"Hi. My name is Sarah. And I'm Sophie! We're sisters, and we both have breast cancer. Welcome to our influencer journey! Like, comment, and subscribe."

The year was 2023. At age 35 I felt scared and struggled to process my diagnosis while my sister faced the same news. Three months after learning we both had breast cancer we posted our first TikTok. The clip was meant to be lighthearted. As camera-shy millennials we never truly planned to become cancer influencers.

I soon noticed the space already held many polished patients who shared their stories with care. Rising numbers of younger patients turning to social media for connection explained the trend, since people seek community around any major challenge.

Still the idea of being a cancer influencer clashed with my view of illness as a private and vulnerable time.

Why share a cancer story publicly?

When my diagnosis arrived in March 2023 I could hardly accept the word cancer applied to me. I fell into panic, cried in disbelief, and questioned what I had done to deserve this illness.

Weeks of indecision followed over surgery choices, fertility options, chemotherapy, and medications. I had to combine input from many specialists into one plan. The fragmented system left me isolated, so I searched online for guidance.

That search revealed a wide world of cancer influencers. Under the covers, phone light on my new bald head, I watched person after person balance treatment with branding and captions. I could not stop scrolling.

One example was Justine Morris, a 32-year-old survivor with more than 73,000 Instagram followers. Her posts covered infusions, hair loss, and home projects. When I asked why she shared, she said it gave her purpose. "If my story helps even one person check for changes, feel less alone, or speak up for their health, then my experience has meaning," she answered.

I also found Trish Michelle, diagnosed at 35, who posted for her 7,000 followers to show Black women her age discussing chemo and surgery. "That kind of representation was missing, so I decided to become the person I needed to see," she explained.

Deciding to go public

I had no plan to share my story. I disliked the cancer label and kept it to close circles. A well-meaning GoFundMe titled "Sarah has Cancer" changed that. A friend then added me to Patreon, calling it a private place to update people and raise funds. After losing my job the week of diagnosis I agreed.

On Patreon my posts were visible only to subscribers. Donations were flexible. My first post in July 2023, six days into chemotherapy, was a short video joking about an introvert trying to be an influencer while choosing good light for chemo selfies. It also noted real changes like new acne from treatment.

Off camera I doubted my place in content creation. With stage 1 cancer I wondered who I was to represent breast cancer when others faced harder paths.

Yet the first video drew likes and subscribers. The support felt welcome, so I posted daily. I wrote about a pre-surgery photo shoot, losing hair, chemo side effects, medically induced menopause, giving up alcohol in New York, rushed fertility steps, a failed egg retrieval, and lasting effects on estrogen and collagen. Engagement grew.

I enjoyed the attention and wanted more. Years of writing with an MFA had brought little notice, but now my words reached people because the topic was cancer. Disease had given me a platform.

The more openly I shared raw moments, such as a photo of fallen hair, the more comments arrived with prayer emojis. Readers praised turning hardship into art, and I kept supplying that content.

Sicker appearances drew more followers

I was not the only one who saw that visible suffering attracted viewers. Morris noted her audience grew during treatment and that videos with tears or visible struggle doubled in views. Ong, another survivor with 36,000 followers, saw higher engagement after sharing treatment updates.

During my year of surgery, chemo, and radiation I leaned into the cancer identity online. Audience approval felt good. At the peak Patreon brought nearly 1,000 dollars a month, helping cover costs after my job ended.

Still I noticed numbers depended on how ill I appeared. I wondered what would happen once my body looked normal again.

Losing followers after treatment ended

Three days after finishing active treatment I wrote that disappearing signs of cancer would require me to speak more clearly about living with the disease at 35. Months later my hair grew back and I lost half my subscribers. Morris reported the same drop and called it difficult. Therapist Sarah Shuster noted people rally around visible milestones but struggle when illness becomes less obvious and more emotional.

The sudden loss of visibility left me explaining that ten more years of medication would bring menopause symptoms and other lasting effects. I felt uneasy writing about cancer without looking the part. Michelle echoed the feeling, wondering if she still had a valid voice once she looked well.

Therapist Charlotte Christopher pointed out that many patients face depression just as support fades and that a public sick identity can make the shift harder.

Pressure to stay visibly ill

I found myself missing the structure and sympathy of active treatment. I reposted old bald photos to keep interest, yet views fell from hundreds to single digits. Morris admitted reusing treatment clips to stay relevant while wrestling with the choice.

Pivoting away from cancer content proved tough after building an audience on illness. Each throwback post left me questioning whether I was extending the topic for attention. I live with the tension of wanting to write about cancer while knowing it can feel like turning disease into a product, though patients may have the strongest claim to that choice.