Paula Chambers-Raney | Survivor
Location: Houston, TX | Pronouns: She/Her
“If I hadn’t learned how to advocate for myself, I wouldn’t be here.”
My name is Paula Chambers Raney. I’m a Black queer woman, wife, advocate—and survivor of colorectal cancer. My story is about resilience, but not the romantic kind. The real kind. The kind that looks like being dismissed by providers, told “it’s probably just hemorrhoids,” and learning the hard way that bias, assumptions, and a lack of culturally competent care nearly cost me my life.
Colorectal cancer is the second leading cause of cancer death in the U.S.—but among LGBTQ+ folks, especially Black LGBTQ+ folks, the disparities are even sharper. Queer people are less likely to get screened due to stigma, discrimination, lack of access, and previous trauma in medical spaces. Black Americans have the highest rates of colorectal cancer incidence and mortality and we’re more likely to be diagnosed at a later stage.
I was told to wait. I almost waited myself into a grave.
But I didn’t. I learned how to speak up. I leaned into my community. I got loud, because silence was killing us.
To anyone walking through what I walked through: I see you. I am you. You deserve to know your body. You deserve to ask questions and not feel ashamed for doing so. You deserve screenings, early detection, and compassionate care—regardless of your sexuality, your gender identity, your race, or where you live.
Colorectal cancer—which includes cancers of the colon and rectum—is one of the most preventable cancers out there. With routine screenings like colonoscopies, precancerous polyps can be found and removed before they turn into cancer. That’s why knowing your family history, getting screened starting at 45 (or earlier if you're high-risk), and staying in conversation with your doctor is critical. Colorectal cancer is highly treatable when caught early.
Anal cancer, while less common, is something our community needs to talk about, especially queer people, people living with HIV, and trans folks. It’s most often caused by HPV, a common virus. But here’s the good news: There’s an HPV vaccine that can prevent many cases. There are anal Pap smears (just like cervical ones) to screen for abnormal cells before they become cancerous—especially for high-risk individuals.
So yes: Treatable? Yes. Preventable? In many cases, also yes. But only if we have access, information, and the courage to speak up and demand what we need.
This is about survival. This is about love. And this is about breaking the silence that too often kills us.
The system failed me more than once. But my community never did.
Queer folks know how to care for each other when institutions don’t. We know how to show up, cook a meal, fundraise, fight, and cry with each other. That’s what saved me.
Still, being queer in cancer care is exhausting. The forms don’t ask the right questions. The doctors assume. The waiting rooms aren’t safe spaces for all of us. Black trans women face some of the highest barriers to care and the most violent medical neglect—yet are also at heightened risk for HPV-related anal cancers.
We cannot talk about cancer in our community without naming the intersections: race, gender identity, sexual orientation, economic status. This is not just about treatment. This is about justice.
We need healthcare that sees us. That starts with inclusive, affirming care, from intake forms to exam rooms. It means funding LGBTQ+ cancer research. It means cultural competency training for providers. It means universal access to screening, regardless of whether someone has insurance, papers, or pronouns that make people uncomfortable.
We need targeted outreach—because when we’re not counted in the data, we’re not counted at all. Lesbians are less likely to get regular screenings. Gay and bi men are at higher risk for anal cancer, especially those living with HIV. Black queer folks are often left out of research entirely, and our outcomes suffer for it.
We deserve more than survival. We deserve care that meets us where we are and walks with us into long, joyful lives.
