“You don’t understand, lady. From what I’m seeing on the screen, this is a highly suspicious lump. If I were you, I’d get ready for next steps,” said the radiologist.
Next steps?
The only “next step” I had in mind five minutes earlier in the waiting room was whether I’d stop for regular coffee or decaf on the way home.
“We need a biopsy for confirmation, but this doesn’t look good. This anomaly in your right breast is very likely cancer. Please know that you will need a whole medical team: a surgeon, an oncologist and a pathologist.”
And just like that, he broke “the news.”
The medical gown I was wearing still wide open, I sat in disbelief. I didn’t know if this was a well-intentioned professional being extra assertive — or if I had just crossed paths with the most brutally honest radiologist in the world.
A few days later, when the biopsy results came in and were not what we’d hoped for, I realized he was neither sadistic nor cold. He was right.
Breaking the News … to Myself
One in eight women in the U.S. will receive a breast cancer diagnosis in their lifetime. Now, I was one of them.
As a journalist and professional speaker, communication is my life. On stages. On camera. In interviews. But I quickly realized … no amount of experience prepares you for breaking the news to yourself.
It all started on Valentine’s Day, of all days. That morning, I had a routine mammogram appointment scheduled. I almost cancelled — because let’s be honest, sleeping in and eating chocolates sounded way more appealing than waking up early to get my breasts squeezed. But something in me said: “Gaby, Valentine’s Day is about love. And a mammogram? That’s self-love.”
That appointment set off a string of additional screenings, none of which went as planned. Still, I stayed in motion. I kept traveling. Speaking. Smiling. I told myself it was probably just a false alarm.
It wasn’t.
Eventually, the illusion cracked. The conversation with the radiologist pierced the fog of denial.
And then came the real weight of the decision: How do I share this? With whom? When?
Breaking the News … to My World
While still processing the diagnosis, my father came to visit from Argentina to celebrate his 75th birthday. By then, I was already preparing for a bilateral lumpectomy. But I made a choice. This would not become “the trip where I told my dad I had cancer.”
So with the help of my husband Andrés, my brother Fran and my sister-in-law Leah, we gave him what he came for: joy, family, a celebration.
We made empanadas. We watched the eclipse. We took pictures. We laughed. And then, after he flew back home, I had the surgery. Successful. Precise. Hopeful. That’s when I picked up the phone and told my mom. “Ma, I have some good news. … I was diagnosed with cancer. But the surgery’s done, and I’m going to be okay.”
She was shocked. Happy. Sad. And mostly mad I had kept it from her. But the truth is, it was what I needed.
I needed to conserve my energy to focus on getting the facts, making the decisions and navigating a process that can feel like drinking from a fire hose. I needed to go inward before opening up.
Once the post-surgery lab results came back, my doctors recommended preventive chemo and radiation. And I started reworking my life to make space for healing. I delegated more. I worked smarter. I prioritized what truly mattered. And yes — I still spoke on stages. I still showed up for the work I love. But now, I was doing it differently.
At home, my stylist shaved my hair. In solidarity, my husband Andrés shaved his too — right there in our bathroom, like a true romantic rebel. We were two bald warriors figuring it out. (And for the record, he totally rocked the look.)
I became a pro with turbans, lashes and every kind of headwrap. And because I’m me, I even did a photoshoot to document the experience.
It wasn’t vanity. It was visibility. And a reminder: You can be vulnerable and vibrant. Sick and still yourself. In treatment and still powerful.
Breaking the News … to the World
I knew the moment would come.
I just didn’t know how it would happen …until it did.
It was my first keynote after finishing chemo. Thousands in the audience. A massive stage. Lights, cameras, everything. I didn’t warn the client. But something in my gut said: “It’s time.”
So, I told the audience that I was a breast cancer survivor.
And then, I took off my wig. A sea of faces stared back. Some in silence. Some in tears. All with me.
When I stepped backstage, the producer hugged me tight and whispered: “I’m a survivor too.” I broke down crying. Because that moment confirmed what I already knew: Stories heal. Stories connect. Stories save lives.
That’s why becoming a Susan G. Komen Ambassador made perfect sense. Even before my hair started growing back, I went on national TV to share my journey — so that women of all backgrounds, and especially Latinas, know they are not alone.
When my mom came to visit later that year, we walked together in the Komen Race for the Cure. Two survivors. Two generations. One purpose.
Epilogue: A New Chapter, Still Unfolding
I am cancer-free. But like many survivors, I’m still adjusting to the “after.” There’s medically induced menopause (a plot twist I didn’t see coming), unexpected emotions and a body that’s learning its new rhythm.
No, I don’t have all the answers. But I’ve got clarity, curiosity and a deep appreciation for mornings I once took for granted.
I’m writing my survivor story one step at a time — with courage, humor and groovy growing hair that now has a life of its own.
Because one random Valentine’s Day, I didn’t cancel that mammogram … I got to keep showing up for everything — and everyone — I love.
Because sometimes, self-love doesn’t look like bubble baths and affirmations.
It looks like skipping the chocolates on a Valentine’s Day morning … and saying yes to a mammogram.
Gaby Natale is EMMY Award-winning journalist, speaker, survivor and Komen Ambassador, who has been featured in Forbes, CNN, Buzzfeed, NBC News, Univision and “Latino Leaders” magazine. In 2024, Gaby was diagnosed with breast cancer, undergoing multiple surgeries, chemotherapy and radiation. Now cancer-free, she is dedicated to using her experience to advocate for early detection and to support others affected by the disease.
Statements and opinions expressed are that of the individual and do not express the views or opinions of Susan G. Komen. This information is being provided for educational purposes only and is not to be construed as medical advice. Persons with breast cancer should consult their health care provider with specific questions or concerns about their treatment.
