Sept. 21st - The day I lost my hair..

Over the past several weeks, I’ve been sharing pieces of my journey through breast cancer - the appointments, the treatments, the emotions, and most of all, the ways God has met me in the middle of it all. Some days have felt almost normal, while others have left me broken and clinging to His promises.

September 21st became one of those deeply difficult days, a day I had hoped wouldn’t come so soon…the day I lost my hair.

I know many have walked similar roads, and sometimes the rawest parts of our story are where God’s comfort shines the brightest.

Sunday, September 21st

Ever since this journey began, my heart has been anchored in Daniel 3 — the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fiery furnace. Their courage gives me strength, because they remind me of a truth I need every single day: we are never alone in the fire.

I also clung to the passage that “not a hair on their heads was singed.” With my thick hair, I prayed that might be my story too — that somehow I could be spared this part of the journey. Deep down, I hoped and hoped that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t have to face it.

But today, I did…. Today I lost my hair…

This morning started like any other. I brushed my hair, and just like the past few days, more and more strands gathered in the bristles. I kept telling myself, It’s okay — I have thick hair and still have plenty of hair left. But this time was different.

I hopped in the shower before my 8-year-old’s volleyball game that was to take place in a few hours, and as I started washing my hair, it happened…. I felt it instantly…my hair matted together.

At first, I was in denial, trying to pull it apart. But then reality settled in. This was it — the day I prayed would never come. It felt too soon. Not today. Not now.

And as the water ran down, so did my tears. I stood there in the shower, holding the reality I wanted to avoid for as long as possible. I wanted to stop time in that moment, but I couldn’t. The truth was undeniable: this part of the journey couldn’t be delayed any longer.

It was heavy. It was heartbreaking. And honestly, it was something I begged God to take away as I stood there.

When I got out, I ran to my room and looked in the mirror. That’s when the twins came home from their homecoming night in Elgin. When I came out to see them, they noticed my face and asked what was wrong.

I broke down. I put my face in my hands and through tears, I said, “I think I have to shave my head today.”

Corbin came and hugged me first, and then Addyson. The three of us stood there hugging as I cried. Addyson looked at me and said, “Mom, you will look beautiful no matter if you have hair or not. It will be okay.” Her words made me cry even harder, because sometimes kindness pierces deeper than anything else. I told them, “I know… it’s just really hard right now.” Their love carried me even as I felt like I was falling apart.

A little later my mom arrived to help. I had a large, matted section of hair clumped together on my left side. I had already tried leave-in conditioner, oils, brushing, and combing—anything to loosen it. My mom gently started working from the bottom with the comb, saying, “I think we’re going to have to cut some, Kaylen.” I didn’t care about losing length if it meant saving some of my hair. So she trimmed a little and we tried again—more oil, more conditioner, more careful combing.

For at least an hour, we sat there trying to break apart the matted area. But with every touch, I felt it tightening, matting worse, and deep down I knew the truth: I wasn’t going to save my hair. The realization broke me again and again. At one point Addyson held me while crying herself, saying I wasn’t my hair, that I was beautiful no matter what. She felt my sadness, my grief, and she wanted me to know that it was going to be ok.

Eventually, I called Nikki and asked if she could help. I went over to her house, and she gently tried combing through what was left. But with each stroke of the comb, more hair fell away. She finally looked at me and said, “Kaylen, I think we are going to have to buzz it.” The mats were too close to my scalp, and my head was beginning to hurt with every pull.

I broke down again, but I knew she was right. I told her, “Just do it. I know it needs to happen.”

So there I sat, Kleenex in hand, tears streaming, as the clippers buzzed through my hair. Nikki hugged me and said she was sorry, but this was just another step of the journey I never wanted but had to walk. When it was over, I couldn’t bring myself to look in the mirror. I wasn’t ready yet. I knew that when I did, it would make everything even more real.

Afterward, I went home. My mom and twins were there, and they were the first to see me. They encouraged me and said that I really should look. After their little “pep talk,” I gathered my courage to go over to the mirror. Slowly, I peeked from the corner. Then finally, I looked at myself head on. To be honest, it didn’t seem real. It didn’t even look like me. I didn’t know who this person was. I had never seen myself with short hair. But the longer I stood there, emotions high, staring at myself in the mirror, deep down I knew it was going to be ok.

I flashed back to when I was in grade school and wanted to have Halle Berry’s popular short haircut. I never went through with it, but that was the last time I ever imagined myself with short hair. And then, to add a touch of humor, I thought of how much money I had just spent getting my hair from almost black back to my natural color of dirty blonde—just before my diagnosis.

Just like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, I am reminded that God doesn’t always remove the fire. Sometimes He allows us to go through it, not to break us but to show us that He is with us in it — the Presence that holds us up when the flames feel too hot. The path before me is not without pain. It strips me of comfort, humbles me deeply, and moments that feel unfair. But still, I choose faith—I choose to believe in God’s goodness, to stand on His promises.

As Daniel 3 ends with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego walking out of the furnace unharmed, I hold onto the hope that I too will come out of this season refined—not because I was spared from the fire, but because God was and is with me, beside me, through it all. Losing my hair feels like shedding layers of who I once was, losing a piece of myself, a part of my identity. But I also know this: my identity isn’t in my hair, or my appearance, or even my strength. My identity is in Christ. And as I sit and reflect on this day, I feel like God is telling me He is doing something new in me, even here, even now. This moment is painful and humbling. But that is all it is — a moment. I believe God is writing something greater. On the other side of this, I will rise with deeper strength, stronger faith, and a new purpose in my life.

A Prayer

Lord, when the fire feels too hot and the journey feels too heavy, remind me that You are with me.

Help me see beyond what I’ve lost and cling to who You are.

Strengthen my heart, renew my spirit, and let my life be a testimony that even in the fire, You are faithful.

Even when I don’t understand, I choose to trust You.

Amen.