October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, a fact that seems pretty inescapable with pink ribbons and banners, T-shirts and events. In my workplace, we come together on Fridays, happy of a jeans day dress code and arrayed in every shade of pink. We gather for photos and we love the chance to all make a statement about this disease that kills so many women (and some men as well).

And while I gladly wear pink and keep a pink rubber bracelet on my arm for all of October, I wonder if the message of all of that pink is the message we all need to hear and understand.

There is no question that this touches a nerve for me. I was 14 and a freshman in high school when my mother discovered a lump and entered the fight that would last 11 more years. In those days, there was only one treatment, radical mastectomy and there was no follow up radiation or chemo. She was a full breasted woman and the surgery left her with an area of her chest that was so large that they had to do a skin graft months later.

She never talked about this with me, about her fears, about the pain or about the sense of loss that she must have felt. I am not sure she ever shared her feelings about having breast cancer with anyone and, in truth, she played most of her emotions very close to the vest. I have often thought that I must have been a challenge for her in many ways, not the least of which is the reality that my emotions are quickly triggered, always on my face, and frequently (although somewhat better now as I have gotten older) erupting in a stream of rapid-fire words.

For a long time I lived in anger, not at her most of the time (although I confess that I had my moments), but at the physicians who had no answers and made half-hearted and underwhelming efforts. Had I not been so young, so inexperienced, so caught up in school and marriage, work and my first child, would I have been able to make a difference? I don’t know. I will never know.

What matters to me now is that other women walk a different path than Mom did, that they get those simple mammograms, detecting this killer when the chance of a cure is greater. What matters to me now is that we all access the information that is now available, that we approach our health with eyes wide open, that we take care of ourselves and encourage all of our sisters, whether by blood or by friendship, to do the same.

When the gene testing for breast cancer first came out, my gynecologist advised me not to do. She was concerned that, if the gene was found present, it would become a pre-existing condition on health insurance and could disadvantage you if you needed care. I debated for a few days and then went back to see her. I remember that I didn’t say a word, just stuck out my arm. I needed to know for me but I needed to know, even more, for my kids and the thought of future generations (which were still a long way off).

Filling our hearts this month is not just about thinking pink. It is about holding onto the ones we love, the ones we have lost and the ones who are at risk. It is about realizing that our full hearts have much room to include, support and help others.