Last April, we flew to Israel to celebrate my son’s bar mitzvah. I had hoped to buy a beautiful new kippah fall for the event, but I’d had another UC flare, and by the time I was feeling better, it was too late to order anything custom. I accepted that I’d just wear my old wig for the simchah.

My kippah fall needed a clip fixed, so I ran into a nearby sheitel place to get it repaired. When I glanced at the wall of wigs, I saw one that stood out — a 3/4 cap fall (a sheitel with a lot more coverage than my tiny kippah fall) that was the perfect color and the perfect length. It felt like it was waiting for me. I bought it on the spot for the upcoming simchah.

Right after I got home from Israel, I returned to that same store to adjust something on my new wig. While I was there, another 3/4 cap fall caught my eye — same perfect color family, ideal length, but slightly different: thinner, longer, a little flatter. Even though I was still only covering my hair on Shabbos, I bought that one, too. I can’t really explain why — I just felt like it had my name on it.

Here’s the crazy part: I have never seen pieces like these in her store since. Those two pieces were like little gifts from Hashem, showing up at exactly the right time to prepare me for what was yet to come.

A week later, I went to my stylist for a root touch-up. My hair grows quite quickly, and I needed it cleaned up. I have used this stylist for so many years that I trusted her without question. So I was shocked when, midway through, I noticed foils in my hair that were filled with bleach for highlights. My stomach dropped — why foils! I’d had my hair highlighted fairly recently and wasn’t due for another treatment. I decided I wouldn’t make a fuss; it was too late to change anything anyway.

The next morning — Shabbos morning — I woke up and froze. Chunks of my hair had fallen out. Instead of long flowing hair framing my face, I had uneven, shredded bangs. Since my stylist had gone for a balayage look, the bleach foils had primarily been on the bottom half of my hair, and that’s where most of the damage was. The hair there was fried, frayed, and broken. Imagine 100 strands of hair at the top of my head ending in a single thin string at the bottom. My hair was destroyed.

Anyone would be upset by this, but I was traumatized. I couldn’t stop thinking about it or talking about it. After spending two years rebuilding my hair from the damage of ulcerative colitis, just when I was finally starting to look and feel semi-normal — this?

I

spiraled so badly that I went straight into another UC flare. I couldn’t function. I felt broken. The only way I got through that dark period was by swimming. For me, doing laps isn’t just exercise — it’s my daily therapy, my mental reset, my quiet place where I work through problems and hear my own thoughts clearly. It’s like my personal form of hitbodedut.

One day, two weeks after that fateful Shabbos morning, I had a moment of pure clarity while swimming laps. It was like a voice inside me said: “Shari, you’re looking at this all wrong. It’s just hair. This was a kapparah — something small taken from you instead of something worse.”

I left the pool, got into my car, and told my husband what I had just felt. “I’m done being sad about this,” I told him. “Instead I’m saying: ‘Thank You, Hashem. You saved me from something, and You only took a little bit of beauty from me.’”

In that moment, I turned sadness into gratitude. Somehow, deep in my core, I knew it was the absolute truth. My despair lifted completely and I bounced back to my normal happy self. But still, in the back of my mind, I kept wondering, What does Hashem want from me? What’s the lesson here?

After a few days of ruminating on this in the pool, I had a second revelation — even stronger than the first. It suddenly became crystal clear to me that Hashem wanted me to take on the mitzvah of covering my hair. The message felt loud and undeniable.

I felt, in my heart, that Hashem was offering me a form of protection, a mitzvah that was spiritually shielding. And I knew I needed protection — especially with my BRCA2+ mutation, which makes certain cancers up to 70 percent more likely. I left the pool, got into the car, and called my husband again. “It’s a message. I’m going to start covering my hair. Hashem wants to protect me.”

My husband wasn’t fazed — he’s used to my spontaneity and passion. He had no idea whether I would stick with any of it, but he wanted me to feel good. “I’ll support you no matter what,” he said.

I told him I would take it day by day — no promises, no pressure, no big commitments. Just one day at a time. The next morning, before I left my house, I put on a baseball-style cap even though it was a normal weekday. I turned to Hashem in that moment and said, “I’m going to do this, but now the burden is on You to protect me.”

I once heard that if you take something on, you shouldn’t tell anyone about it until after 40 days, when it will truly become a habit. But I told a few friends because I wanted to be held accountable. They were all so supportive, even my friends who don’t cover their hair. They knew how much I had been going through, from the BRCA2+ stuff to my UC flares to my recent hair trauma.

I kept baseball-style caps by the door so I wouldn’t forget them when I walked out during the week. Even during early-morning carpools, in pajamas with my hair a mess, I would grab a cap without thinking. It slowly became second nature. Day 40 came and I realized I hadn’t missed a single day.

Hair covering started me on a new spiritual journey. I didn’t know where it was going, but I could feel something blooming. I felt more connected to Hashem. I started davening more. I started talking to Hashem more — even out of the pool.

Three months later, I decided to buy a full sheitel (one where none of my own hair would be showing). I wanted a really good custom wig even though they’re expensive. This mitzvah felt different and special — worth investing in.

I ended up at a salon in Crown Heights, quite a distance from my home in New Jersey. It was a whole process and a huge schlep; two hours with traffic each way. I had to go back eight times to get everything just right — the cap size, the coloring, the clips, the texture, the fullness, the layers, and the highlights. But now I have a beautiful sheitel for Shabbos that I love.

IN July, I went for my usual mammogram and baruch Hashem, everything came back clear. I decided the time had come to finally schedule my prophylactic surgery (common for women with the BRCA2+ gene) — something I’d been pushing off for years. I decided I would do it right after the Chagim.

A few weeks before Rosh Hashanah, I went for a routine skin exam with a dermatologist. He found a suspicious spot on my nostril. I got it biopsied and it came back as basal cell carcinoma. The doctor explained that I’d need a specialized Mohs surgeon to remove it, and then a plastic surgeon to rebuild my nostril. I immediately called my mother — she works for a top Mohs surgeon — and asked, “Is my nose going to be ruined forever?”

I’ll never forget her answer: “Your nose will look better than it did before. And, if you’re going to get any cancer, this is the best kind you can get.”

Nothing is a coincidence. Whatever was decreed for me last Rosh Hashanah was already set — but I felt that Hashem and I had a deal. I kept my end, and He kept His. He swapped out something far more serious and gave me the best possible version of cancer instead.

Elul was a crazy month for me — I hadn’t even finished finalizing plans for the nose surgery when I remembered that I needed to get an MRI as soon as possible because I had a consultation with a top surgeon in November for my prophylactic surgery and they needed the most updated imaging. Four days before Rosh Hashanah, the hospital squeezed me in for an MRI. My previous mammogram in July had been completely clear, so I wasn’t worried.

The day after Rosh Hashanah, I got a call. They wanted to discuss my MRI results — never a good sign. They’d found three suspicious areas. One spot looked like a nodule. Two areas were described as “areas of blood with contrast.” They scheduled an ultrasound for the day after Yom Kippur.

The entire Yom Kippur, I felt something I’ve never felt before. It was as though a shiny silver shield was surrounding me. Protecting me. It was almost tangible. At the end of the day, I told my husband: “I’m going to be fine. I’m going to be protected because of my hair covering.”

The next day I went for my ultrasound. They couldn’t find anything at all. I wasn’t in the clear yet, though. The next step was an MRI-guided biopsy — the worst kind of biopsy, the kind they only do when no other imaging can find the suspicious areas. It was scheduled for the day after Succot.

Baruch Hashem, my entire family was with us for the Chag: My husband and four children, my parents, my brother with his wife and kids, and my sister and her husband. Even though I was nervous and worried, being surrounded by people who truly love you is the best medicine in the world. My brother is a radiologist, so I asked him again and again to “dumb down” the reports for me, just so I could stay calm and understand what was happening. Based on the wording, he wasn’t worried. We all hoped it was just another scare.

During that waiting period over Succot, I started waking up at 5 a.m. It became my time with Hashem. My quiet, dark, early-morning space to breathe. I listened to Tatty My King over and over again. The words felt like they were written for my soul. I would cry, look up, and say, “Hashem, I know You’ve got me. I know You’re protecting me and holding my hand.”

The day after Succot, I went to the hospital for the MRI biopsy. I wasn’t prepared for how horrible it would be. The pain was unbearable at times — I honestly thought my arms and neck were going to fall off. I wanted to cry, but if I moved even a centimeter, they’d have to start the whole thing over. When I heard the drills cutting into my body, I thanked the doctor for giving me so much lidocaine that I didn’t feel anything. A silver lining.

When it was over, my head was pounding so hard that I could barely see straight. But something immediately caught my attention — a massive hematoma the size of a tennis ball on the side of my body. These are not uncommon, but the size was so alarming that they called the doctor in. I’ve been through a lot over the years with the BRCA2+ stuff, but I had never cried from any of it. That day, I sat there and just sobbed. I couldn’t stop.

I had to wait almost a week for the results. For five agonizing days, I lived with a pit in my stomach. At one point, I went for a manicure to take my mind off everything. I was in the nail salon parking lot, about to leave, when I got the dreaded call. All three areas were cancerous. According to the biopsy, it was DCIS — stage 0. But they kept repeating gravely: “This is only a sample.” They couldn’t tell me yet if the cancer had become invasive.

I sat in that parking lot for the next three hours making phone calls. I wanted to schedule surgery immediately. I had been trying to get my consultation for the prophylactic surgery pushed up even before the biopsy, but they refused to speak to me without results. And even once the results came in, they still wouldn’t move my date. After hours of going in circles, a friend said to me, “Did you call Sharsheret?”

Suddenly, I remembered: During the last week of summer at the town pool, I had been talking to another friend who works at Sharsheret. My BRCA2+ came up, my prophylactic surgery plans came up, and she had said to me, “We’re best friends with half the surgeons — that’s what we do!”

Now, I immediately dialed her number. Even though she was busy — she had family in town and was in the middle of making dinner — she picked up. I told her what was going on and her instant response was: “We’ve got this.” Right then and there, she emailed a top NYC surgeon to see if she could squeeze me in the next day. The surgeon wrote back that she was out of the country until Monday, but said, “I would’ve seen her tomorrow. I’ll be back Monday — I’ll have my secretary reach out and get her in that day.”

Who responds like that? What top NYC surgeon replies to a private email at night, while on vacation overseas? My experiences with other surgeons when trying to schedule my original prophylactic surgery were the opposite of this. The doors were always closed, everything was slow, no one was rushing. And suddenly — everything was wide open.

During my 5 a.m. chats with Hashem, my cries kept getting deeper. But I wasn’t angry. Even though I had been diagnosed with two types of cancer after I started covering my hair, I still felt like it was the best types of cancer I could get — basal cell carcinoma and stage 0 cancer. I didn’t feel like a victim. I felt held. I felt guided. For the first time in my life, I had brought Hashem fully into my heart, my home, and my everyday life.

Really, my connection to Hashem had never felt like this in my entire life. I felt Him beside me in every step I took. Every decision, every moment, every piece of news… it all started to feel like it wasn’t happening to me, but happening for me.

After the surgery, I was in the hospital for three days, but it took me around five weeks to recover. My community wrapped itself around me and carried me and my family through everything. We had a meal train for four weeks. I will never forget — or unsee — the beauty I witnessed. My parents were my lifeline. Every single day for five weeks, they picked up my kids from school and took care of them so that my husband could visit with me or get work done.

My friends started a rolling Tehillim group. Every time they finished the sefer, they started it again. And again. And again. It was nonstop. I felt surrounded by love in a way I’ve never experienced in my life.

A week after the surgery, we got the pathology results. “We’ll never know if that mammogram in July missed the cancer — or if it simply wasn’t there yet,” my surgeon told me. “But what I do know for certain is this: We got the cancer out in the nick of time. It had already begun to turn invasive.” The pathology showed micro-invasions in the center of the three clustered DCIS sites.

“What would have happened if I hadn’t gotten that MRI in September?” I asked her.

I will never forget her reply: “That’s exactly how women come in with large masses and wonder how they missed it. It often starts as several small stage-zero spots close together. Once they begin to invade and break off, they eventually coagulate into a solid mass.”

I couldn’t help but marvel: After seven years of waiting for this surgery… the exact season I finally decided to go ahead with it is the season I suddenly develop cancer? This wasn’t random. Hashem wanted this. I was meant to get cancer. I won’t pretend to understand His calculations or His timing. I had to go through all of it for reasons Hashem decided. Reasons I will likely never fully understand.

The day after my phone call with the doctor, I went to the hospital with my husband to meet with multiple cancer doctors. After a long day of appointments, information overload, and high emotion, I was exhausted. I walked to the parking lot and finally let myself exhale. And then I broke. I started to bawl — not out of fear, but from the sheer weight of everything that had unfolded.

The dominating thought in my mind, the one that kept resurfacing was: Hashem saved my life. Yes, of course the Tehillim helped; nothing is ever wasted. But in my bones, I knew the truth: My anchor, my strength, my protection — the mitzvah of hair covering — is ultimately what saved me.

I still have a few more cancer-related surgeries ahead of me this year (including the nose surgery, which we had to push off, obviously). But my new mantra has become: emunah, emunah, emunah. Hashem’s got this.

I cry at least once a day now — good tears — usually in those dark, quiet, early-morning moments. I sit with Hashem and thank Him for everything He has given me. For every step, every twist, every unexpected turn that brought me here.

And the truth is: If I were given the option to change any part of this story, I wouldn’t. Every hardship, every struggle, every, “Why me?” moment shaped me into who I am today.

Three years ago, when I began losing my hair because of a UC flare, I had no idea what Hashem was planning for me. But if there’s one thing I learned through all of this, it’s that there is no such thing as coincidence. Not one. Not ever.

Nothing was random. Not the UC flare. Not the hair loss. Not the sheitels that showed up right before I needed them. Not the hair foil fiasco. Not the messages whispered in a swimming pool. Not the 40 days of hair covering that transformed me into a new person. Not the “best” nose cancer. Not the timing of the MRI. Not the shield I felt on Yom Kippur. Not the surgeon’s suddenly-wide-open schedule. Not the fact that they removed the cancer in the nick of time.

Every step was placed in front of me with purpose. This wasn’t just a medical journey for me; it was a spiritual one.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 985)