They call it hair loss. I call it evidence.

When my hair began to fall, I cried. Not because of vanity — because it made the fight visible. There was no hiding it anymore, no good days where I could pretend. Every strand that left me was chemo doing its work, tearing down the cancer and taking pieces of me with it.

But somewhere between the tears, I found something underneath.

I saw a woman who kept showing up. Who drove to Tampa week after week. Who raised three children alone and wasn't about to lose to this. My hair was never my crown — my fight is.

It will grow back. And when it does, it will grow on the head of a survivor.