Why I had a double mastectomy at just 27 even though I didn’t have cancer. Now, I couldn’t be happier with my body

It was at a friend’s house one evening, a few months after my double mastectomy and reconstruction, that the subject of my surgery came up.

‘So what are they actually like?’ one of my friends asked, gesturing to my bust – probably after we’d had a few glasses of wine.

By then, I was so pleased with the results that I had no hesitation in offering to show them. A few of us disappeared into another room, where I lifted my top. ‘They look incredible – I can’t believe it,’ one commented. ‘I wish mine looked like that,’ laughed another. Their reaction echoed what I had thought myself when the dressings first came off. They looked so natural that, to anyone who didn’t know what I had been through, my breasts could have passed for the result of good cosmetic surgery.

It’s why I’ve joked ever since that I ‘got a boob job on the NHS’ – a phrase I know isn’t to everyone’s taste.

The reality, of course, was more serious. I had the operation in February 2019, aged 27, four years after discovering that I carried a faulty BRCA1 gene, which dramatically increases a woman’s risk of breast cancer and makes ovarian cancer more likely too.

For me, having my breasts removed before cancer had the chance to develop was a price worth paying.

I’m one of the lucky recipients, having inherited the gene from my father, Eliot, 64. His mother, Hannah, died of breast cancer in her 40s, when he was just eight. Dad – an only child – was tested in 2013 after his cousin was also diagnosed in her 50s with breast cancer. I decided to get tested, after his came back positive.

Children have a 50 per cent chance of inheriting a faulty BRCA gene from a carrier, whether that parent is their mother or father.

Yet paternal inheritance can sometimes be overlooked, particularly in families with few female relatives to reveal the pattern.

A study carried out at Boston College found women who inherited a BRCA mutation from their mother were almost three times as likely to be tested proactively, before a cancer diagnosis, as those who inherited it from their father.

After a simple blood test, in March 2015 I sat nervously in Barnet Hospital with my mum and dad, waiting for the results.

When the counsellor came out to escort us into her office, I knew it wasn’t good. As soon as we sat down, she broke the news, like ripping off a plaster. I stayed strong, not crying, taking in the words: ‘You’re 80 per cent more likely to get breast cancer.’

But then I turned to Dad and saw he was crying. ‘It’s my fault,’ he choked. Seeing him cry was what did for me.

I asked him to leave the room. Knowing how much he was blaming himself, I didn’t feel I could speak in front of him. I was just 23, but I decided right there and then I’d get a mastectomy.

The reason was because it would reduce my breast cancer risk to almost nothing.

I’m far from the only woman to make that calculation. Studies suggest that large numbers of women who discover they carry a faulty BRCA gene choose to have their breasts removed to reduce their risk of cancer.

One of the largest UK studies, which followed more than 7,000 cancer-free women at increased risk of breast cancer for up to 32 years, found that among those carrying faulty BRCA1 or BRCA2 genes, almost half opted for a double mastectomy within 20 years.

After my test came back positive, I was referred to breast surgeon Mrs Fawzia Imtiaz Crosbie at Barnet Hospital.

She wondered whether 23 was too young and asked if I’d considered the fact I wouldn’t be able to breastfeed. But I reasoned that Mum never breastfed me or my brother and it did us no harm.

We settled on me having it done at 27. I had that age in my head, and reading the blog of journalist Lisa Lynch, who was diagnosed with breast cancer at just 28, cemented it for me.

Lisa, who died from the disease in 2013 aged 33, wrote with dark humour and extraordinary candour about her diagnosis and treatment. I related to her because she was a magazine journalist, as I was at the time.

Alongside making sure to regularly check my breasts for any changes, I continued to see Mrs Crosbie for check-ups. She would examine me and make sure I was still set on a mastectomy.

She then put me in touch with Dr Dan Marsh, a plastic surgeon with whom she often works.

I knew from the outset that I wanted to have my breasts reconstructed at the same time as the mastectomy. This is known as immediate reconstruction and is now offered on the NHS to women having a mastectomy – whether to treat or prevent cancer – unless there is a medical reason it would not be suitable. Around half of women under 50 who have a mastectomy choose this option.

So the plan was that Mrs Crosbie would perform the mastectomy, after which Dr Marsh would do the reconstruction. He talked me through the different techniques, including deep inferior epigastric perforator flap reconstruction, which uses skin and fat from the lower abdomen to create new breasts.

At first I wanted that: a boob job and tummy tuck at the same time sounded appealing. However, he said I didn’t have enough fat on me if I wanted to keep my breasts the same size I was – 34D – so I opted for implants.

He also added: ‘Did you know one’s bigger than the other? We can fix that.’

Excellent news.

I also opted to keep my nipples, as I didn’t think I could handle looking in the mirror and seeing bare mounds of skin where they should be. The risk of cancer developing in a preserved nipple or areola is very low, estimated at under 5 per cent.

It was a similar choice to the one made by Angelina Jolie, who revealed in 2013 that she carried a faulty BRCA1 gene and had undergone a preventive double mastectomy. Like me, she kept her nipples and had her breasts reconstructed using implants.

In the run-up to my surgery, my mum threw me a ‘Bye Bye Boobs’ party.

She organised afternoon tea, complete with boob-shaped cupcakes and scones, for around 20 of my female friends and relatives. My friends even made a cast of my old breasts using a plaster kit. The bust now sits in our living room, in pride of place.

Despite people constantly asking whether I was nervous, I didn’t feel it until I kissed Mum and Dad goodbye and went down to theatre at the Royal Free Hospital in north London on February 13, 2019.

I was shaking and started crying, so the surgeon put on one of my favourite artists, Ariana Grande, to calm me down. The last song I remember hearing before I fell asleep was thank u, next – her anthem about moving on from the past and emerging stronger. It couldn’t have felt more fitting.

When I woke up, I couldn’t see the results as I was so heavily bandaged, but the first person I wanted to speak to was my new boyfriend, Will – much to my parents’ dismay. We’d been together for only four months when I had the operation (he’s now my husband).

In the aftermath of surgery, despite being drowsy from painkillers, I insisted that I was well enough to be discharged. In hindsight, leaving the hospital was a huge mistake. I woke in the night to go to the toilet, only to fall to the floor screaming in agony. Both my parents had to help me.

The pain was unbearable. I’d been sent home with antibiotics but no prescription painkillers, leaving me reliant on everyday ibuprofen and paracetamol, despite having just undergone major surgery to remove almost all my breast tissue.

Mrs Crosbie, the angel that she is, turned up at our house the next day with strong co-codamol, which hugely eased the pain.

Unable to lift my arms or get my stitches wet, I relied on Mum for everything – including pulling my trousers up and down when I used the toilet and washing me as well as she could at the sink.

I could barely get out of bed for the first few days.

My best friend, Urwi, met Will – who’d arrived armed with Valentine’s Day roses – for only the second time in my bedroom, while I lay there dishevelled, with greasy hair, no make-up and probably stinking.

When he left, she said to me: ‘This is the worst I’ve ever seen you look – he’s a keeper!’

When I first looked at my chest in the mirror, I sobbed. They were so brown, yellow, and huge.

But as the stitches came out and the swelling subsided, I realised what an amazing job the surgeons had done. I’d expected the worst but the scarring was minimal – and is even less noticeable today.

I have two semicircles above my nipples, and sometimes I forget I’ve even had the operation. This is all thanks to Mrs Crosbie.

After my surgery she told me that, while I was under anaesthetic, she had insisted on those scars rather than under-the-breast semicircles. I was young, she said, and she didn’t want me feeling self-conscious if my scars showed while I was wearing a bikini.

While I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone, there are up sides. I never have to wear a bra, and I’ll have pert boobs well into my 90s. People – often women – ask if I’ve had a boob job. A drunken yob yelled ‘Fake tits’ at me in Ibiza’s infamous Ocean Beach Club – one of the first times I wore a bikini after my surgery. I not-so-politely explained that technically, yes, they’re fake, but only because I had a mastectomy.

Things like this can be frustrating but it’s testament to the incredible work of Mrs Crosbie and Dr Marsh.

Faulty BRCA genes are far more prevalent in the Ashkenazi Jewish community, of which I’m part: around one in 40 carries one, compared with about one in 140 Sephardi Jews and one in 250 in the wider UK population.

That stark disparity prompted the NHS to launch a free saliva testing programme in England for adults with at least one Jewish grandparent. More than 44,000 people registered before applications closed in 2025, and more than 700 carriers were identified.

I’ve also become a volunteer for breast cancer charity CoppaFeel! giving talks in offices and schools about the importance of checking your breasts and pecs.

Through this work, I’ve met many women like me and seen how the results of double mastectomies can vary. Some reconstructed breasts are lumpy, rippled or uneven. Mine can be too, sometimes, especially if I’ve been lifting heavy weights in the gym or if I’m hot.

Recently, I posted a video on Instagram of myself in a low-cut dress. A stranger contacted me to ask if I’d checked my boobs, having noticed ‘strange movements’ in the skin around my cleavage. I had to explain it was rippling around the implant, because there is no actual breast tissue there.

But, honestly, I couldn’t feel more confident and happy about my body today.

The worst part for me is that I won’t have the option to breastfeed my future children. Watching my best friends breastfeed has made me sad that the choice has been taken away.

At least my husband will be able to share the feeds and I may be able to regain some normality sooner after having children.

And while they may look like a normal – but excellent – pair of breasts, I’m often reminded of the surgery when I’m cold.

My nipples are more sensitive now than before, while I’d been told I’d lose all sensitivity in them. They’re so sensitive, in fact, that I sometimes have to take painkillers when in an air-conditioned office because they become painfully cold and this can be, well, visible.

Despite those negatives, I’m so glad I took the plunge and opted for surgery. It really does feel as though I’ve had a boob job that saved my life.