Reclaiming Pleasure After Medical Trauma: What No One Tells You

Rachel LaBella
Sep 9
5 min read

How breast cancer treatment changed my relationship with my body—and how I'm learning to reconnect with it

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, my primary focus was survival. I braced myself for the physical battle—the biopsies, the blood draws, the scans, and the surgeries. In the aftermath, grappling with post-op, post-radiation, and settling into the rhythm of daily hormone blockers, I realise there was something that I wasn’t prepared for: what comes next.

When the bandages come off, the bruises fade, and your body is declared “cancer-free,” you’re expected to feel relief. Instead, I felt isolated and like a stranger in my own skin. Now, as I navigate the quiet, confusing process of reclaiming pleasure and intimacy in a body that no longer feels like mine, I’m realising that surviving cancer was only the first chapter.

At 30, I never imagined I would be writing about breast cancer. I had just entered a new decade after a series of career missteps and the sudden loss of my father, hopeful that my thirties would finally bring stability, confidence, and a feeling of belonging in my own skin. Like many women my age, I was ready to leave the uncertainty of my twenties behind and feel more at home in myself. Yet, as a writer and mental health advocate who has lived through breast cancer, this Sexual Health Week I wanted to reflect on an aspect of recovery that is rarely acknowledged: reclaiming pleasure.

Diagnosis is clinical. Recovery is personal.

As I shared in a previous article, I was diagnosed with hormone-positive breast cancer shortly after my 30th birthday. To say that it was a shock would be an understatement. I didn’t carry any BRCA gene mutations (genetic mutations that increase the risk of breast and ovarian cancer). I had no family history. I didn’t even have a regular gynaecologist.

The discovery came during a routine physical examination, when my primary care doctor offered to do a quick breast exam. What followed was a whirlwind of mammograms, MRI scans, and a crash course in medical jargon that made my head spin.

Within weeks, I had surgery scheduled. I froze my eggs, as recommended. I started daily hormone therapy. I was grateful to have caught it early, and even more grateful to live in a state that mandated fertility preservation coverage for cancer patients. But the price of survival, for me, was steep: at least five-to-ten years of hormone suppression, which meant delaying pregnancy, navigating chemically-induced menopause, and living in a body that felt foreign.

Grieving the loss of pleasure

Tamoxifen, a tiny, unassuming white tablet, is my daily reminder that my body is no longer entirely my own. It works by blocking oestrogen, the hormone my cancer fed on. In the process, it also blocks libido, lubrication, and spontaneous desire.

Before cancer, I was in touch with my body in a way that felt natural as a young woman. I knew what turned me on. I felt comfortable in my skin. I could flirt and laugh and lean into intimacy without overthinking it. But after treatment, I felt like I was watching my life unfold through a frosted window.

My partner has been endlessly patient and kind throughout it all. Still, even within the safety of that relationship, I felt shame—shame that I couldn’t just “bounce back,” that I didn’t want to be touched, and that I couldn’t articulate what I needed because I wasn’t even sure myself.

Alongside the shame was guilt. Guilt that intimacy, something that once came naturally, now requires conversation, intention, and even planning. I didn’t know how to explain why I was rarely in the mood. I didn’t want him to think he was doing something wrong, or worse, that my love for him had dimmed alongside my diagnosis. But in my silence, the distance between us grew.

Why we need to talk about this more

In the broader conversation about survivorship, intimacy rarely makes the agenda. There are resources about fertility preservation, yes. There are support groups and blog posts about body image after mastectomy. But the loss of pleasure? The struggle to reconnect with your body as a source of joy and not just trauma? That’s a topic still shrouded in silence.

This isn't just about sex. It's about touch. Intimacy. Pleasure in the everyday. Wanting to feel warm in your body again, and not being expected to be satisfied just because it’s functional.

According to a study published in the Journal of Cancer Survivorship, sexual dysfunction and changes in intimacy are incredibly common among breast cancer survivors—particularly younger women. And yet, many of us are made to feel like it's an indulgence to talk about it. Like being grateful to be alive should somehow cancel out any grief we carry for what’s been lost.

But both can be true.

You can be grateful and grieving. You can be proud of your scars and still ache for what your body used to feel like. You can love your partner and still feel like a stranger in your own skin. And maybe most importantly, you can want more for yourself than just survival.

Reclaiming my body, one small step at a time

Healing, for me, has been far from linear. There have been false starts, fragile attempts to feel normal again, to reach for intimacy before I was truly prepared. But lately, I’ve been trying something gentler.

I started with small rituals: running a hot bath and letting myself soak without rushing. Buying lingerie that fits the body I have now, not the one I used to have. Reading about the experience of women who’ve walked this path before me to remind myself that I’m not alone. I’m not broken.

I also found a therapist who specialises in sexual health after cancer, something I didn’t even know existed until I went looking. Through that work, I’ve started to rebuild trust—not just with my partner, but with myself.

What I wish existed more widely, though, is a cultural roadmap for this kind of healing. One that doesn’t just tell us how to survive cancer, but how to live afterwards. A system that includes discussions around mental health, grief, trauma, and yes, pleasure. Because it’s not extra. It’s essential.

Some days, it’s as simple as letting the sunlight touch my skin and remembering that this body—scarred, hormonal, imperfect—is still capable of feeling good things. And that pleasure, in all its forms, is not a luxury. It’s a part of what makes life worth living.

This is survivorship, too

I used to think survivorship meant ticking boxes: clean scans, clear margins, annual checkups. Now I think it means something entirely different, but equally important. It means learning to live in a body you didn’t choose, finding softness where there used to be fear, and giving yourself permission to want more than just "being okay."

It means reclaiming your right to feel good—even after everything you've been through.

This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.