My Not So Silent Hero

The DamesTalk group asked me to write an essay about my “silent hero.”

Without hesitation I’d say my big sister Lucy was my hero. Hero, yes. Silent, no. Lucy was anything but silent. She was bold, outrageous, and unapologetically outspoken. And yet—she was my role model for the unrelenting way she spoke her truth, and she was my Silent Hero because she gave me the courage to find my own voice. Just by being herself, she became the compass that not so quietly shaped me.

When Lucy walked into a room, you knew it. Vibrant in voice and presence, she always had a glimmer of outrageousness about her. She didn’t just enter—she landed. Like thunder wrapped in sunshine. With big warmth, humor, and a loud voice that carried. Usually her first sentence (and most others) started with a bright “fuck,” “shit,” or “goddammit” - in a happy-go-lucky sort of way. Somehow, she made even cursing feel joyful and normal.

I was the opposite. The shy one. Soft-spoken. Timid. In a group, I faded into the background.

Lucy was undeniable. I was invisible. While I held back, she charged forward. While I was always polite, she swore freely. She filled spaces I didn’t even realize I could take up.

And yet, even with her outspokenness, she was also deeply caring, considerate, and loving. And dearly loved. She got away with plenty as a kid—sneaking out windows at night, coming home at sunrise— and somehow charming her way out of trouble with Mom and Dad with a hug and a laugh, because she meant well, and our parents knew it. She lived boldly, even when boldly meant making mistakes, like getting married right out of high school to someone she barely knew and then divorced not long after.

No matter what adventure she was charging through, always she looked out for me. She tenderly cared for me and always invited me to tagalong with her friends. She encouraged my unique dreams and convinced my parents to allow 2mid-me to forge my own wild child path— hanging out with artists in NYC, becoming a vegetarian at 14, and leaving home at 17 to join a professional dance company.

She believed in me before I knew how to believe in myself.

When Lucy was diagnosed with breast cancer in her 30’s, her fierceness only grew. She faced it the only way she knew how—head on, with both honesty and f’ing fire.

After her mastectomy, she refused reconstruction. Most people would see that as a loss, but Lucy claimed it as strength. She was proud of her bare, scar-covered flat chest. Lucy saw herself and other cancer survivor sisters as the living embodiment of the Amazon women warrior archers who cut off one breast so they could pull back their bows with greater power. That’s how she reframed her scars: not as absence or loss, or disfigurement, but as a proud badge of warrior strength. She faced her illness with raw honesty, humor, outrage, and unapologetic courage. Not a victim. A warrior. Fierce. Audacious. Unashamed.

And in true Lucy fashion, she took that warrior spirit and made it visible to the world in an outspoken way. She created a button that simply said: Cancer Sucks. No ribbons. Just the harsh, unvarnished truth. She turned pain into protest, and protest into empowerment. She wore it on every shirt, in the place of the breast she had lost. She handed these buttons out everywhere—and of course, to all my friends too.

At first, I was embarrassed. Couldn’t she be a little more mainstream? Did she really have to be so raw? So blunt? It was so different from how polite-me moved through the world. But over time, my embarrassment turned into awe. I began to see the beauty and courage in her choice.

I admired her ability to express the outrage all who are touched by cancer know - the outrage I also shared. She was saying what everyone felt but was too afraid to voice. And she was right.

Cancer does suck.

That boldness - that refusal to wait for anyone’s approval to speak her mind - became one of her greatest gifts to me. Lucy taught me that if you don’t speak up for yourself, express your truth out loud, no one else will. Your truth, no matter how gut-wrenching, uncomfortable, messy, or inconvenient, can set you free.

People sometimes ask me where Lucy lives now. Sometimes the hero doesn’t win the battle.

Cancer took her, yet I would never say she’s “gone.” Because she’s here—in me. In the moments when my timid self gives way to bold words I didn’t know I could say. In the times I dare to be visible. That’s Lucy, shining through.

My sister Lucy was my hero not because she was silent, but because she was unafraid to be loud.

She was my hero not just for how she faced cancer, but for how she faced life.

Outrageous.

Authentic.

Loving.

Loud.

Unapologetically herself.

She didn’t do subtle. She didn’t sugarcoat. She didn’t wait for permission. She didn’t whisper.

She lived bold. She lived loud. She lived true.

And here’s the thing: the way she lived—and the way she loved—will always be my reminder to speak my truth, too. In her outspokenness, she gave me permission to be more than invisible.

To find some of my bold. To risk being seen. To risk being heard.

So, while Lucy may not have been a Silent Hero in the traditional sense, she was my hero. My warrior. My ‘Shero.’ She taught me this truth: heroes don’t always whisper. Sometimes they blaze through life. Sometimes their loudness, their outrageousness, their roaring raw truth becomes the quiet force that shapes who we are.

Her voice continues to be my compass, an ever present echo in me—reminding me to be brave, to be bold, and to be unapologetically myself.

Every day, my life is a living legacy to my sister. Every time I step out of timid-me and live out loud, I am honoring her gifts to me - to become in my own authentic way a f’ing warrior and hero for myself.