Angelina Hawley-Dolan, Love for Runway, Concord, MA
Good evening, everyone!! It is with a heart full of gratitude and a profound sense of humility that I am here with you all tonight. To be at this event, amongst such incredible individuals – survivors who embody resilience, dedicated providers and caregivers who offer unwavering support, and those whose lives have been touched by the experience of breast cancer through loved ones – is an absolute honor, a true privilege, and it brings me an immense amount of joy…thank you for having me!
I am a mother of three children, a wife, daughter, sister, aunt, teacher, and, as many of you know, a breast cancer survivor. I am here to share a piece of my story, a narrative woven with threads of fear, hope, resilience, and ultimately, profound gratitude.
The journey that led me to this point began in 2018. At that time, I was 32, I had a four-year-old and a one-year-old, and I was deeply immersed in the beautiful and exhausting experience of being a mother and being a director of a Montessori School in Cambridge MA. It was during this period that I experienced a bout of mastitis in my left breast while breastfeeding my youngest. As is often the case, it resolved with treatment, and life continued its bustling rhythm.
However, in the spring that followed, shortly after the mastitis had cleared, I noticed something – a distinct lump while breastfeeding my daughter. A flicker of unease registered, a quiet whisper of concern in the back of my mind. Yet, at the age of 32, with no family history of breast cancer, my immediate thought was that it was likely nothing more than a lingering clogged milk duct. Worry didn’t take root.
Still, I casually mentioned it to my husband the next day. “Hey, by the way,” I said, “when I was nursing Rey, I think I felt… a lump.” His reaction, though calm, was immediate and unwavering. A furrow appeared on his brow, a hint of concern in his eyes. “You need to get that checked out right away,” he urged. My initial response was nonchalant. “Oh, I’ll get to it at some point. It’s probably nothing.” I didn’t make an appointment.
I vividly remember the moment a week later, where my husband’s gentle concern transformed into firm insistence. He looked me directly in the eyes, his gaze holding a depth of love and a quiet urgency. “You need to make space,” he said, his voice steady but firm. “You need to make time to go do this.” His words resonated, cutting through the noise of my busy life.
The very next day, I called my midwife. Their response echoed my husband’s urgency. They advised me to come in the following day, “just to be sure,” they said. I went in the next day with my toddler on my hip. I remember the midwife saying that it felt “sort of movable,” like it could be “fibrous.” But her cautious wisdom prevailed. “Let’s just get it checked out,” she insisted, “because I don’t want you to be in a different situation six months down the road.” Those words ultimately proved to be life-saving. I will forever be grateful for her diligence and her instinct.
The moments that followed felt suspended in time. The cool gel and gliding wand of the ultrasound, the silent screen holding unseen possibilities. Then the biopsy. After, there was more waiting. The weekend that followed was Memorial Day weekend. The festive atmosphere felt jarringly out of sync with the turmoil brewing within me. I hadn’t told many people about the lump, consumed by a fear of causing unnecessary worry within my family without any concrete information. So, my husband, Chris, and I carried this burden in quiet solidarity, a shared secret laced with anxiety.
Then came the day of the call. The conversation with the nurse, though well-intentioned, unfolded in a less than ideal setting. Standing in that alleyway outside my school, the mundane backdrop somehow amplifying the gravity of the words I was about to hear, I listened as she delivered the news that would irrevocably alter the course of my life. “You have cancer,” she said. The specific type – invasive lobular carcinoma – was unfamiliar, a jumble of words that held no immediate meaning, yet carried an undeniable weight. Paralyzing fear froze me in place, I wanted answers and details that weren’t yet available.
My immediate instinct was to seek the comfort and support of my family. My mom was in the upstairs office that day, babysitting my youngest child. I remember running up the stairs, my heart pounding in my chest, and then, the dam broke. I recounted the entire story, the words tumbling out in a torrent of fear and disbelief. I crumbled into sobs, the reality of the diagnosis hitting me with full force. The image of my two young children flashed through my mind, and a wave of terror washed over me as I contemplated the uncertain path ahead. My mom (and soon after my dad as well) ever the pillars of strength, held me and comforted me with steadfast love and reassurance.
After I managed to compose myself, I immediately called Chris. He answered the phone instantly, his voice betraying a flicker of concern at my hurried call. I whispered the words, “I have cancer,” the sound barely audible. He rushed over to the school.
I met him at the top of the stairs leading to the third-floor office. As soon as our eyes met, the fragile composure I had managed to gather shattered completely. I broke down, overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. I remember him literally pulling me up against the wall, supporting my collapsing frame. “We’re going to be okay,” he said, his voice firm and filled with conviction. “You’re going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.”
Looking back, I realize how desperately I needed to hear those words in that moment. Even though neither of us had any idea what the future held, his unwavering reassurance provided a crucial anchor, a beacon of hope in the overwhelming darkness.
The subsequent days were a blur of difficult choices and conversations. Breaking the news to my family and my wider community was an emotionally taxing experience, each disclosure carrying a weight of vulnerability and fear. Faced with the choice of local treatment or treatment at Dana-Farber, the appeal of specialized young survivor groups at Dana-Farber led to an immediate decision to seek care there.
Ultimately, my treatment path involved a lumpectomy and a rigorous course of chemotherapy. I completed eight cycles, the first four consisting of AC, followed by four cycles of Taxol, followed by thirty consecutive days of radiation. To put it plainly, as so many of you know, the experience was brutal and grueling. Anyone who has navigated this path understands the profound physical and emotional toll it takes. The loss of my hair, which had been long, was a visible manifestation of the internal battle my body was waging. My physical and mental resilience were tested beyond measure.
Yet, even in the darkest moments, I was enveloped by an extraordinary outpouring of support. My community, my school, my family, my dearest friends, and my church community rallied around me with unwavering love and encouragement. This collective strength became my lifeline. However, it's important to acknowledge that even amidst such profound support, there were times of intense loneliness, moments where the grueling nature of the experience felt unending, where the light at the end of the tunnel seemed impossibly distant. There were setbacks that knocked me down, forcing me to summon every ounce of strength to climb back up, often feeling utterly exhausted and defeated.
But the hope persisted. That glimmer of light, however faint at times, was always there, and I truly believe that the unwavering presence of those around me was instrumental in helping me rally through those darkest moments. People often ask how it was to navigate such a challenging experience while also caring for young children. How was it coping with treatment while maintaining a job and the demands of family life? The answer lies in leaning into the wisdom and support offered by those who surrounded me. Their advice was simple yet profound: keep moving your body when you can, rest when you need to, and never hesitate to ask for help. This guidance was immensely encouraging and sustaining. Every smile from my children, every gesture of kindness from loved ones, the children at my school asking to wear my headscarves that I wore daily to school, all of it uplifted me in ways they couldn’t fully comprehend. To them, life continued, seemingly unchanged, even as I returned home with bandages, without hair, and utterly drained. My husband, family and friends provided unwavering and incredible care, for which I remain eternally grateful.
As treatment concluded, a new set of questions arose. Does one truly recover from such an experience? How do I grow and heal in the aftermath? What does life look like on the other side? Prior to the pandemic, in 2019, we embarked on a period of travel, a deliberate effort to regain my footing and reconnect with life beyond cancer. Then, the world shifted with the arrival of COVID-19, bringing its own intense emotional and physical challenges. Years later, I remain on hormone suppression treatment of Letrozole and Lupron, with two more years to complete my eight-year cycle. It is undeniably difficult at times, yet I am so grateful for the incredible treatment I have access to. There is no before and after cancer, my journey is the fabric of my life and this experience has shaped who I am.
In navigating these ongoing challenges, I consistently turn to the anchors of joy in my life: my family, my friends, exercise, and nourishing my body. I’ve run the Dana Farber half marathon several times to raise money for research and treatment. I seek out the company of individuals who radiate hope, strength, and purpose, those who uplift and inspire. These connections fuel my determination to keep moving forward.
One of the most profound and joyous moments during this post-treatment phase was the possibility of expanding our family. After three full years of hormone therapy, with the incredible support and guidance of Dana-Farber, we were able to pause treatment and try for our third child. To our immense joy, we were blessed with our youngest, who is now two years old. The experience of breastfeeding him for three and a half months on my unaffected breast and the ability to pump and provide him with one bottle of breast milk a day for six months felt like an incredible feat, a powerful act of reclaiming my body and my strength. It was an experience filled with light and profound gratitude.
Now, I consciously turn towards hope. I find inspiration in those who have walked this path before me, in those who are just beginning their journey, and in those who walk alongside me. We are all connected in this shared human experience, all seeking hope, strength, and courage to navigate life's challenges with grace, resilience, and surrendering to the wisdom that we must be held by others. I feel deeply blessed to be here tonight, speaking among such remarkable individuals and being a part of this unique community of hope – as you may have heard the saying before ‘a club no one wishes to join, yet one filled with the most incredible people’. This sense of connection and shared experience is something I carry with me as I face any fear or uncertainty that lies ahead. My hope for everyone is that you know, deep down, that there is always light, there is always joy, and there are always people rooting for you. I am one of them.
