Reclaiming My Beauty After Cancer: The Limiting Belief That Silenced My Confidence

The transition of what was to what is…

When I shared my limiting belief during the @blackmuvaconvos Self Care December challenge, I told the group:

“I can’t rest until everything is okay.”

And that belief is true about me.
I’ve always been the one holding everything together.
The strong one.
The dependable one.The one who makes sure everything and everyone is good before I allow myself to breathe.

But saying that belief out loud opened the door to a much deeper one I hadn’t admitted, not to the group, not to my husband, not even to myself.

A belief born from cancer, loss, change, trauma, and quiet grief.

A belief that whispered to me every time I looked in the mirror…

“You are no longer sexy.”
“You are no longer desirable.”
“You are a shell of the woman you once were.”

Not because anyone said it.
Not because my husband acted differently.
But because I couldn’t see myself anymore.

The Identity Loss No One Warned Me About

Cancer didn’t just take my energy.
It took my identity.

My Sisterlocks, years of growth, culture, dedication, and personality, were gone.
My skin changed.
My nails darkened and weakened.
My face swelled, then sank, then swelled again.
My glow disappeared.

I would walk past the mirror and whisper,
“Who is this woman?”

Every feature that people once complimented, the things that made me feel feminine, beautiful, and confident, had vanished.

All that remained was my spicy personality…
but even she felt trapped behind a glass wall.

How could I be spicy when I didn’t feel like myself?
How could I flirt with a face I didn’t recognize?
How could I show up as me when I felt like pieces of me had been cut away?

When Humor Became My Shield

I used to joke about my pain before anyone else could.

Some of y’all heard me call the scar I got after shingles my “DC Youngfly.”

I’d laugh like it didn’t matter… and then cringe inside afterward.

That joke wasn’t funny, it was a shield.
A distraction.
A preemptive strike on myself.
A way to soften a blow no one was preparing to deliver.

I thought humor would protect me.
But all it did was delay the grief.

The Hard Truth About Desire After Cancer

And here’s the part I’d never said aloud:

When I stopped seeing myself as beautiful,
I stopped seeing myself as sexy.
As desirable.
As someone my husband would look at with hunger or affection.

Not because he changed…
but because I couldn’t imagine he still wanted me when I didn’t want me.

And when that belief settled in?

Our sex life took a nose dive.
Not from lack of love, but from lack of self-love.
And when sex fades, intimacy fades.
Connection fades.
Comfort fades.

Cancer didn’t just attack my body,
it disrupted my marriage in a way I didn’t know how to talk about.

I hid from social media.
I hid from invitations.
I hid from myself.

I didn’t want to be seen because I felt like the world could see
all the pieces of me that were missing.

The Bald Era That Saved Me

And then something shifted.

Once the shock wore off…
once I grieved the locs, the brows, the glow…
once I saw my bald head in its rawest form…

I realized:

“Baby, this head is actually perfect.”

Thank you, Grandma White (Mary Louise),
I know you shaped this head on purpose.
A master craftsman.
A silent architect of future fine.

And once I embraced the baldness?

I put on my lip.
Drew on my brows.
Grabbed my bangers (and y’all KNOW earrings resurrect a woman).
And then I turned that camera ON.

Yes, I know y’all were tired of my selfies.
But every picture was a breadcrumb leading me back to myself.
My confidence.
My sensuality.
My beauty.

That era wasn’t vanity y’all,
it was redemption.

Learning to Love the Woman Who is Still Warrioring

Now, I honor the woman I am becoming.

The woman who may never get her full, thick, luxurious head of Sisterlocks back.
The woman whose forehead carries the memory of shingles.
The woman whose features will never go back to “before.”

The woman whose breasts aren’t twins…
not sisters…
not cousins…
not even play cousins.

They’re like 9th or 10th cousins twice removed,
women who only see each other at funerals.

I live with that reminder daily as I move toward reconstructive surgery.

And even then…
even after that…
I will still carry forever scars.

So I give myself grace.

Because embracing this new normal isn’t a sprint,
it’s a marathon.

Some days I love this new me boldly.
Some days I mourn the old me quietly.

Both are holy.
Both are allowed.
Both are part of healing.

The New Belief I’m Choosing

Here is the truth I’m learning to believe:

My beauty didn’t leave,
she evolved.

My desirability didn’t die,
she transformed.

My femininity didn’t disappear,
she deepened.

And when I thought cancer had taken everything from me…

My beauty came out like Stella and got her groove ALL the way back. Hey Winston…

This is who I am now:
A woman reclaiming herself piece by piece.
A woman loving herself out loud.
A woman refusing to shrink behind loss.
A woman worthy of desire, softness, rest, and being held, even as she continues to rebuild.

And if you’re on this journey too?

You’re not alone.
You’re still beautiful.
You’re still whole, even when you don’t feel like it.
And you’re still worthy of being wanted, seen, and loved.

Just as you are.
Right now.
In this version.