Waves of sadness would come and go during my initial stay at the hospital when the cancer news was still fresh.

Instead of crying, I would mostly get angry and yell into the void: “It could’ve been benign!”

Nonetheless, I did—and still do—my fair share of crying, for a number of reasons. When I’m not worrying about my odds of survival or if the chemo is working, I’m freaking out about how I look.    

After I shaved my head, a lot of people asked me if it felt empowering.

It didn’t.

After a week of chemo—which is synonymous with not eating and vomiting—I shaved my head in my kitchen surrounded by my three aunts and my mom. They all cheered me on as I shaved the first few pieces of hair. Despite their cheers, once I was finished and put the clippers down, I felt defeated.

Right before I was about to step in the shower to wash away all the bits of hair that still clung to my body, I looked in the mirror and gasped. I couldn’t even recognize myself anymore. I was bald, 10 pounds lighter, my chest was wrapped in Saran wrap to cover my port, most of my muscle was gone and I had an ugly, five-inch scar on my lower back from surgery. To me, I looked just as ugly as the chemo made me physically feel.

I was afraid and started wearing hats and baggy clothes to hide what had become of me. Instead of dealing with my new appearance, I mastered the art of washing my hands while looking at my feet so that I wouldn’t have to look at myself in the mirror. And I became enthralled with all things prom.

I have a vision of who I want to look like on prom night: me.

Not sick me. I want a full head of brown hair and I want it to look natural. I want eyebrows and eyelashes and I want my strength. So I have prepared myself with false eyelashes and I found a place for false eyebrows in case my brows decide to leave me, too.

I don’t want people to see me and see my cancer. I want them to see Olivia Morrison. Because what boy is ever going to want to go to the prom with some bald girl? My friends talk about boys, but sometimes I feel like I’ve lost my seat at that table and that I won’t be able to sit back down until I have at least a pixie cut going on.

How we look is important because it is our identity. When I think of myself, I see an engaged student, a dedicated runner and a good friend. I want to look like that person whom people knew before I got sick. I want people to be able to recognize me because I’m still the same person, even if I let myself forget that sometimes.

I’m still strong, even though right now I’m weak; I’m still a student, even though I’m in the hospital; I’m still a runner, even though all I can do now is walk; and I’m still beautiful, even though I’m bald.