I’m Dr. Leona Hamrick, a physician associate and breast cancer expert who has spent my career helping patients navigate illness, uncertainty, and recovery. Today, I work in breast cancer diagnostics and medical affairs, helping women understand their disease and make informed, personalized choices.
But before I became an advocate in this field, I was a 38-year-old woman hearing the words that change everything:
“You have breast cancer.”
Nothing — not my education, not my experience, not my clinical background — truly prepared me for that moment. I had spent years explaining treatment plans to others, breaking down complex information into understandable pieces. Now I was on the other side of the conversation. The air felt thick. My mind raced. My identity shifted instantly — from provider to patient.
At first, I did what clinicians do — I went into problem-solving mode. I gathered my records, researched my tumor type, and made lists of questions. When I met my surgical oncologist, Dr. Cox, I was ready to discuss every detail: the size, the grade, the nodes, the options.
Even as I absorbed the facts, I was quietly terrified. Beneath my calm medical exterior was a woman asking:
Will I survive this? Will I still feel like me?
I chose to move forward decisively with surgery — a bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction. It wasn’t about erasing what had happened; it was about reclaiming control.
When I woke up from surgery, the reality hit me: tubes, drains, bandages, the pressure of expanders beneath my skin. My stage 3 diagnosis echoed in my mind. The first time I looked in the mirror, I took a deep breath. My chest was bruised and swollen. I reminded myself that healing would take time — but emotionally, that was harder than I’d ever imagined.
Recovery wasn’t linear. There were days I felt strong, and days I struggled to even recognize myself. Yet each small victory — showering alone, sleeping on my side again — reminded me I was still healing, body and soul.
I thought surgery was hard, but chemotherapy tested me in new ways. Fatigue. Nausea. Tingling fingers. Aching muscles. Sensitive skin.
I tried cold caps to save my hair but eventually let go. I wrote in my blog at the time, “To have hair or not to have hair?” Hair felt symbolic — but it wasn’t me. My strength wasn’t in my reflection; it was in my resolve.
There were lighter moments too — friends bringing soup, laughter in the middle of exhaustion, and the quiet strength of family who knew when to talk and when to simply sit beside me. My community and my faith carried me through.
When I caught a cold during chemo, everything spiraled. That was my wake-up call. I had paused my supplements and integrative care, and my body noticed.
That’s when I recommitted to whole-person healing: acupuncture, craniosacral therapy, clean nutrition, gentle movement, and mindfulness. True recovery meant nurturing all of me — not just fighting the disease.
One morning after another infusion, I woke up changed. My body still ached, but my mind was clear. I realized I wasn’t just fighting cancer anymore — I was living through it. I thought, It gets better. And it did.
Cancer didn’t break me. It revealed me.
I began to wear my scars as symbols, not wounds. I looked in the mirror and thought, This is me. I’m still here.
Cancer took my comfort, my breasts, and my hair — but not my strength, my spirit, or my purpose.
When treatment ended, I wasn’t the same clinician who’d started this journey. I was deeper, wiser, softer, stronger. Healing didn’t end when chemo stopped — it continued as I rebuilt my life.
Today, in breast cancer diagnostics, I help women make informed decisions using molecular insights — tools that can predict who benefits from certain treatments and who may not.
Every time I advocate for a patient, I remember the 38-year-old me — scared, determined, hopeful. Now I use both my science and my story to make the path easier for others.
If you’ve just been diagnosed, are in treatment, or are learning to find yourself again afterward — please know this:
You are not alone.
You are not just your diagnosis.
You are allowed to be scared and brave at the same time.
You are allowed to fall apart and still be strong.
You are allowed to ask for help, to rest, to hope.
Healing doesn’t mean going back to who you were — it means becoming someone new who carries both scars and wisdom.
I’m still that woman — still a PA, still a scientist, still a survivor — and I’m here to remind you:
You are the expert of you. You are powerful. And you are never walking this path alone.
At Learn Look Locate, we are deeply grateful to Dr. Leona Hamrick for sharing her story with honesty and heart. Her journey reflects the strength of our global survivor community — women and men around the world whose stories help others feel seen, supported, and empowered.
These voices, shared from across continents and experiences, are the heart of Learn Look Locate. Every story becomes part of a larger movement — one that unites survivors, doctors, and advocates in changing how the world understands breast cancer.
Together, these stories don’t just educate — they connect us. They remind us that hope, healing, and strength can cross every border.
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