creating captivating social media content is your ministry, a place where you pour your creativity with ease. For me, this moment was something entirely different. It was a quiet reckoning with the parts of myself I thought I had sealed away, a reminder that understanding someone else’s pain sometimes requires touching your own.

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For others, standing in the gap when others are falling to their knees is your ministry. Well, research is my pulpit. I stand in that sacred space not because I need to, but because I am also a victim of domestic violence, and living with memories with it has decimated many areas of my life. That became painfully clear after my lupus diagnosis and my breast cancer diagnosis, when I began therapy. There I had the safe space I had to excavate those experiences, retraumatize myself and battling memories that I wished could have stayed buried in silence. I also had to become reacquainted with the rage that always sits just below the surface of who I am and who I am dedicated to becoming. I share this because I know how traveled this road can be, and I want you to know that you don't have to walk it alone.

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So, to all of the men and women navigating a real life that, again, goes far beyond colors and ribbons: I see you, I hear you, and I am here for you. I will amplify my voice to advocate for you, steer resources your way, and encourage you to live the best life that all of us have deserved since we drew our first breath. If you are ready to take the steps to break the shackles of domestic violence, here is some information and some pathways that can help you when you are ready, which I hope is NOW!

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Before we go any further, let's look at what two important terms mean, because knowing the difference helps clinicians plan for your safety and offer the right support. Intimate partner violence, or IPV, is abuse, violence, or coercive control by a current or former spouse, dating partner, or cohabiting romantic partner. It is about power and control inside a sexual or romantic relationship, and it can be physical, sexual, emotional, or financial. Domestic violence, or DV, is the broader term. It includes IPV, but it also covers abuse that happens within a household or family, such as between siblings, between adult children and parents, or between other people who live together but are not intimate partners.

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Beyond the overt brutality we often picture when domestic violence enters the conversation, abuse can show up in quieter ways for men and women navigating cancer and other chronic illnesses. I wrote a blog post about this before, and I want to share a few points from it here. Abuse thrives in isolation and control, and cancer care can unintentionally hand an abuser new levers, including transportation, money, schedules, passwords, and privacy. What looks like support from the outside can be surveillance and coercion on the inside. When you and your care team recognize these patterns, you can intervene earlier with greater stealth and more safely.

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When the person who is supposed to hold you up during cancer is the one holding you down, the signs can be hard to name, even to yourself. Survivors, advocates, and clinicians across the country have named seven tactics that show up again and again after diagnosis, during treatment, and into survivorship. Here are four of them for you to consider. If any of these feel familiar, I want you to know that you are not imagining it.

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The first is restricting necessities. Your partner may keep you from the foods your doctor recommended, your compression garments, your mastectomy bras, the supplies you need after surgery, or even your basic hygiene items, and little by little, this slows your recovery. The second is interfering with your visits. Your rides may get "forgotten," or your partner may insist on coming into the exam room, answer questions for you, talk you out of a second opinion, or read your patient portal and messages.

The third is sabotaging your medication. Your medicine may be hidden or rationed, or you may be told you don't really need it, and you may feel pressured to stay quiet about side effects so your care never changes. The fourth is sexual and reproductive coercion. You may be pressured into sex while your immune system is low or while you're still healing from surgery. Decisions about your fertility may be made for you, or birth control and STI risk may be used against you.

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I also know that for so many of us, these obstacles are stacked on top of others. Racism, money worries, immigration fears, disability, and living far from care can make it even harder to speak up or get help. For Black women and other women of color, years of not being believed can make the exam room feel like one more place where it isn't safe to tell the truth. I name these things because help only works when it fits the life you are living.

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Women who have faced breast cancer and abuse at the same time often c0nsider it a second diagnosis. People rarely see it because it usually stays behind closed doors and follows them into clinic visits where they are rarely alone. A ride to chemo, a patient portal, and even an insurance form can all become ways to control them. I think about my sister in the royal blue shirt, and about every woman who is still smiling through it.

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If you are living this right now, I want you to hear this from me. You are not alone, and none of this is your fault. Prowl The LAB stands beside you every step of the way, whether you are ready to leave today, ready to make a plan, or only ready to whisper the truth to one person you trust. Your personal safety matters as much as your ultrasounds, treatment plan, and scans.

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If you are living with someone who monitors your every move, it can feel almost impossible to speak openly about your safety. In many relationships marked by control or violence, the partner rarely leaves the survivor’s side, even during medical appointments. That makes private conversations difficult, and sometimes dangerous, so any step you take has to be rooted in what is actually possible for you.

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Your care team can still support you. Clinicians are trained to notice when something feels off, and they can ask gentle, routine questions that give you space to answer in a way that feels safe. If your partner refuses to step out, you can respond with short phrases that signal concern without escalating the situation. You can also ask your clinician to speak in general terms about your health needs, which sometimes creates a natural reason for them to request a brief moment alone with you. Some survivors use that moment to share a simple statement like “I do not feel safe at home” or “I need help with my care.” You do not have to explain everything at once.

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If your clinic has a social worker, patient navigator, or domestic violence advocate, they can become part of your care team. They can help with transportation, scheduling, and connecting you to resources that do not require you to disclose sensitive information through shared phones or devices. They can also help you identify what communication methods feel safest, whether that is a secure number, a trusted friend, or messages that avoid details that could put you at risk.

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If it is safe for you, you can keep small notes about the parts of your care that were interrupted, like rides that never came or medication that went missing. Those notes should stay with someone you trust, not on a shared phone or computer. A safety plan can be simple and tailored to your reality. It might include a code word, a place you can go if you need to leave quickly, or a small bag of essentials stored with someone who will not reveal it.

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Advocates can also help with phone and tech safety, including turning off location sharing or reviewing privacy settings. None of these steps require you to confront your partner directly. They are quiet, practical ways to protect your health while navigating a situation that is complex, frightening, and deeply personal.

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When you're ready, help is there day and night. You can call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1.800.799.SAFE (7233), text START to 88788, or chat online at thehotline.org. You can change your mind at any point, and you can take this one step at a time.

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You shouldn't have to keep yourself safe while you are fighting cancer. Domestic abuse and intimate partner violence are health issues, and they deserve a health response. You deserve private time with your clinician, clear choices, and care that respects your voice, even if your voice is only a whisper today. Healing and safety go together, and you deserve both.

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To my clinician and community partners, your room can be a refuge for the woman who has nowhere else to go. Use this month to show your patients that your clinic is a safe place, and keep that promise all year long. Five minutes alone with each patient, plain and respectful safety questions, protected portals, and warm handoffs to advocates can change the course of someone's care. So can rides, childcare, and pharmacy delivery that make a patient less dependent on a partner. When we build fairness into how clinics work, especially for Black women and other women of color, patients are better able to stay on treatment and get back their sense of control and trust.

To everyone else, I'm asking you to hold our clinics accountable in October and in every month that follows.

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So to the woman reading this in an exam room, an infusion chair, or a quiet corner of your home, I see you and I believe you. Prowl The LAB is here for you, and we are not going anywhere. We choose to treat the tumor and protect the person, today, tomorrow, and every day after.

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With love,

Ebonie Michelle