When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I kept the news from my kids. I told them on my own time 5 years later.

• When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I decided not to tell my kids.

• I thought they were too young to understand, and I wasn't sure what to tell them.

• Then, at my five-year mark, they overheard my husband and me talking about cancer, and we told them.

In October 2017, I noticed a small hard lump, the size of a No. 2 pencil eraser, sitting just above my right breast. At first, I dismissed it. I assumed it was a clogged milk duct from nursing my 18-month-old son, Freddie. Thankfully, I followed up with my primary care doctor the next morning.

A few days later, my doctor examined the lump and furrowed her brow. She referred me for a mammogram, which resulted in a biopsy. I had to wait three days for the biopsy results. When I finally met with my doctor, it was Halloween. She walked into the exam room dressed head-to-toe as Snow White, with elaborate face paint and a curly black wig.

"In some ways, you're lucky," Snow White said. "You caught it early. And with breast cancer, early detection is everything."

I decided not to tell my kids about my cancer diagnosis

After the appointment, I called my husband, Alex, and cried. Then, I drove directly to my three-year-old son's nursery school for the Halloween costume parade. As I watched Max march around the playground in his Paw Patrol costume, my mind was racing. When Max saw me, he jumped up and down. I smiled and waved, but behind my dark sunglasses, my eyes welled with tears.

Later that afternoon, Alex and I sat together at our kitchen table in shock. We made lists of oncologists and surgeons to call the next morning. Eventually, I donned my homemade tinfoil crescent moon costume, and we took the boys trick-or-treating. It didn't feel right to stay at home and worry. I wanted to be out having fun with my family. Also — what would I have told Max? It's not like I could cancel Halloween.

Over the next few weeks, Alex and I made the decision not to tell our children about my cancer diagnosis. We agreed that they were too young to understand what it meant. While I recovered from a unilateral mastectomy and reconstructive surgeries, we explained to Max and Freddie that Mommy needed to stay in bed because she was "hurt." They sort of got it.

"Don't jump on Mommy! Be careful with mommy!" my husband yelled repeatedly.

My breast cancer diagnosis was early-onset and ER+, meaning that instead of chemotherapy, I was prescribed a five-year adjuvant endocrine therapy. I took a daily medication, Letrozole, to kill the estrogen in my body, and I was given Lupron injections to shut down my ovaries. These medications worked by pushing me into premature induced menopause.

Within a matter of weeks, I experienced symptoms such as hot flashes, night sweats, rapid mood swings, and severe brain fog. I had debilitating headaches, and I was tired all the time. I tried to hide my symptoms from Max and Freddie because I didn't want them to worry. Plus, I thought they were still too young to understand. I mean, I could barely comprehend what was happening to my body.

Post-cancer, my life took on a new routine. Every three months, I met with my oncologist to review my labs, discuss my side effects, receive treatments, and undergo a physical exam. Along with these quarterly appointments, I had routine mammograms and MRIs. In addition, I met with an OB-GYN, a pelvic floor specialist, and an acupuncturist to manage my postmenopausal symptoms. Treating cancer became my other full-time job.

They overheard us talking about cancer, and we filled them in

As my children got older, they started to ask about my frequent doctors' visits. I wasn't sure how to answer their questions. I'd say something vague like, "I need a check-up to make sure I'm healthy." It had been years since my diagnosis, and I still hadn't told them. I was starting to think it might be better if they never found out.

In February 2023, I finished five years of adjuvant endocrine therapy, which marked a significant decrease in the rate of recurrence. The plan had always been to stop my treatment at five years. But when I met with my oncologist, he recommended I continue the medications for another five years. The recommendations had recently changed, and he believed I'd benefit from additional treatment.

Later that day, I filled Alex in on what my oncologist told me. Unbeknownst to me, Max and Freddie were eavesdropping on our conversation.

"Wait, you had cancer?" Max asked as he walked into the room.

I looked at Alex. At this point, Max was eight years old, and Freddie was six. It seemed like the right time.

We all sat down in the living room, and I told them about my surgery and how the doctor had removed the cancer from my body. And how I took special medication to make sure the cancer never came back. We kept the conversation brief. "That's why I have so many doctors' appointments," I said.

Max listened intently. "OK," he said.

Freddie stared at me. "Does a cancer shot hurt?" he asked.

"Not really," I said. "No more than any of the other shots we get to keep us healthy."

He paused. "Do you get a treat afterward?" he asked.

"Sometimes," I laughed.

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I chose not to tell my children because I believed they were too young to understand. In many ways, I was lucky because I didn't need to tell them at the time. I didn't go through chemotherapy. I didn't lose my hair, and I didn't get really sick.

I've always tried to talk openly and honestly with my kids — when it's age-appropriate and developmentally suitable. I know that as a mother, I will always try to protect my children from the big scary life stuff, like cancer. I understand I can't always accomplish this, but I still want to, and do it when I can. Perhaps that's why I waited to tell them about my diagnosis until after I reached the five-year mark and my risk of recurrence had gone down. Sometimes finding the balance between protecting my children from life's uncertainty while also preparing them for difficult situations feels impossible. I'm still learning how to do it.

These days, I tell Max and Freddie before I go in for a Lupron injection. They've offered me advice on how to best handle the shot.

"Don't flex," Freddie said. "That makes it hurt waaay more."

At times, I wish I'd told my kids sooner about what I went through. Being able to talk openly about my cancer diagnosis has brought us closer as a family. But the truth is, I didn't need to tell them until I was ready. And I was lucky to be able to wait.

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