Milena Alfaro, In Her Own Words

Dance for the Cure
Oct 11
6 min read

Twice the Battle, Twice the Strength: My Journey as a Two-Time Breast Cancer Survivor

In 2020, at just 32 years old, I faced the battle of my life for the very first time.

It was the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic. I was healthy, active, and thriving, a nurse, a mother of two little girls, and someone who prided herself on taking care of her body. One evening, while kickboxing, I suddenly stopped mid-class and asked my close friend Sarah, “Have you ever felt a lump in your breast that comes and goes?”

Sarah and I met ten years earlier as brand-new nurses. We both knew what that question could mean. She looked at me, serious, and said, “We’re going to my mom’s. She’ll know what to do.”

Her mother, Donna, was a respected RN, the kind of nurse everyone trusted. It was nearly 11 p.m. when we showed up at her house, still sweaty from class, waking her from bed. Without hesitation, she examined me. Within seconds, her face changed.

“I don’t like this,” she said softly. “You need to get this checked right away.”

That night, I barely slept. My mind was racing with what-ifs. At 6 a.m., my phone rang. It was Donna again.

“Get up. Go to the ER. Don’t wait.”

I went. A CT scan showed a small mass. The doctor reassured me it could be nothing serious. “Better safe than sorry,” he said. But I had two little girls who needed me. “Better safe” was not enough.

Diagnosis

The next day, I begged the women’s center to see me for a mammogram. They squeezed me in for the following morning. Sitting there in a thin gown, I told myself over and over, This can’t be happening. I’m too young. Too healthy. It doesn’t even run in my family.

But when the radiologist walked in with a nurse, I saw it in their eyes before they spoke.

“You have a confirmed mass,” they said gently. “It’s a BI-RADS 5, meaning there’s a 95% chance it’s malignant.”

Everything after that went silent. My body was there, but my mind drifted into a fog. I walked to my car, tears blurring my vision, and somehow ended up back inside the office, crying in the same chair. That’s when a kind nurse who ran a breast cancer support group came to comfort me. Her words stayed with me:

“This is not a death sentence. You will fight, and you will live.”

A few days later, my biopsy confirmed Stage 2 invasive ductal carcinoma. I was alone in my car when I got the call. The nurse asked me to pull over. The moment I heard the words, I screamed. I begged God to tell me why. Why me? Why now? My girls need me.

I called my brother, who immediately got in his car to meet me at home. Together, we told my mother. And from that moment, our family’s mission became clear. We would beat this.

The First Battle

Further testing confirmed my cancer was triple positive. My oncologist told me it was treatable, even curable, if I acted fast. I started chemotherapy, followed by a double mastectomy, and underwent fertility preservation to save my eggs.

The surgeries were brutal. The drains, the pain, the exhaustion, both physical and emotional, were more than I ever imagined. There were nights when I could not lift my own arms, when even the smallest movement sent waves of pain through my chest. My spouse was by my side for every surgery, every treatment, every moment of fear. But there were days he had to work to keep our family afloat.

That summer, two young heroes stepped in.

My 12-year-old son and 10-year-old daughter became my caregivers in ways no child should ever have to. They learned how to empty my surgical drains, gently holding each bulb as if it were made of glass. They helped me in and out of bed, their little hands guiding mine with patience and care. They walked me to the bathroom when my body trembled from weakness, whispering words of encouragement every step of the way.

I remember one night when I could barely stand. My daughter wrapped her tiny arm around my waist and said softly, “It’s okay, Mommy. I got you.” My son stood behind me, ready to catch me if I lost my balance. They looked so small beside me, yet so strong. Their eyes were full of love and fear all at once, but they never once complained.

Those moments broke me and healed me all at the same time. To see such innocence meet such responsibility was heartbreaking, yet it showed me what real love looks like. My children saw me at my weakest, yet somehow they made me feel stronger. Their love became my medicine. Their strength became my reason to keep fighting.

When my oncologist finally said, “You’re in remission,” I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me. I had made it.

Two years later, in 2022, I was blessed with a miracle baby girl, proof that God still had plans for me. She was my sunshine after the storm. Our family felt whole again, and for a moment, life felt peaceful.

The Second Battle

Then came March 2024.

I was feeding my baby when my hand brushed against my collarbone, and I froze. There it was, a small, firm lump near my clavicle. Not my breast. My neck. My heart sank. I knew that feeling too well.

I woke my partner in a panic, tears streaming down my face. “It’s back,” I whispered. He held me all night, both of us praying it was something else. But deep down, I knew.

The next morning, I was at my oncologist’s office, begging to be seen immediately. After scans and a biopsy, the phone rang again. This time, the words came slower, heavier.

“It’s the same cancer, Milena. A recurrence, now in your lymph nodes.”

Stage 3.

This time, I broke in a way I never had before. The first time, I had fear but also hope. This time, I felt defeated. Angry. Betrayed by my own body. I had trusted that after my double mastectomy and lymph node dissection, I was safe. But microscopic cells, the ones no test could detect, had found their way back.

Then came the words that shattered me.

“Surgery isn’t an option this time. The tumor is too vascular. It’s too dangerous to remove.”

That moment changed everything. My only weapons would be chemotherapy, immunotherapy, and radiation. No knife. No quick removal. Just the long, grueling road ahead.

I had three daughters now, and one was just a year old. I couldn’t let them see me fall apart, but I couldn’t hide the pain either. My two older girls were old enough to research what “stage 3 recurrence” meant, and I could see the fear in their eyes.

I reached out to their school counselors and therapists for help. I wanted them to have support, to understand that even when Mommy looked weak, she was still fighting.

Chemotherapy hit harder this time, four chemo drugs and two immunotherapy infusions that stripped me of my hair, nails, and strength. I lost over 30 pounds. My skin burned from 45 rounds of radiation. The pain in my throat made swallowing unbearable. Food tasted like metal, and I could barely recognize the woman in the mirror.

Still, I went to work. I refused to surrender my purpose. I was a nurse, an Assistant Director of Nursing, and I wanted my patients, my staff, and especially my daughters to see that strength doesn’t mean the absence of pain. It means showing up through the pain.

I lost friends during that time, people who had once filled my weekends and my home. But I also learned that silence reveals truth. Those who stayed, my mother, my partner, my children, my coworkers, were my angels on earth.

Victory and Faith

And here I am, standing tall once again, one year cancer-free.

This journey has taught me more than any textbook or lecture ever could. It taught me that life is fragile, faith is powerful, and love is medicine. Cancer took my hair, my comfort, my certainty, but it could never take my purpose, my motherhood, or my will to fight.

I fought twice and won twice, not because I was unafraid, but because I refused to give up.

To every woman reading this:

Listen to your body. Trust your intuition. Advocate for yourself.

Because early detection saves lives, and miracles still happen.

I am living proof that even when life tries to break you twice, you can rise twice as strong.