Meet the Models: Sarah Hickey

For Sarah, it all began with a feeling—one strong enough to push past reassurances, second opinions, and the quiet voice telling her not to make a fuss. She insisted on a lumpectomy, even after being told it was unnecessary.

“The very doctor who told me I was crazy for pushing for a lumpectomy—the one who assured me this was ‘nothing’—was the same doctor who called to deliver the diagnosis. Even her voice was shaking.”

Sarah was 32. Her daughter wasn’t even a year old. Cancer didn’t feel like a possibility—until it was.

“When I heard the words ‘angiosarcoma’ and ‘very rare and aggressive,’ everything inside me unraveled. I stayed still on the outside, but inside, I was falling. I asked, ‘Does that mean it’s cancer?’ She said yes.”

The moments that followed were not dramatic, but surreal. Still. Heavy. Her husband Dave was beside her, holding her hand, already trying to be strong—for her, for their baby.

“I remember thinking, How do I tell my mom? Will I get to see my daughter grow up? Will she know a childhood with no mom?”

The diagnosis came with urgency. Surgery would need to happen within days. Her case was so rare that it hadn’t been seen at her hospital in 18 years. She was transferred immediately to Boston—Mass General or Dana-Farber—for treatment.

“I told Dave, ‘It’s cancer.’ He held me. He sobbed. Full-body sobs. Promising I would be okay, even though I could feel how scared he was. I was scared too. I dry heaved. I wanted to run.”

In the swirl of shock, Sarah dissociated. Everything became surreal and detached, even as her physical body jolted between panic and stillness. But her mind kept returning to her daughter, Elle—sitting in the other room, happily eating carrot purée in her high chair.

“She was just a baby. I was her world, and she was mine. How could I go back into that kitchen and be her mom like nothing had happened?”

That day, the world outside looked unchanged—the sun was warming the front porch, the leaves just starting to turn red. But for Sarah, everything had split wide open.

“I stood barefoot on the porch. The wood was warm. I called my therapist, who was on vacation but climbed onto a rock to get better cell service. She talked me through the scariest moment of my life while I tried to remember how to breathe.”

Sarah’s story is one of intuition, maternal strength, and the shock of everything changing in a single phone call. She is living proof of how women move through fear—not away from it, but through it—with grace, grit, and vulnerability.

At Runway for Recovery, we honor models like Sarah—who share their hardest truths so that others don’t feel so alone. Her journey reminds us that being a model isn’t about putting on a brave face. It’s about being real. And that kind of courage lights the way for us all.