Miri's Story

I spent 13 years at Microsoft and always imagined I'd stay there until retirement. I was deeply immersed in my career, focused on building and leading, until my health abruptly changed the trajectory of my life.

In February 2021, during the height of COVID, I was told I carried a BRCA mutation. That moment—hearing those words—marked the beginning of a journey I had never anticipated.

When the doctor told me, it felt cinematic in the worst way. I heard the words, but my brain stopped processing. I remember scribbling fragments on a notepad—"cancer," "genetic," "counseling"—without fully understanding what they meant.

After the call ended, I sat there for almost an hour before I could move. My first thought wasn't about me—it was about my children. I have two sons, and immediately my mind went to what this could mean for them.

Fear, confusion, and urgency all hit at once.

Before this, I never thought deeply about genetics. When doctors asked if there was a family history of cancer, I would say "no"—not because it wasn't there, but because no one had ever taught me how to interpret family history in a meaningful way.

I didn't understand that genetics doesn't just mean immediate family. It means patterns, ages, causes of death, what went unspoken. I realized how much critical information gets lost simply because patients don't know how to tell their own story in a way the medical system can act on.

Once I understood the implications of my mutation, everything felt urgent.

I underwent five surgeries: a hysterectomy, a double mastectomy, and multiple reconstruction procedures. Each surgery brought not just physical recovery, but emotional reckoning. Those recovery moments forced me to sit with myself and ask bigger questions about my life, my health, and my future.

I also had to make decisions about work, parenting, and how much energy I could realistically give to each.

One of the most important lessons I learned was self-advocacy.

As a Latina woman, I was conditioned to defer to authority—especially doctors. If someone in a white coat told me something, I said yes. But this experience taught me that doctors know science, not me.

I learned to ask questions. To push back. To seek second opinions. To find providers who were curious about my story—not just my test results.

Choosing the right genetic counselor was pivotal. I consulted multiple institutions across the country before settling on one that treated my history as a full narrative, not a checklist.

Recovery wasn't just physical. Emotionally, it was a rollercoaster.

Some days I felt strong and optimistic. Other days I was terrified. I needed support that went beyond a standard therapist—I needed counselors who understood oncology, genetics, fear, and grief without explanation.

I realized that no single provider could support all of this. I needed multiple forms of counseling: emotional, career-focused, and medical.

Today, I live in Madrid and have launched my own company, born directly out of this journey. I left Microsoft not because it failed me—but because this experience changed what mattered.

I no longer operate from fear. I operate from agency.

I would still seek out top-tier care and multiple opinions.

What I would change is how long I spent navigating everything alone. I didn't have a central place to understand my genetics, my risks, my options, and my family implications in one coherent view.

I wish I'd had:

Most of all, I wish I had something that helped me move from fear to clarity faster.

This journey is complex—and it doesn't end after one appointment or one surgery.

People don't need more information. They need information that is relevant to them, delivered at the right time, with empathy and context.

Empowerment comes when you understand your story—and feel confident enough to act on it.