The important thing is to take that first step. Bravely overcoming one small fear gives you the courage to take on the next. -- Daisaku Ikeda

When your diagnosed with cancer you sometimes feel that you don't know how to take that first step. What is the first step? For many it is very different. You might need time to accept what is happening, or you could be the kind of person to jump right into researching your disease, you'll probably need to find a surgeon and an oncologist and maybe even a plastic surgeon. Getting through the first steps can lead to making the rest of the journey easier.

One thing I have learned throughout my cancer experience is that I surprised myself at what I could actually handle. I took a scary step and got my port put in my chest so I could receive chemotherapy. I dreaded the fact that I had to get that port. I felt like such a freak. Even though the port was under my skin completely, it was protruding from my chest and I really felt like a cancer patient at that point.

I went out to lunch with my husband and kids yesterday. Sitting right behind us in the restaurant was a woman wearing a white hat, worn to mask an obvious bald head. My two little boys kept watching this woman, my littlest turning in his seat to get the best possible view. These boys, ages five and three, were not looking at this woman because a bald head is an odd sight in a public venue. They were looking because, to them, a bald head is familiar. And I think they were sizing up this woman, recalling what I once cleverly hid -- my own bald head.

We all noticed the woman in her white hat. But we handled our observations differently. My husband chose to focus on the task at hand -- eating. My boys chose to stare. I chose to contemplate.

I contemplated talking to this woman. I always have this urge -- to talk with others I suspect are fighting cancer -- and I always wonder if it's appropriate to approach strangers to discuss such a personal topic. Do I have a free pass to enter another's cancer world because I myself have membership in the same world? Perhaps. Perhaps not. So when faced with a possible cancer survivor -- marked mostly by a bald head -- I usually hesitate, contemplate, and then do nothing other than quietly consider what life might be like for the person who faces me.

Maybe I lack courage and should find a way to connect with these strangers. It may do us all a bit of good. Maybe courage has nothing to do with it. Maybe I refrain from conversation out of respect for each person's privacy. I am not convinced either way.

For now, I think I'll stick with what works, what feels safe -- observation and contemplation. And maybe next time I'm in a restaurant and notice someone strikingly familiar, I'll take a stab at my husband's approach -- just simply eating.

Holding Tight, Letting Go: Living with Metastatic Breast Cancer is a book written by Musa Mayer, a breast cancer survivor. Few books discuss the realities of metastatic breast cancer. Women with breast cancer live in fear of recurrence. For at least a third of those diagnosed, the disease will eventually spread. When this happens, most people assume it means an immediate death sentence.

The voices in this book speak of a different reality: that women with metastatic disease generally go on to live with their disease, often for many years, and that the time they have can be full and meaningful.

This is a great book for anyone dealing with metastatic breast cancer or even those who have been diagnosed and have a fear of recurrence. I read this book and it helps because my imagination can be far worse than the reality of the situation.

Here are a list of the chapter titles:

• Voices of a Forgotten Population
• Dread, Uncertainty and White-Water Rafting
• Seventeen Stories of Metastatic Breast Cancer
• The Shock of Recurrence
• The Problem of Knowledge: Doctors, Information-Seeking and Statistics
• Medical Treatments and Choices
• Hope and Healing for the Rest of You: Complementary Therapies
• Living with the Side Effects and Symptoms
• Families and Friends Speak: "Its happening to us, too."
• Light and Shadow: Stories of Remission, Work and Identity
• Final Gifts: Disease Progression, Hard Choices, Last Days
• Still Here: The Anatomy of Courage

Monday night is Courage Night, hosted by the Young Survival Coalition (YSC), national sorority Zeta Tau Alpha (ZTA), and Lifetime television. It's a night when Lifetime's Original Movie Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy will air, when crowds will gather in communities and on college campuses across the nation for special screenings and viewing parties of the movie that brings glaring attention to the issue of breast cancer.

Courage Night was created in 2004 by Geralyn Lucas, author of the book Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy, as an evening of celebration in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month. It was also a celebration of the publication of her then-new book.

Lucas, diagnosed with breast cancer at age 27, recounts in her memoir every step of her cancer journey, including her bold application of red lipstick just before her mastectomy. She knew from the day she was diagnosed she would speak out to help others, to raise awareness, to make a difference. Now 39, a mother of two, and an executive for Lifetime, Lucas is still making waves. And Courage Night lives on.

Courage Night has grown into a national grassroots event that honors breast cancer survivors and those lost to the disease. Event fundraising will benefit YSC -- the only organization dedicated to the special issues of young breast cancer survivors.

Why I Wore Lipstick to My Mastectomy, starring actress Sarah Chalke, will air Monday, October 23 at 9:00 PM.

Apple CEO Steve Jobs delivered a commencement speech at Stanford University on June 12, 2005. It was about following curiosity and intuition, about looking back and connecting the dots in life, about beginnings and endings, about death. Jobs, a survivor of pancreatic cancer, knows a thing or two about facing death. And the words he chose to relate his life-threatening experience to a crowd full of hopeful graduates are powerful and inspiring. I could paraphrase his message -- but surely something would be lost in my translation. So here is a bit of what he said -- word for word.

Lori Raimondo set off on a cross country journey in May with the goal of raising $9,490 -- one dollar for every day that her mother battled breast cancer. And just yesterday, she reported that her trek is over, that she is back home in New York City after her amazing adventure in search of hope. I think she found the hope she was looking for because she not only met her goal -- she exceeded it. She raised a grand total of $12,610.90 while traveling 10,334 miles -- and every cent was donated to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation where hope for a cure just got a bit sweeter.

Lori coined her trip the Road for a Cure and what a road it was. She crossed many state borders, met charming and kind and outrageous locals, visited with friends along the way, ate at tucked-away restaurants and slept in quaint places, toured roadside stops, and while accompishing her fundraising chronicled it all through words and photographs that appear on her own personal blog. It's inspiring -- that Lori would give of her time and effort and spirit to help others. All in honor of her mother, who lost her battle with breast cancer, and in support of those currently fighting their own battles. I am truly thankful -- as a breast cancer survivor -- that the research that might one day save my life may be a result of Lori's courage and bravery and hard work and generosity.

Welcome home, Lori. And congratulations on a road well traveled.

B.O.O.B.S: A Bunch of Outrageous Breast Cancer Survivors Tell Their Stories of Courage, Hope, and Healing is a collection of personal stories from ten women struggling with and surviving breast cancer. According to the book publisher, these ten women were brought together by the Wellness Community, a program that offered free psychological support to cancer patients and their loved ones. Some of them have even become patient advocates and spokeswomen in a desire to make a difference in the lives of other women coping with breast cancer, and the stories they tell are to offer hope to other women facing the same struggles in the challenges of trying to survive breast cancer.

It is not surprising that this book is a favorite among women diagnosed with breast cancer, and the family and friends who love them. There is documented research that shows women have better survival rates if they bond with a support group. There is something healing in knowing you are not alone -- that there are others who are traveling the same path -- and are there to light the way. Just as one day, as a breast cancer survivor, you will light the way for other women newly-diagnosed with breast cancer. A wise woman once told me to find inspiration each day. B.O.O.B.S: A Bunch of Outrageous Breast Cancer Survivors Tell Their Stories of Courage, Hope, and Healing is inspiration.

Dori died this past November after a long battle with breast cancer that recurred and spread and ultimately took her from her husband and two young children. I never knew Dori -- she was one of my blog acquaintances -- but I gather from her words and the hundreds of comments that were left on her site that she was full of spirit and courage and grace.

Dori died gracefully at her home, with the assistance of hospice and a loving network of family and friends. She is no longer able to write in her blog -- No Bra Required -- and I miss her abundant strength and humor in the midst of a exhausting journey. But something happened that I think has eased the transition for those who are struggling with the death of a woman much too young to have left this world -- Dori's husband continued to write. He continued Dori's blog for a bit and then started his own personal blog where he shares the peaks and valleys of a life without Dori and with two kids he is raising on his own. Winter to Spring is insightful and touching and sad and happy. It chronicles birthday parties and school plays and Mother's Day too. It reveals feelings and hopes and wishes and sorrows. The tragedy of it all -- the death of Dori -- is devastating. The upside of the tragedy -- the resilience of a family, the lessons learned, the hope for a brighter tomorrow -- keeps me coming back for more. For more of a story that can break my heart and warm my heart all at the same time.

I always notice women wearing ball caps. I wore them almost every day while I received chemotherapy last year. I used them to cover my bald head -- along with wigs made for ball caps -- because I never could muster up the courage to show the world what was happening to me. So I look at others who wear these hats and wonder if they wear them for the same reason I did. Most times, I can tell they are worn for nothing more than fashion or for a means to disguise a bad hair day -- but there are times when I spot a ball cap that covers the battle scars of a war with cancer. And this makes me sad. And proud. And connected to these women who share an experience with me -- even though we never meet or speak or realize the bond we share. It's like watching another mom with a brand new baby in a stroller -- and knowing how it feels to be that mom with a new life at her fingertips and all the joy and potential (and lack of sleep and worry and tantrums) that lie ahead. It's a silent sisterhood -- being a mom in the world with other moms and being a cancer survivor in the world with other cancer survivors.

I never thought ball caps would be so important in my life. I observe them and analyze them and remember how they cushioned the blow I took when my blond hair left me for good.

My blond, straight hair never came back. Dark, curly hair took its place -- and it now sits underneath a ball cap because I'm having a bad hair day.

Ever since my first son was born and it was clear that my cute, stylish purses would no longer work for all the gear I was about to lug around, I have struggled to find the perfect diaper bag that is big enough and strong enough and comfortable enough and sporty enough. I have tried actual diaper bags and purses I transformed into diaper bags and tote bags -- you name it, I've tried it. And then one day, I figured out the ideal solution -- a backpack. Not a school backpack but a purse that is carried like a backpack. It doesn't weigh me down on one side, it keeps my arms free for mommy tasks -- like controlling flailing babies and toddlers -- and it ties up tightly so little fingers cannot quickly grab and poke and shovel through my things. It's just right -- for me, anyway.

As my kids get older, my stock of gear gets smaller and smaller. And I am now down to carrying diaper wipes and diapers. One day, I will carry only my own personal belongings. Even so, I think I will stick with my backpack -- maybe even the exact one I currently carry which is in the collection of Vera Bradley's New Hope. It's a breast cancer product created in support of The Vera Bradley Foundation for Breast Cancer -- founded in 1998 after a dear friend of Vera Bradley founders Patricia Miller and Barbara Bradley Baekgaard lost her courageous battle with this disease. This foundation provides direct financial support to the critical research needed to understand and eradicate breast cancer.

This backpack carries all my stuff. It also carries power and courage and hope. It's definitely a keeper.

I visited a neighbor yesterday who has breast cancer. She has had one dose of chemotherapy and just yesterday shaved her head. I stopped by to see her new hairstyle and to give her a gift -- a collection of goodies including a hat, some Healing Garden bath lotions and sprays, a flower pen I made, and a card reminding her that like me, she will survive the madness of breast cancer treatment and will go on to enjoy a full head of hair again. And while our travels will be similar in some ways, they are also very different.  You see, Gayle had a mastectomy and I did not. So I can't relate to the emotion that comes from losing a breast and feeling lopsided and searching for a bathing suit to mask the unevenness and waiting for reconstruction that won't take place until after chemotherapy is complete. But Gayle is one strong woman and while I know she will have dark moments at times, her attitude and spirit is remarkable. I went to visit her thinking I could spread some hope her way and I walked away with a dose of hope from her -- a woman new to this journey yet full of courage and strength and bravery.

Gayle, 33 years old, a wife, and mom of two small boys, told me she will go to work tomorrow with a bald head -- she is not interested in cover-ups -- and this makes her an exceptional person in my book. I never did bare my baldness to the world and kept it covered until my new hair was growing back. I admire Gayle -- and all the women who display their heads like badges of honor -- because she is a true survivor. And one who just might teach me a thing or two.

Photographs of beautiful, brave, bald women fill the pages of Jackson Hunsicker's new book, Turning Heads: Portraits of Grace, Inspiration, and Possibilities.  Hunsicker, a cancer survivor whose initial fear after diagnosis was that of losing her own hair, features portraits of women from all over -- bald women whose cancer and chemotherapy took their hair.  Well-known photographers capture their beauty in this photo book that features cancer survivors in their own natural settings -- like two women posing in Venice Beach, one having never before gone out bald in public, a surfer riding a wave in Hawaii, and a bald and proud Melissa Etheridge on stage at the 2005 Grammy's.  Each photograph is accompanied by a short essay as the women in this book showcase their talents, interests, bravery, and courage. Hats off to Hunsicker for a book sure to be inspiring.