Caley’s story is a powerful reflection of what it means to feel like yourself in a season that changes everything. Through loss, love and the in-between moments, she shares her experience with honesty and vulnerability. This is her story, in her own words, a reminder that softness and strength can exist at the same time, and that there is no right way to walk through something like this, only your way.
I used to think hair was just hair and took it for granted. I never nourished it the way I “should have.” I never brushed it as much as I should have, and I sure didn’t style it. I never realised my hair was something to hide behind...something that framed the version of me I felt most like. I didn’t understand how much of my identity was tangled up in it until it was suddenly gone.
When I was diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer, the world split into a before and an after.
Before, I was a mum who painted palm trees, worked in the mines, packed school lunches, worked nightshifts, swam in the ocean and worried about ordinary things.
After, I was a patient, facing mortality, measured, scanned, labelled, reduced to appointments and percentages and words I never wanted to learn.
Losing my hair was the part I told myself I could handle. “It’s only temporary,” I’d say. “It’s just cosmetic.”
But the first time I looked in the mirror without it, I didn’t recognise the woman staring back. She looked tired. Older. Fragile in a way I didn’t feel inside. I wasn’t ready to meet her.
That’s when wigs became more than wigs. They became permission to still be me. Not the cancer version. Not the brave version everyone expected. Just me... the woman who likes messy bronde beachy hair, pearl or opal earrings, and feeling a little bit pretty even on hard days.
BUT... the bravest thing I did wasn’t losing my hair. It was letting my sons be part of it. Letting them see me cry. Letting them see the clippers. Letting them even chop some of my hair off. Letting them sit beside me in the rawness instead of protecting them from it.
My heart was breaking. I was broken. I wanted to be strong for them, but what they needed was honesty. And somehow, in sharing that moment, we became stronger together.
There were mornings I couldn’t face the reflection of illness. Slipping on a wig didn’t erase what I was going through, but it gave me back a piece of choice. A way to walk into school pickup without seeing pity in people’s eyes. A way to sit at my son’s bedside and just be “Mum,” not “Mum with cancer.”
Some days I wore it for them. Some days I wore it for me. And some days I didn’t wear it at all.
There’s a strange kind of grief in losing your hair... not just the strands, but the version of yourself you thought you’d be by now.
I’ve had to learn that femininity isn’t stored in follicles. Confidence isn’t grown from a scalp. And identity is far more stubborn than cancer realises.
Wigs brought that strength back for me...my confidence back. They gave me the version of me that had been taken away.
My boys still crawl into bed and stroke the soft fuzz on my head. They laugh that their hair is longer than mine. They had only ever known me with long beachy blonde hair. My husband still tells me I’m beautiful.
I am still here and that is what matters. A happier me. A more focused, present me.
Milk & Honey, for me, has been a quiet companion in a very loud season. A reminder that softness and strength can live in the same body. That you can be scared and courageous at once. That you can be in treatment and still want to feel like yourself.
If you’re reading this in the middle of your own before-and-after, I want you to know something: You don’t have to be brave all the time. You can make this look graceful if you choose to and if you don’t, that is more than okay too.
And you don’t have to do it alone. Whether you choose a wig, a scarf, bare skin, or something in between there is no “right” way to walk this. Only your way.
I’m still learning who I am in this chapter. But I’m learning that she is enough. And so are you.
Caley 🤍
