Breast Cancer, A Wake-Up Call, Not a Definition

This is a more personal blog than usual.

I’m not someone who often leads with my cancer story. It’s not because I shy away from it - far from it - but because I’ve never wanted it to become a label or seek sympathy. Yes, it shaped me. But it doesn’t define me. 

This week marks seven years since my surgery. This time of year always brings reflection. It’s also soon to be the anniversary of the 7/7 London bombings, which took the life of one friend and altered the course of another - neither knew each other, both were in the same carriage. These events, stitched together in memory, seem to rise like clockwork every July - not just as grief, but as a quiet invitation to examine change, and what we’re waiting for.

So I’m sharing a little more today. Not to tell you how to feel about illness or loss, that’s deeply personal and never one-size-fits-all, but to offer my own meaning-making, in case it’s useful to anyone standing at a similar crossroads.

The Diagnosis

Seven years ago, I was already at a low ebb. I was emotionally depleted in a way that felt cellular.

The physical symptoms had been there for a while, treated initially as eczema or a possible fungal infection. But then something changed. I went back to the GP and was quickly referred to the breast unit. A biopsy confirmed it was cancer. Not just any cancer but one that usually appears as a secondary, which suggested there could be another, hidden primary tumour.

There was a two-week wait for the MRI. A strange, disorientating limbo. Two weeks of living with the possibility that something was far more widespread. Two weeks of asking myself big questions like ‘If I only have a year/two years, what do I want them to mean?’

Luckily, it turned out to be the only cancer. But it was a line in the sand, a time that marked the start of something - not just treatment, but a deep internal reorientation.

The Healing That Wasn’t Just Medical

I threw everything at my recovery,  physically, mentally, emotionally. I exercised, slept, ate well. I even considered going fully down the alternative route which meant turning my back on the surgery and taking around 300 pills a week. This felt too extreme and in the end, I opted for conventional treatment - surgery & radiotherapy and I supplemented it with alternative therapies, acupuncture, essential oils, reflexology, supplements and hyperbaric oxygen therapy, twice a week, to aid healing and cell regeneration.

I’ll be honest - the conventional system didn’t always know what to do with that. I asked why none of these complementary approaches were ever recorded in patient notes. If a patient like me had unusually minimal side effects, wouldn’t it be helpful to know what else they were doing? The answer, frustratingly, was no. If it didn’t come with a clinical trial and a research grant, it wasn’t considered relevant.

But that’s a bigger conversation.

What mattered to me wasn’t proving anything. It was supporting myself, fully and intuitively, through a deeply vulnerable time. I realised that I was completely alone, I was surrounded by fear and noone else was able to make the literally life changing decisions other than me.  

My recovery became about more than the physical. It became a turning point. An insistence, from somewhere deep within, that I could no longer live out of alignment. I knew that part of what had invited cancer into my body was ignoring my own unhappiness. Overriding it. Staying in environments - at work and at home - that depleted me. Hoping things would change, or that I could simply wait it out. But my body couldn’t wait any longer.

This isn’t a statement of fact. I’m not saying cancer is always caused by emotional strain. I respect entirely that each journey is different. But for me, in my own personal reckoning, it felt like a wake-up call. A message that something needed to shift. It was about choosing not to delay my happiness any longer.

I  enrolled in the next phase of my coaching training - something I’d put off, waiting for a better time, when I could afford it more. I began prioritising joy and alignment, not just survival and duty. I made difficult decisions, including leaving my marriage, because I could no longer trade my happiness for someone else’s comfort.

There was grief in all of it. But also relief. The slow return of vitality. The quiet clarity of knowing I was no longer abandoning myself.

And So - What Holds Us Back?

At this time of year I think about those days, especially when working with clients who are yearning for change, but waiting for a perfect moment.

Sometimes it takes a crisis to give us permission. But what if we didn’t wait?

What if we stopped deferring our happiness until the mortgage is paid, until the children are older, until work calms down? What if we allowed our lives to feel good now without needing to burn it all down, but also without sidelining the parts of us that want more?

I’m not suggesting reckless leaps. Just a willingness to take your desires seriously. To trust that wellbeing isn’t a luxury, but a foundation. That change doesn’t always require drama - just a decision to begin.

One Final Thought

I’m not telling this story because I think cancer gave me a gift. I would never frame it that simply. But I do see it as a turning point. A loud, unmissable message to stop postponing joy.

So if you’ve been waiting for a sign? Maybe this is it.

And if you’ve been quietly wondering what will it take to make a change - maybe ask instead, 

What might open up if I stop waiting?

With warmth, and gratitude for being here x