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The Power of Hope

Gazing at my haggard visage in the bedroom mirror that morning in 1991, I didn't know which was worse—the way I felt or the way I looked.

In a sense they were one and the same, each a reflection of the other. I had just undergone a punishing round of chemotherapy following a double mastectomy for breast cancer, and doctors had warned me that I would probably have to undergo a second round.

I looked decades older than my 33 years. My skin sagged and my face was ashen. Dark circles shadowed my sunken eyes.

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