This portrait captures a moment suspended in time, where love and support take on their full meaning. Aurélie, who has been diagnosed with breast cancer, embodies courage in daily life. At her side is Jérôme, her partner and rock. He is her constant presence, discreet but essential, providing unwavering support and companionship. This image tells their story: a story of love, struggle, tenderness, and hope. It reveals the deep bond that illness cannot erase, the silent gestures, the emotional glances, the invisible strength that brightens dark days. Being “closer to the heart” means recognizing the dignity and beauty of those who move forward together, despite adversity. Participating in this award reminds me of that. I have since strived to believe that in every trial there is a message that is good to assimilate and draw from and that we must always fight because the message is hidden in the struggle.

This is the story of cancer and its impact on life choices. It is the story of Aurore, who was diagnosed with cancer for the first time in 2014. The treatments damaged her ovaries and, as egg preservation was not yet possible in Dijon, she was unable to conceive naturally. In the midst of assisted reproductive technology (ART), a second breast cancer led to a double mastectomy. Thanks to an egg donation, Aurore became pregnant in March 2024 and gave birth to Billie in November 2024 (the week of the 2024 Estée Lauder Pink Ribbon Award ceremony)! An oophorectomy is planned to prevent future cancers. The photo of Billie, her hand on her mother’s heart but also close to the scars, the traces of this battle, simply sums up one life journey among many and, for me, perfectly echoes the theme “Closer to the Heart.”

“Goodbye, breasts. My little boy’s hand soothes the pain, gently touching my first scar. A little angel with my curls; me with a bald head, like a newborn. It all starts with a maternal lineage that has been affected. My grandmother, my mother. The vague yet traumatic memory of the nine-year-old girl I was, watching her mom fight. Since then, a sword of Damocles hanging over my head. A deep fear of the medical world. Now it’s my turn. Damn genetic mutation. Dissociation. Terror, uncertainty, loneliness. Hope, support, love. Confidence in my ability to heal, transform, and be reborn. On the eve of my double mastectomy, the desire to immortalize those who were often “too small,” “too inverted to breastfeed”... Soon they will be gone. This moment captured in an image for posterity. Cancer, you will have taken my hair temporarily, my breasts permanently; but you will not take the vital energy that drives me and makes me believe in my lucky star.”—Lucie

Where resilience beats. After a mastectomy, before any reconstruction, she wanted to freeze that moment in time, not to remember the pain but to celebrate her victory. Her body bears the marks of her ordeal, but her smile tells a different story: that of a stronger woman. Her scar, close to her heart, has become a symbol. “I lost a limb, but I gained a force I never knew I had,” she says. Instinctively, she cradled it, as if to honor that part of herself that had resisted. She accepted her body almost immediately and chose to celebrate it as it was, before it changed again. That day, she wanted to offer the world an image of resilience: to smile, to show that beauty does not disappear with loss. There is a striking contrast between the scar and that unyielding smile. Closer to her heart, she now carries the story of her victory... And the force of those who continue the fight.

11/10/2023 WhatsApp conversation Maeva: Results: cancer. Me: Do you want to meet up? The news of your triple-negative breast cancer hit me like a bombshell. I think back to your scruffy mini-hair when I accompanied you to Lyon for a chemo session, and where we found a way to laugh. I think back to your missing eyelashes, which no longer protected you from the wind. I think back to that first hair that grew back on your body, which made you cry and which we celebrated like a birth. I also think back to the lightning bolt, the real one this time, the one from the sky, which struck the ground when we told you that Cloé had succumbed to cancer. Today I see you. Marked by such fighting spirit, beautiful, with your sisters in arms not far away. In a nighttime alleyway, we spontaneously captured this image like a race where the disease is not in the shadows. Maeva, confident, free, unfurled, with these beating lights.

A recurrence of cancer less than a year after the operation that should have cured me forced me to undergo chemotherapy. An implantable port (IPC) connected directly to my heart had to be inserted to allow the treatment to be administered. This IPC is clearly visible, a small bump in my chest, located between two scars, and some dermatological side effects. This photo, a deliberately raw and radical self-portrait, shows a reality that is sometimes overlooked in patients’ accounts: chemotherapy also involves modifications to the body, such as this implantable port, just a few centimeters from the heart, which conveys to the organ the substances that will help me heal. My hand on my heart, a vanitas on my finger reminding me at every moment that throughout this journey of life, death remains what we all wish to avoid. “Closer to the heart” to better heal and love this body that is being altered throughout this treatment.

Céline’s story: “After a double mastectomy, I was asked to reconstruct myself. I was promised options to ‘repair’ what had been taken away, but they forgot that the only repair that matters is the one that comes from within. My body has changed, the scars are proof of my struggle, of my survival. They are not a flaw but a new chapter in my story. Today, I am learning to love myself in a different way. My breasts are no longer there, but my heart beats stronger than ever. It guides me towards a new version of myself, more authentic, closer to my heart.” Céline, an encounter, a beautiful friendship. For this session, emotion took precedence over technique. I wanted to highlight the beauty of this courageous, strong, and resilient woman. The black and white highlighted the emotions she felt that day, baring herself in front of me, yet another challenge! As the session progressed, I discovered a sparkling gaze behind her serious look, the real Céline.

“My cancer was invisible. No chemotherapy, no radiation. It was a rare form of cancer, but with a good prognosis, which resulted in the removal of my right breast, followed by immediate reconstruction. The shock was violent but brief; the psychological impact was much more devastating. The photo shows the hands of my daughters and their father: full of life, chubby, curious, creative. Hands that draw, cook, massage, caress, turn the pages of books... And which, when placed on me, soothe me. My family! Together we went through ‘cancer’; at the time, my daughters were eight months and four years old, and I was 37. This photo, taken two years later, moves me: I see a serene and victorious woman. It was taken by my friend Sophie Chaulaic. Her humor, joy, and affection are essential to my life. I am grateful to her for capturing this moment.” — Sophie Arutunian

The appointment to take Chloé’s portrait had been made long ago, with uncertainty as to whether it would actually happen, as her pregnancy was coming to term. She appeared with her long golden hair, fair complexion, and “very pregnant,” not knowing if the session would go ahead, with Margaux’s presence making itself felt. As Chloé opened up, she recounted how, when she was three months pregnant, she was diagnosed with triple-positive HER2 breast cancer. Without hesitation, she agreed to a mastectomy and immediate reconstruction, with science allowing her to breastfeed from her left breast at the end of her pregnancy! As soon as the shoot was over, Chloé left to give birth, and an appointment was made for a second portrait, this one of Margaux against her heart, taken when she was one month old. Chloé’s life was unraveling, and Margaux stitched it back together. The emotion was palpable, and the beauty of what was presented to the camera inspired a painting; the photo appeared to me, and resilience surrounded this duo.

As a humanist photographer, I seek to capture what remains when everything else is uncertain: dignity and inner light. This year, I offered photo shoots to 25 women with breast cancer, so that in October 2025 their portraits will stand tall, like so many voices in favor of breast screening. Amandine was among them. Her fragility touched my heart, and her courage bound me to her like a sister. She chose to bare herself to tell the truth about her struggle. Her downcast gaze and her hand on her throat evoke prayer, protection, and tamed fear. The chiaroscuro in black and white reveals shadow and hope and strips the image of all artifice to retain only the essential: naked humanity. Closer to the heart, this photo bears witness to an encounter where two destinies came together to transform pain into light. For me, being a photographer means placing my heart close to hers, soothing her wounds, and offering an image where dignity triumphs.

Two cancers, double mastectomy. Searching for meaning in this turmoil, seizing every bit of love we can, from those closest to us to those further away. Compassionate looks, smiles, laughter... And when the slope is climbed with ardor and bravery, recognizing the joy and pride of all the actors in your life before and now, who, without knowing it, have made this climb to victory possible? Feeling like a heroine. Feeling closer to the heart, closer to hearts, closer to my heart. I always try to photograph what touches the heart without necessarily using words. The heart knows before we do. The peonies arranged in the shape of a heart in front of the scars reveal the heart’s strength.

“Yesterday, nestled against my breast to feed you... Today, Amazon, you are nestled closer to my heart.”— Marie

In February 2024, at the age of 45, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. My treatment plan consisted of a total mastectomy of my right breast and five years of hormone therapy. After the operation, I was left with questions about my body, my confidence in it, my health, and my femininity. Like most women who have been through this, I was offered a breast reconstruction, fully covered by insurance. Surprisingly, only 30% of women choose to have this reconstructive surgery. I took this photo when I hadn’t yet made up my mind. The scar doesn’t bother me; I wear it almost like a badge of what I’ve survived. It’s more the asymmetry that disturbs me. I pose with my bare chest, wearing a bikini top from which I’ve removed the unnecessary side, revealing my scar. It reminds me of the aesthetics of statues like Venus de Milo, crossed out by a kind of pirate eye patch. It adds a touch of humor and derision to this period of reflection.

My boyfriend wants to introduce me to his sister, Élodie, who is visiting for the weekend. He has told me a lot about her and her battle with the disease. Three years ago, doctors diagnosed her with breast cancer. After several operations and complications, Élodie is now preparing for a new stage: the removal of her second breast, scheduled for September. The Estée Lauder Pink Ribbon Award comes back to mind. “What if I dared to ask her to pose for me?” Élodie joyfully agrees. The photo happens simply. Looking at her body, I notice that the disease has affected her left breast... on the heart-side. She gets ready to pose on the balcony and, quite naturally, places her hand on her heart. I would like her to laugh. Her brother shouts to her: “Élo, think about life!” She bursts out laughing, just as I press the shutter button, immortalizing the moment. The moment of a woman ready for battle, her hand closer to her heart.

“Mom, will you tell me if you have cancer?” Jeanne, 11, can hear my heart behind my silence. On February 24, 2025, a biopsy reveals Paget’s disease, a rare form of breast cancer that mainly affects women over 50. I am 43. The tests confirm it: my breast is spared, but I will need a lumpectomy, followed by radiation therapy. It’s known as “pre-cancer.” As the days go by, Jeanne stays closer to my heart than anyone else. She distances herself for a moment, giving herself time to get used to my new body, then comes back, strong and upright. Her hands rest on my scar as if protecting a precious secret. In her eyes there is hope, in her gestures kindness, and in her simple words all the love that has reopened the light within me, very probably more than the medical treatment.

“This new body is an encounter with myself, with other women; the very essence of womanhood and its strength: femininity. Shaken once again by the disease, without warning. Doubts didn’t have time to overwhelm me; how can I remain radiant, whole, true to my entire being? The disease will not defeat me! It will reveal me like a photo emerging from the darkroom. Bringing to light... Bringing myself to light. It was obvious that I would return to Guillaume Peyrat, with whom I had already captured important chapters of my life. He was able to capture the dark pain and my thirst for a bright future. How can I emerge from the shadows and return to the light, to life? To emerge from the chiaroscuro and show myself as I am, with kindness. To take stock. To embrace hope. To become an Amazon, yes, but not a warrior. A proud and gentle woman. Reconciled. To all of you, never doubt your strength, your resources. As a caregiver by profession, the body is not much, but a strong mind is essential.”—Marion

Last year, they detected a brain tumor in my 16-year-old son’s cerebellum. When Edith told me about her own illness, I was locked in my pain and had nothing to offer her. My son was a fencer, and his fencing master had cancer, so he created a health fencing section called “Solution RIPOSTE” at the Vauban Fencing Academy in Lille. I told myself that you had to get sick to understand the joy of living. I wanted to show Edith this magical place. I never photographed her, yet I was always amazed by her lion’s mane hair and her open gaze. We tried out different poses. The photo I chose shows Edith without any staging. The bird is fragile, but she is not drowned. “This cancer is a springboard to a new me.” She held the fencing mask against her heart behind the breast that bears scars. It’s a photo that documents us and that offers hope when the heart is ready. It is ready.

She arrived in the middle of her chemotherapy. Bald head, tired body, but with this light in her eyes. A gentle strength, a joy mixed with a zest for life that cannot be faked. From the very first exchanges, we recognized something in each other, and on the day of the shoot, we laughed a lot. We took powerful, vibrant photos, full of her, full of life. And then there was this moment. She stopped smiling, closed her eyes, and placed her hands on her heart. And a tear rolled down her cheek. A real tear, falling without warning. As if everything she had held back until then had decided, at that precise moment, to be released. It was a suspended moment, outside of time, where her body gently gave way, where her memory and fatigue quietly crept in. She said nothing, but everything she exuded spoke volumes: I too have the right to be tired, to be afraid. The right not to be strong all the time. It became our photo. The one we will never forget. The most authentic. The closest to the heart.

The beat of hearts that brings six women together in friendship, struggle, and love. Christelle, Claudia, and Jessica have all battled breast cancer. Christelle, in the center, twice. She encountered the Visages de Femmes organization, which highlights the beauty, strength, and diversity of women, whether affected by the disease or not. Christelle is now part of the board, discovering magnificent, luminous women, a constellation of sisters and hearts, united by tenderness and trust. There is no studio; light streams in through the window, bathing the apartment where the organization’s meeting is to be held. Black and white reveals the essential, without artifice, timeless. Bodies embrace, eyes closed, letting only the heart speak. I borrowed a moment of their shared kindness, their constant attention to each other’s well-being. Arms laid down leave the heart open. Beyond loss and pain, an unbreakable bond is born: sisterhood.

“Breast cancer marks the flesh, but it does not extinguish the inner flame. Where darkness sought to prevail, the light of a beating heart chose to resist.”—Véronique My mother went through the impossible and chose to transform her scars into a symbol of resistance, thanks to a tattoo in their place. A cherry tree in bloom, symbolizing the fragility and fleeting beauty of life, a call to savor every heartbeat; a phoenix, symbolizing resilience in the face of adversity. The photo was created in a rugged landscape. The rocks and wind are reminders of hardship and danger, but also of strength and courage. Draped simply, standing, facing the horizon, she embodies the difficult path she has traveled and the momentum of a heart still beating toward the future. With her hand on her heart, the vital organ that has not failed her, this portrait represents an intimate victory, albeit a very fragile one, within her body. This portrait also represents the filial love that unites her and me.

In the 1990s, talking about cancer was scary. In 1994, my grandmother believed a doctor who told her that the small lump in her breast was nothing to worry about. But after the operation, while still under anesthesia, she heard the word “cancer” being whispered in the corridors. She was scared, but she fought back. Thanks to another doctor and radiation therapy, she defeated the disease. Eight years of checkups, and life went on. I was born afterwards, surrounded by her strength and love. She taught me to listen to my body, to cultivate joy, and to love life. In this bathroom: three generations, immense love. And a tattoo to remember. Today, the tumor has returned, but she can no longer understand this situation. She will never know because she now has Alzheimer’s disease.

“Mimesis” From ancient Greek, mimesis evokes “the act of representing, imagining, or bringing something into being.” My almost alchemical creative process combines photographic gestures and hybridization. A black-and-white film negative, deliberately altered until it becomes a cosmic material, is transformed into organic matter thanks to its textures and accidents. This image, now a trace and light, is projected onto my own body and face, revealing a poetic dimension: a heart-shaped light. . This heart is a symbolic and gentle presence. It embodies inner light, the kind that persists even in times of hardship, the kind that transforms into strength, love, and hope in the face of the disease. This heart is a symbol of love, hope, and resilience. It does not hide the scar but envelops it in the projector’s light.

To you, Audrey... On your skin, a mark. A tear stitched without a sound. Not a wound. An imprint. Yours. The photo is harsh, uncompromising, like life when it strikes. But in the black and white, it is the heart that speaks in contrast A thin line, burning with silence and memory. Right there, above the heart, like a signature. It does not tell the end of a story, but the strength it took to continue writing it. Feminine, in every beat, in every silence kept, in every burst of laughter stolen from fear. It is not a scar. It is the exact place where you got back on your feet. Closer to the heart than words can say. A soft imprint, whispering what matters most.

“My encounter with Dorothée was like a nod from fate after a year of monitoring and hospitalization for a preventive double mastectomy with latissimus dorsi flap, as I am a carrier of the BRCA2 gene. My body and especially my morale had been affected by this long and complicated journey. I was in tatters, broken, cracked, both inside and out. So, when I came across this photographer's project working with broken mirrors, I saw it as symbolic of my own cracks. The session was emotionally intense: I was able to see myself as beautiful through my flaws highlighted by the mirror. It was a way for me to recognize myself in this new, reconstructed body. I experienced this moment as an ode to the body and its strength, sublimating its history to emerge peaceful and unified. It was a way to get closer to my heart: to regain confidence, to love myself again, and to feel that behind the scars there is still a vital force that beats on.”—Lucie

It progressed from day into night I found you, my last chance A patch sewn onto my heart On grafted skin, it’s life Love has conquered, I love you My last chance, my happiness I dance! I sway, an ode to life, an ode to death, to love. A sacred heart placed on my breast Did you do it on purpose, surgeon? Love of flesh and blood, I loved you Here I am, even closer to you Love, I found you again You who make butterflies dance and my body vibrate I dance! I sway, ode to life, ode to death, to love. The rainbow, I looked up and glimpsed it In the horror I found it, in the night, you my light, I saw you My heart in tatters, you saved me! The arcane has no choice, love has its reason: scalped on the heart, the lover! Hair turned to ashes, it is the miracle, the tongue of fire. A brand new heart, a tattoo of burning love, thank you, life, I am reborn. I dance! I sway, an ode to life, death, love, and amor.

Breast cancer affects us all as women. Annick, my friend and dance teacher, is one of those women caught up in this inferno... With her, I reconnected and learned to DANCE LIFE, and now I help women dance their lives, heal, and transform. I have created a unique process that combines dance, photography, and painting. Through this photo, I wanted to help Annick experience her reconstruction and healing, to see her wounded breast in a new light and to sublimate it. The phoenix behind her came spontaneously, the light in the painting tracing its shape. The gold stitching refined the design and completed the photographic work. Going through a serious illness like cancer can also be a journey of self-discovery, a movement to reinvent oneself and be reborn beyond a wounded body, like a phoenix that has healed its wounds, stitched together with gold. Closer to the heart, closer to you, with this photo, this work of yours, you allow yourself to be reborn and rebuilt.

The disease will not rob Fanny and her three children of their sparkle. Present and discreet, they support her, playing a supporting role in the battle she is fighting. They are there, just behind the curtain, as essential as the prompter is in the theater. They are there, “Closer to the heart,” with modesty. Their hands intertwined with hers, on her heart, hide the diseased but still present breast. Their hands and arms frame the breast that will soon be tenderly reconstructed.

What could be more intimate than what we can only hide? What could be more precious than what has been lost and can never be found again? What could be more essential than seeing your body repaired after the storm of the disease? What could be more symbolic than the heart to express a rediscovered love for oneself? A heart with hands, a heart on a reconstructed breast that will never be the same, heart to heart with the mirror, and love at first sight for this forever beloved heart-nipple that we finally want to show... In the voluntary anonymity of this photo, it is all the love we have for ourselves that we sublimate with a daring choice that surprises… There is as much love at the heart of this photo as I have for my job as a nipple tattoo artist, which I continue to do alongside my work as an oncology researcher. Love for others at the heart of a vocation and an unwavering commitment to protecting this discreet art, creating smiles and wiping away tears to make hearts shine with a new light...

“My wife and I were the proud parents of Alice. We were eagerly awaiting the arrival of her little sister, but in January 2022, Louise was born prematurely. A month after her birth, the diagnosis came: Lucille had stage 3 breast cancer, the symptoms of which had been masked by her pregnancy. It put us in a total spin: how could we give life and think about death at the same time? And yet, Louise’s premature arrival was actually a gift from heaven: it allowed us to start treatment earlier and ultimately save my wife’s life. With the memory of her struggles still fresh in her flesh, Lucille nurtures the special bond she has with her daughters every day, as they have given her the courage to live. A fragile moment that cannot be replayed, this snapshot seeks to capture the fleeting nature of existence and the love that unites people. Today we are celebrating two years of remission. Involved in the Jeune et Rose organization, Lucille now helps women who have gone through similar experiences.” — Florent

The diagnosis of breast cancer is a wave of uncommon violence. Chemotherapy is a chemical tempest. It is difficult to navigate these stormy seas, and surely even more complex to explain it to your teenager. Especially as a single mother. I took this photograph of Julie during her chemotherapy. Her entire metabolism is changing, her mind, and soon her body, but not her smile. Léon, her teenager, not quite a child and not yet an adult, already doesn’t understand what’s happening in his own body. The words are too big, the silences too heavy, modesty prevails. So he does what he can. He looks away, doesn’t ask questions, he invents, he plays. Closer to the heart than words, he symbolically helps her ride this wave. That day, he took the garden hose and sprayed her with the water she needed to surf. She laughed. A moment of lightness amid the chaos. Between the absurd and the sublime, the resilience of a mother and her son.

Karine has been battling cancer since 2015. I photographed her and other women waging the same battle to highlight their courage and resilience. They are ordinary warriors, and they can be proud of their fighting spirit. I was just 20 years old when cancer took my mother, the most precious person in my young life. And photography saved my life.

For the past month, I have felt like I am living in a liminal reality, out of step with the world. My new reality consists of a series of medical examinations to face. My taste for things has changed. The future and my plans have become vague concepts in just a few weeks. I live between France and Turkey. I took this self-portrait with my partner in the room I currently occupy at my mother’s house, when he came to visit me after I was diagnosed with cancer. My loved ones give me strength and energy during this ordeal, which shakes one’s relationship with oneself and others, and forces us to refocus on what is essential: the chance to be alive, surrounded by those I love.

This high-contrast black-and-white photograph tells the story of a shared experience between me, my brother behind the lens, and my sister. Beyond being a portrait, it captures a moment of trust and complicity in the face of breast cancer. The disease left scars and injection marks on her body. These visible traces bear witness to life, struggle, and a duality between fragility and strength. I chose not to erase them in order to give them meaning, that of a beauty that incorporates the wounds of existence. This photo shoot was a powerful experience for her, marked by the protective gaze and constant support of her family since the cancer diagnosis. By embracing her vulnerability and these marks, she was able to reclaim her body, put the disease at a distance, and begin a path of healing and rebirth. For me, it was about bearing witness to her strength and inner dignity. Beyond the disease, this portrait reveals a desire to live life to the fullest. Here, the scar becomes a sign of resilience and proof that beauty remains stronger than the ordeal. This intimate and universal image speaks of courage, dignity, and life.

I took this photo (medium format film stock) of Marie as part of a photography project. I wanted to explore how life stories are inscribed on and shape bodies, leaving their mark or sometimes hiding there only to resurface years later. It was her heart-shaped scar that first made me think of her for the theme of this year’s Estée Lauder Pink Ribbon Award. And then I reread her testimony... “I don’t remember my body without scars, intact. There are those related to pregnancies, those on my breast too. But I like them. I’ve learned to love all these marks. They show the suffering I’ve managed to overcome. They’re closed now, they exist but they’re no longer raw. The suffering behind them also exists, but it’s no longer raw either. It showed me that I was capable, that I had a certain strength. I learned a lot about myself, about my ability to cope and my resilience.” — Marie

Cathy is an old family friend, a woman with a big heart and a strong personality. I’ve known her since I was ten years old. Recently, we stayed at her house near Agen. One day, she invited us to cool off in her pool. When we arrived, she was standing in the water, hands on her hips, smiling... and topless. I thought she looked beautiful, radiating confidence, unashamed of the scars left by her battle ten years ago. She proudly bears the scar that sits right where her heart is. Her beauty lies in her strength, her attitude, and the warmth she exudes. This moment taught me a beautiful lesson: to love our bodies as they are and live life to the fullest, without regrets, savoring every moment of life as it comes.

Three years. Three close friends. Three ages: 27, 35, 40. Their paths do not cross, but the same light shines through them. A new perspective. Like a secret power, revealed by the ordeal. They taught me to see. Not differently, but more deeply. To look at life as a gift, not a burden. To not wait. To seize the moment. I chose this portrait of Roxane, halfway through her battle with breast cancer, because I don’t see the disease. I see strength. If I didn’t know her, I wouldn’t be able to tell if her head is shaved by choice or if it was imposed on her. I see a nature that envelops her, that protects her. The gaze of a woman who is no longer afraid. I see her in a new light: that of a woman who chooses life, and who will never live it the same way again. Here, it’s not about illness. It’s about what remains once the cancer is gone.

I’ve photographed many women affected by breast cancer. I could have chosen one of these portraits, but the theme of this year’s Estée Lauder Pink Ribbon Award demanded that I reveal my self-portrait. For me, the “heart” represents courage. “Closer to the heart” means having the courage to look at myself closely, face to face, in a mirror, with this disfiguring cancer. This cancer that is eating away at the breast that, until recently, still protected my heart. Armed with my camera, I will continue to love it. Strength lies in the sublimation of the disease. I want to show others that cancer does not destroy vital energy. I don’t want to suffer from the disease. I want to take control of it. Play with it, laugh at it, mock it, transform it, and create in a new way. In the photo, the pure white is that of the bandage. The deep black is in the lens. The entire range of grays are the stories my new body has to tell me.

Beneath this damp fabric, it appears, thin and proud. My scar. It is not a fixed mark, it lives. It breathes. With every beat of my heart, it rises, discreet but present, as if to remind me that I am still here. For a long time, I thought it was ugly, like a boundary between who I was and who I was meant to become. Today, I see it as a lifeline, a taut thread connecting yesterday’s pain to today’s strength. In the water that embraces me, I feel its rhythm, I feel my own. With open arms, I let myself go. My gaze says: I am here, alive! It is not a memory of loss, but a silent cry of victory. Closer to the heart, that’s where it beats... And with it, my whole life

One afternoon, I accompanied Margaux to the Institut Curie for a radiation session. We both came across the Estée Lauder Pink Ribbon Award announcement before meeting up. It was a coincidence that seemed self-evident. Margaux is battling her second bout of breast cancer, now in remission. We talk about self-acceptance, reconstruction, and what comes next. Getting back to normal after such a whirlwind. This contest was a real challenge for both of us. Margaux is very committed to this cause, but not comfortable with nudity (neither am I). We decided to take on this challenge together. I was going to get closer to her through my lens, to try to help her reconcile with “this body.” In this very intimate moment, we had to really become acquainted with each other. And what better way to do that than through laughter? I sent her the series of photos so we could choose our favorite. Her response was: “Maybe you'll help me love this body full of scars.” I couldn’t have asked for a better outcome to this challenge.

I put everything on hold. My job. My routine. My old life. Because she is my mother. And today, she is the one who needs me. I help her get up, stand up, fight through her fatigue, just as she did for me a thousand times when I was a child. It’s not a sacrifice. It’s a bond. A bond stronger than fear, stronger than the disease. I have become her arms, her legs, sometimes even her breath. But above all, what I carry is her heart. And that’s where I stand, every day: closer to hers.