The Group Chat Has Changed
It starts with a call or text. Someone you know telling you something you didn’t expect—or want—to ever hear.
A diagnosis. Breast cancer.
Shortly after, the group chat takes shape. There are a few numbers you don’t recognize. You exchange info.
Someone names it something like: Bitches Mobilize.
Because that’s what happens. It comes together quickly.
Meal trains. Chemo kits. Errands. Rides. Childcare.
It’s logistical and efficient. It’s immediate.
The first version of that group chat, for me, was just me and my younger sisters, Tara and Beth.
It started in 2016, when our sister Tara was diagnosed with breast cancer at 37.
At the time, it felt like something we had to figure out from scratch: the language, the decisions, what would even help. We were first-timers.
No clue what we were doing. So we turned to what we did know.
Cashmere. Clean beauty products. A silk eye mask.
Luxury goods obviously don’t cure cancer. But they do make for a softer landing.
Ten years later, it’s different.
Because it’s not just my sister.
It’s more group chats. Versions of the same conversation. More than I care to count.
Friends. Friends of friends. Women my age. Often younger.
It’s closer and more frequent than it used to be.
You’ll notice how quickly you learn the language.
You don’t want to, but you do. Treatment plans, staging, markers. Genetic testing.
Is she cold capping? What the fuck is cold capping?
Mastectomy? Lumpectomy? Radiation? Chemo? We don’t know yet.
There are more specifics than you knew existed.
Stage I, II, III, IV. Triple positive. Triple negative. HER2-positive. Hormone receptor–positive.
You learn to ask the right questions. You’re treading lightly. It feels messy and overwhelming because it is.
There’s a specific kind of helplessness in wanting to get it right for someone you love—knowing that getting it wrong is almost inevitable, and showing up anyway.
Together, the group chat helps you find your way.
Lean on the side chats. They’re especially helpful if this is your first time.
If you’ve been added to the group chat, trust that. Your presence felt safe to someone. That’s not nothing—it’s everything.
The group chat is also where the real knowledge lives.
When it’s someone in your innermost circle, that part feels easier.
There’s enough familiarity—and intimacy—to get it wrong and keep going.
The group chat is also where all the knowledge lives:
Make food for the patient first, family second. Healthy and nutrient-dense—bone broth, not milkshake.
You learn to not say let me know if you need anything. We’ve all said it with the best intentions. But it puts the work back on the person who needs the help.
Get specific. A meal. A ride. Tuesday afternoon with the kids. Drop off some flowers.
A friend who was recently diagnosed is keeping up with the things she loves most—the things that remind her who she is outside of all of this.
Her advice: keep inviting the sick person, even if they won’t come. It keeps the choice with them.
Someone else: after a double mastectomy, the best thing she received was someone coming to her house for a wash and blowout. She has very long, thick hair. It helped her feel like herself.
Follow the patient’s lead.
Match the tone.
Maintain your sense of humor—it’s mission critical.
And above all, don’t disrupt the aesthetic.
If her wardrobe is Max Mara and The Row, this is certainly not the moment for a Cancer is Tough but I’m Tougher t-shirt.
Sometimes the group chat becomes something more. A chemo shower or treatment send-off. The IRL version of everything it already is.
The people from the thread, in a room. A bounty of food, gifts, laughter. A toast.
A chance to gather before the hard part begins.
So yes, the group chat has changed.
But what we love about it hasn’t.