My colleague constantly ridiculed my breast implants, unaware I got them as a preventive measure against cancer — today, I reached my breaking point

Hey everyone, I’m Sharon, and today I want to share a part of my journey that’s been tucked away, mostly because I wasn’t sure how to talk about it without feeling a wave of emotions.

Four years ago, life threw me a curveball that no one ever wants to catch. My mom, the strongest woman I knew, lost her battle with breast cancer.

She wasn’t the first in our family to face this monster; my grandma had also been taken by the same disease.

Given our family history, I decided to see a specialist to know if I was walking down the same grim path.

The news I got wasn’t exactly a relief, but it wasn’t the worst-case scenario either. They found some cells in one of my breasts that were like uninvited guests at a party—they could turn the place upside down at any moment.

After discussing my options, I went for a bilateral mastectomy. It felt like choosing between the lesser of several evils, but after watching cancer ruthlessly take my mom and grandma, I didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

Soon after the surgery, I was left with two large, pink, jagged scars. They did more than mar my body; they scarred my mind too. I spiraled into a deep depression.

I loathed seeing my reflection, avoided mirrors, and on really bad days, I couldn’t stop the tears when I inadvertently caught a glimpse of my scars.

It took me a while, but I eventually found the courage to see a therapist, who was a godsend, honestly.

After a few sessions, where I poured out my fears and frustrations, she made a suggestion I hadn’t expected: seeing a plastic surgeon.

Reluctantly, I took her advice and consulted with a plastic surgeon. The options laid out were simple but daunting: a cream, laser treatments, or implants.

I tried the cream first, clinging to the hope of a less invasive fix, but it was like throwing water on a grease fire—ineffective and disheartening. The laser option was there too, but the high cost and the risk of making things worse scared me off. So, I went for implants.

Since getting the implants, there’s been a noticeable shift in my mental landscape. I feel better about how I look, which has made all the difference.

Fast forward to today, I’m 28 and working in an office. Life’s looking a lot better, but it wasn’t always that way. A few months ago, my coworker, Stasy, overheard a conversation about my implants during a chat about holiday plans with an old friend.

The news spread like wildfire through the office—thanks to Stasy. She didn’t know the story behind my decision, only the outcome.

Her teasing started soon after. I’d catch snippets of conversations as I walked by, her making snide remarks about my chest. “Watch out, Sharon might blow up on a plane!” or calling me “Barbie.”

It was demeaning, reducing my struggle to a punchline. I confronted her multiple times, in the elevator, and the women’s bathroom—places without an eye in the sky to witness our interactions. Each plea fell on deaf ears.

The last straw was when she quipped that I was from “Silicon Valley”—a jab that felt like a knife twisting in those all-too-real scars of mine. That day, I locked myself in the bathroom and wept.

It was in that moment of utter despair that I decided to put an end to Stasy’s cruelty once and for all.

So, the next day, I decided it was time to clear the air. I walked straight up to her as she sat laughing with a group of coworkers during lunchtime.

“Do you know why I have these?” I started, my voice steady despite the storm inside. “A few years ago, the doctors found potentially cancerous cells in my breast tissue. I was advised to get a mastectomy and was left with huge, ugly scars on my chest.”

“I went to see a therapist who sent me to a cosmetic surgeon, who advised me to get implants to hide the scars. And I did just so I could look at myself in the mirror without crying. So maybe next time you want to judge someone for having cosmetic surgery, you should ask them why they had it first.”

Dropping that truth felt like dropping the mic. I picked up my tray of food and left her sitting there, speechless.

The reactions from the office were mixed. About a third of my colleagues came up to me throughout the rest of the day to offer their support, which felt reassuring.

However, the rest seemed to think Stasy was just joking around and that I was being overly sensitive.

The next twist came in the form of an email from HR. They wanted to meet with me the next day about a “hostile work environment.” My heart sank a little when I saw who had signed off on the email—Laura, a known friend of Stasy’s from HR.

With the HR meeting looming and knowing it could easily be stacked against me thanks to Stasy’s connections, I knew I had to gather as much support as I could.

I remembered something crucial from my employment contract about being requesting a change in reviewer if there was a perceived bias. So, I dug out my contract, found the relevant section about an “impartial overseer,” and made a photocopy with the key parts highlighted.

Feeling a bit more empowered, I reached out to my coworkers who had shown me support. I asked if they’d be willing to write and sign a statement about what they had heard and when.

Not everyone was ready to go against Stasy, given her influence around the office, but about 20 people agreed to help.

The next day, I managed to collect about 16 signed letters from my colleagues. They weren’t just brief notes; some included detailed bullet-point lists of derogatory comments Stasy had made—not just about me, but about others too.

I showed up at the HR office right at 10 a.m., armed with the letters from my coworkers and the photocopied page from my contract about the impartial overseer.

As I walked in, Laura stood up from her desk, clearly ready to usher me into the meeting room.

Catching sight of another HR worker there, I seized the opportunity to clarify the situation. “So, is my meeting with you, then?” I asked, turning to the other HR staff member.

Laura quickly interjected, “No, you’re with me.”

Feeling a bit cornered but standing my ground, I responded, “That won’t sit well with me, as my contract states I have a right to an impartial overseer.” I pulled out the contract page from my folder as I spoke. I didn’t hand it over, mindful of the shredder nearby.

Frustrated, Laura stomped off to get our supervisor, Jacob. When Jacob arrived, he asked me straight up, “How do you know she can’t be impartial?”

I told him plainly, “Stasy, who filed this complaint, is a close friend of Laura.” He turned to Laura, asking if this was true. Her response was a mere, “I can be impartial.”

Jacob sighed deeply, then motioned for the other HR rep to join him, deciding that all four of us should review the complaint together.

We all went into the meeting room. The interview lasted over 30 minutes, with HR posing various questions that seemed to circle around the same themes, phrased in slightly different ways.

After what felt like an eternity of repeating myself and defending my actions, Jacob finally stood, signaling the end of the marathon session. He mentioned that I’d hear from them after they had a chance to review everything—the letters, any CCTV footage, my medical history, and whatever else they had gathered.

I wasn’t sure how this was going to turn out, so I pulled up my CV and started preparing for the worst-case scenario: a new job hunt.

About an hour later, I noticed movement around the HR office again. I watched as everyone who had been there in the lunchroom that day, except for Stasy, was called into HR.

Finally, it was Stasy’s turn. The office fell into a hush as she walked to HR. She was gone for about 40 minutes—twice as long as anyone else—and when she returned, her face was a storm of anger and disbelief. She was visibly shaking with fury, packing her things in a huff.

She ranted to anyone within earshot that I had gotten her fired, her voice rising over the clacks of keyboards and the rustling of coats being pulled on. Without a backward glance, she shoved her way onto the lift, leaving a trail of whispered speculations in her wake.

A few moments later, an email notification pinged loudly through the now quieter office. It was from HR, stating simply that my case had been closed.

As I shut down my computer, I felt a profound sense of closure and a cautious optimism about the days to come.

Do you think I did the right thing? What would you do if you were in my shoes?

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