So here’s been my intention with Cancer Sharks from the start: build community.
I have nothing against ribbons. They are polite, pretty, and bring comfort to many.
I am not one of them.
Ribbons are too polite, too pretty. Melanoma, for me, though, has been rude, aggressive, and relentless. And though I’ve found surprising beauty inside it, wearing a black ribbon to me feels like mourning.
I am not mourning. I am not dead yet.
When a friend introduced me to Shark Magic—inviting shark energy to feast on this disease and rip it out. I immediately connected. Sharks are unapologetic. Sharks are a survival. Sharks are badass. And in this unwanted season, I do my best to be, too.
So I made my first Melanoma Shark. Black sequins, gleaming, sharp. At first, it was all for me. But in waiting rooms—oncology, endocrinology, ophthalmology, neurology—I started handing out stickers. Doctors, nurses, patients. They laughed. They swapped stories. And it hit me: cancer doesn’t come in one color.
I went back to the drawing board. A shark for every cancer. And one in purple sequins—the OG Cancer Shark—because purple is the color that unites us all.
Today was the first time I carried those purple sharks onto the oncology ward. Across the room, an older woman smiled at me.
“Are you in treatment?” I asked.
She nodded. Uterine cancer.
I asked if I could give her something, and she nodded again. I cut her a purple shark and told her the story. She grinned, showed her husband, and he asked:
“What does OG mean?”
“Original Gangster,” I said. “Purple is the all-encompassing cancer color.”
They laughed. Then she asked me, “Are you an artist?”
And for the first time, without hesitation, I said, “Yes.”
