Ask Me About My Sleeve

“Why do you have a sleeve on one arm?”

It’s a fair question, I suppose. Not many people wear one sleeve at a time. And yet, one look and I can feel the distance between us. Something as simple as a compression sleeve has followed me through my cancer journey—first as a symbol of something I hated: my body feeling broken. Now, almost two years later, it’s starting to feel more like armor.

That question used to stop me in my tracks, especially early in my diagnosis and survivorship. Cancer has left its scars—both visible and invisible—and for a long time, I didn’t want people to see them. Being invisible in a crowd, or looking like a “typical” 30-something, was something I desperately craved. I just wanted to feel normal. And I was angry that, once again, my body was giving me away. I wasn’t going through something normal, and I didn’t feel like everyone else.

Cancer made it hard for me to see anything but pity—and the space between myself and the person asking about my scars or lack of hair. Sometimes I got looks of fear, judgment, or confusion. In this way, cancer made it harder to relate to the people around me. I was desperate for belonging and normalcy inside a body that simply wouldn’t give it to me.

These days, nearly two years into survivorship, those same questions and looks still make me feel the distance—but now I also see the opportunity to speak my truth. “Oh, I have lymphedema. I’m a cancer survivor.” Don’t get me wrong, I still sometimes catch glimpses of pity, fear, or discomfort in their face. But now, I’m also beginning to notice the ones who don’t flinch.

Those are my people—the ones who are willing to look at me, and the scary parts of my story, with compassion or even admiration. The ones who don’t back away when I speak about death at the tender age of 32. The ones who want to hear me. Who want to see me.

Connection after cancer is still something I’m learning to navigate—inside the throes of chronic pain, PTSD, and infertility. I’ve struggled not only to rebuild connections with others, but also to reconnect with myself. That, I think, has felt like the most Sisyphean task of all.

Some days, I spend hours working up the nerve to look at myself in the mirror—wearing a haircut I never would have chosen, staring back at a chest mapped in intricate blue veins, like a visible topography of the trauma living inside me. I have to remind myself, often, to find the same courage and tenderness I long for in others.
To meet my own gaze without flinching.
To speak to myself with compassion, respect, and love.

I don’t always get it right. But I’m learning that healing doesn’t mean returning to who I was before—it means becoming someone new. Someone softer, maybe. Someone strong enough to carry what’s been lost and still make space for what comes next. My compression sleeve may still draw questions, but now, it tells a story I’m not afraid to share—a story of survival, of grief, of becoming.

And on the other arm? A different kind of sleeve. One I chose. A tattooed timeline of my resilience, of who I am beyond illness. One sleeve is for the scars I didn’t ask for. The other is for the identity I reclaimed on purpose. Together, they tell the whole story. And I’m learning to wear both with pride.