It was my choice to not reconstruct my breasts after my double mastectomy for breast cancer. My husband, when faced with the your-wife-or-her-breasts choice said simply, “Let them go, I want you healthy.”  So I let them go, and all they represented went with them–femininity, sexiness, beauty, not to mention cute clothing choices. I mean, navel-plunging necklines aren’t meant to expose actual navels.  So in between searching for shirts that don’t make me look like a twelve year old boy and tossing the unopened Victoria’s Secret catalog in the recycle bin, I’ve been searching for the true meaning of beauty.  And against all I’d ever believed growing up, I’ve found that real beauty has nothing to do with my chest.  It has to do with everything but–like my laugh (ask my kids), or my smile, (ask my mother) and my kindness (ask my BFFs), and in those cute pants that show off my backside (just ask my husband.) And it has to do with fighting cancer–and so far beating it–and being grateful that I still get to be here to teach my first grader how to tie her shoes.  I thought my femininity, sexiness and beauty rested in the two curves about my navel and the size 34B bras I once owned.  But according to the film festival crowd I spoke in front of last month, and my kids and my friends and all that life is showing me now, beauty really belongs in choices–to be who you are as you are–and to not be afraid to show it.