Instead of telling me how strong I am, ask me about the journey I took to lose weight and regain my fitness. Don’t assume I didn’t change because you didn’t see it happen or that it was easy to “get back into it” just because I was active before. Ask me what it felt like to wander around the house craving sugar non-stop. Ask me how it felt to go from being an elite athlete to not being able to do a single push-up, or how it felt to fall and twist my ankle midway through chemotherapy while jogging because my doctors insisted I needed to exercise.

Instead of telling me how brave I am, ask me what it’s like to sit in a room every three weeks with drugs pumping into my veins for five hours straight. Ask me what it was like to wear ice-cold oven mitts to protect my fingers, only to take them off because I couldn’t stand the cold any longer. Ask me what it felt like to wake up each day, unsure of which part of my body might betray me next.

Instead of complimenting me on how good I look bald, ask me what it was like to lose my hair. Ask me what it felt like to go from being a three-time hair donor—helping make wigs for people with cancer—to choosing a wig for myself. Ask me how it felt when no organization would accept my hair donation after I’d started chemotherapy. Ask me how it felt when my own hair hurt as it fell out.

Instead of joking about a “free boob job,” ask me how it feels knowing I’ll never be able to breastfeed. Ask me how it felt when the male plastic surgeon excitedly suggested—several times—that a mastectomy was my chance to “upgrade” to bigger breasts. Ask me how it felt to spend four weeks showering with my back to the mirror because I couldn’t bear the sight of my own body. Ask me about the tears I cried when I accidentally glimpsed my reconstructed breast.

Instead of relating your pain to mine when you see me struggle to stand, ask me how my joints are doing. Ask if I’d like help clearing the dishes. Invite me on that crazy workout or big hike, and let me decide what I’m capable of.

Instead of assuming it’s nice to be back at work, ask me how I feel about it. Ask me what it’s like to spend four hours in the hospital on Monday, only to be back in the office Tuesday morning. Ask me how it feels to be drenched in sweat from hot flashes while my coworkers insist on closing the windows. Ask me how it feels to build up the courage to send an email, fearing the response. Ask me how it feels to not remember the conversation we had last week, to doubt every decision I make.

Instead of calling me brave, ask me what it’s like to navigate a healthcare system in a foreign language, with no family on the same continent. Ask me what it’s like to make life-altering decisions when the doctor tells me, “You can do radiation if you want, but I won’t be mad if you don’t.” Ask me how it feels to use ChatGPT just to figure out what questions to ask at my next appointment, or how it feels when my doctor gets flustered because I dared to ask questions about my own treatment.

Instead of saying my recovery is inspirational, ask me how much effort it took to get here. Let me tell you proudly about all the support programs I joined. Smile as I list the elective appointments and doctors I fought to see, so I could have the quality of life you’re now calling “inspirational.”

Instead of offering your sympathies, ask me how to check your own breasts. Ask me what you can do to support your loved ones when they face a medical crisis. Ask me what you can learn from my experience.