Co-anchor of ABC’s “Good Morning America,” Robin Roberts discusses her journey with breast cancer and the lessons she’s learned as a survivor and a caregiver.
Looking back, how has your relationship with your own health evolved since your breast cancer diagnosis in 2007?
That’s a really good way to start, because it has evolved. I always thought prior to 2007 that I was doing the right things, and in many ways, I was. I was always very active, an athlete at heart, and cancer wasn’t something I ever thought of. I never had any real serious health issues.
However, sleep wasn’t a priority, and I ate a lot of processed food, a lot of red meat. I’ve taken the time to understand what I’m eating now. Everything is placed in our path for a reason — to learn from it. I’ve learned there are no guarantees, even if you do everything “right.”
I remember being discouraged and saying to my doctor, “I was doing the right things.” He said, “It didn’t prevent your cancer, but it’s going to help you beat it.” That really stayed with me. So, yes, it’s evolved. We all evolve.
Emotionally and spiritually, what stands out most about that time?
What really got me is realizing that it’s more mental than physical. I always thought cancer would be physically taxing — what it would do to my body, my hair. I never thought about the emotional side, and it threw me for a loop.
Everyone thinks you’re supposed to throw a party when treatment ends, but I went into a real depression. I got therapy, and I had medication for a time. No one really talks about after cancer. They talk about prevention and treatment, but not what comes after.
When I talk to people starting their cancer journey, I tell them that physically it’s not a walk in the park, but prepare yourself emotionally and mentally. Surround yourself with positivity in what you read, listen to, and watch. It really helps.
What kinds of aftercare or personalization do you wish had been available to you?
There have been so many great advancements since 2007. Had my treatment been more tailored, chances are I would not have developed myelodysplastic syndrome (MDS), which was brought on by the extensive treatment that saved my life.
I want to be clear: I don’t regret it. That treatment saved me. However, because I was of a certain age and because I was a Black woman with triple-negative breast cancer, they had to throw the kitchen sink at me back then. Now, it can be more specific to the individual, and you’re less likely to have complications.
Cancer is not one-size-fits-all. It’s not a cookie-cutter. I’ve found physicians today are more likely to treat each person as an individual. Even if they’ve seen it a thousand times, when they make you feel like it’s the first time, it means a lot.
You’ve faced two very different cancers. Did lessons from your first experience shape how you faced MDS?
Even though they were different types of cancer, going through it the first time showed me how strong I was. You don’t realize how strong you are until you’re put in that position.
People tell you, “You’re so brave,” but you don’t feel brave. You don’t feel strong. Then, when you look back, you think, “Wow, I did that, with the grace of God, wonderful physicians, and love and support.”
The second time, I knew I was stronger than I thought. I learned to raise my hand and ask for help. As women, we try to be Superwoman. I learned I can’t do it all, and I didn’t hesitate to ask for help the second time around. That made all the difference.
What message would you share with people living with blood cancers, who may feel unseen?
When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, everyone had information — colleagues, foundations, pamphlets. However, with MDS, there was almost nothing. I read one book and had to close it.
That’s why I’ve been so vocal about MDS and blood cancers. When I was told I might need a bone marrow transplant, I said, “Oh, that doesn’t sound like much fun,” not realizing what it truly meant.
It’s a privilege to be a messenger and to help people with rare conditions know they’re not alone. There are always resources out there. Find them. Connect. That’s how you get through it.
Why is personalization in breast health and care so important today, both medically and emotionally?
It helps because you have a better idea of what you’re facing and a better chance at a positive outcome.
As a woman of color, I was told I was less likely to be diagnosed but more likely to die from breast cancer than a white counterpart. Part of that is because women of color haven’t participated in testing and clinical trials as much, and there are reasons for that, rooted in history.
But that was then, and this is now. My sisters and I have participated in research because when a male family member, my brother, was diagnosed, we learned we might have a gene. Now my nieces and nephews are getting checked.
We need to make ourselves available for research. The more tailored treatment is — to your genetics and your cancer type — the better your chances for a positive outcome.
How can women take more ownership of their breast health?
I detected my own lump. My mother used to say, “We’re lumpy people,” and it was true, but I knew this lump was different because I checked myself so often. I moved up my doctor’s appointment, and I’m glad I did.
There was no family history, but I knew something was off. Everyone, men and women, should know their own bodies. When you get older, it’s humbling to look at yourself, but it’s also a blessing.
Our bodies are incredible. They get us through the hardest times. Respect your body by getting to know it. Nobody will know it better than you.
You’ve also been open about supporting your wife, Amber, through her breast cancer. How did being a caregiver compare to being a patient?
It was more difficult being a caregiver than being a patient. I cried more when Amber went through it than I ever did for myself.
As a patient, I knew my marching orders: Do A, B, and C. As a caregiver, you feel helpless. You’re always asking, “What do you need?” and the person doesn’t always know.
Amber had been an incredible caregiver to me. I didn’t realize all she did until later: shielding me from negativity, crying only after she left my room. Knowing that helped me when it was my turn to care for her.
Caregivers need support, too. They need a team around them. They need rest and understanding just as much as the patient does. My hat is off to every caregiver out there.
You’ve said optimism is a choice. What gives you optimism today?
Optimism is like a muscle; it gets stronger with use. The way I can see light in darkness is because I’ve practiced doing it.
That doesn’t mean you’re naïve or ignoring reality. It’s a choice to see the light, to be the light. Some people default to seeing the glass half empty. I just say, “I’ve got a glass.”
You have to change how you think to change how you feel. Those of us blessed with good mental and physical health, shame on us if we don’t use it to choose light, to help those who can’t see it yet.
