By Maria Cristina Aguilar Cabrera, MD.

Cancer has been a big part of my life. My name is Cristina. I am a medical doctor and a general surgery resident in my home country, Mexico. But long before I ever wore a white coat, I was a child sitting in hospital waiting rooms, trying to understand a world that felt both terrifying and strangely familiar. For my story to make sense, you have to know that my mom was diagnosed with stage III breast cancer when I was 7 years old. From that moment on, the hospital became part of my daily life. Until she died five years later, I was her plus-one at every appointment. I remember the details in fragments: the smell of antiseptic, the long hallways, the quiet tension in waiting rooms. I remember sitting for hours during chemotherapy, talking to other patients, eating cookies, being home school for a couple of months because it was easier, and trying to act like everything was normal. Somewhere in those years, I decided I wanted to become a doctor. It just felt natural. The hospital, in a way, had already become part of who I was. In medical school, cancer quickly became my favorite topic. To me, it was something both familiar and unknown—something that had shaped my life, but that I was only beginning to understand scientifically.

It was scary, but also fascinating. As I learned more, I began to notice a pattern. Breast cancer, skin cancer, prostate cancer—too many cases in my family to ignore. The more I studied, the more I felt that this wasn’t just coincidence. That thought stayed with me throughout the seven years of medical school, quietly but persistently sitting in the back of my mind. I brought it up multiple times. I spoke with attendings, professors, specialists. I told them I suspected there might be a genetic component in my family. But again and again, I was dismissed. One doctor, an OBGYN, told me to worry about it after having children. Another suggested I was overthinking because of my career, that doctor is a genetics specialist. At some point, I started questioning myself. Maybe they were right.But the feeling never fully went away. Finally, someone listened. Someone took me seriously, guided me, and helped me take the next step. I got tested. At 25, I found out I have a BRCA2 mutation. At that time, I was doing a research year at the National Cancer Institute, working on melanoma, and preparing to enter a General Surgery residency. My dream was to become an oncologic surgeon. And in that moment, everything shifted.

What had always been an intellectual interest suddenly became deeply personal again. The line between doctor and patient, something I thought was clearly defined, began to blur. I wish I could say I faced it immediately—but I didn’t. To keep moving forward in my career, I pushed it to the back of my mind. For about three years, I avoided it. I graduated, started a relationship, entered residency, built my life—and ignored the diagnosis that I knew I couldn’t ignore forever. Today, I am 28 years old, in my third year of residency, and becoming a surgeon. I still love oncology, but my perspective has changed. Cancer is no longer just a disease I study or treat—it is something that has shaped my identity in ways I am still learning to understand. This past year, I started asking questions, undergoing tests, and having difficult conversations. I allowed myself to fully confront what my diagnosis means. According to the genetics department at my hospital, given my specific mutation, I have about an 80% lifetime risk of breast cancer. Eighty percent. That number is impossible to ignore. I want to be many things in life. I want to be a surgeon. I want to be a wife. I want to be a mother. And more than anything, I want my children to grow up with their mom—something I didn’t have the chance to experience.

I am the first person in my family to work in healthcare, and the first to get tested. That means I also have the responsibility—and the privilege—of making an informed decision, not just for myself, but for what comes after me. So I made a choice. I am scheduled to undergo a double mastectomy with breast reconstruction this upcoming July. I am terrified—but I am also certain. As a surgeon in training, I understand the procedure. I know the risks, the steps, the complications. I have even been part of similar surgeries. Soon, I will know what it feels like to be on both sides of the table. That dual perspective is something I carry with me every day now. It has changed the way I see my patients. It has made me more aware of their fears, their silence, their strength. It has reminded me that medicine is not just about knowledge—it is about humanity. I am not fearless. I still reschedule appointments sometimes. I still cry, maybe a lot. I still have decisions to make, like the size of my future breasts. But I am moving forward. I am ready to advocate for myself—as a woman, as a patient, and as a future surgeon. I am also ready to advocate for others like me: previvors.