Four Lessons I Learnt From my Cancer Diagnosis
Cancer is ugly. It generates fear and threatens everything we trust and rely on. When I was diagnosed, my world changed overnight. What followed was a journey through loss, learning—and unexpected growth.
I’d already lost two very close family friends. My mum—the person I had always relied on most—was just four months from death, having been diagnosed only three weeks before I flew back to the UK with my two girls to help my sister care for her.
That was 1 November 2005. The day I landed in the UK, I discovered a lump in my left breast.
In January 2006, two months before Mum died, we returned to Western Australia so I could begin treatment.
I remember those early days—how I searched for any glimmer of lightness in the diagnosis. I scrutinised the body language and words of my medical team, the phrasing in reports, the stories shared by those who’d walked this path before me. I tried to remain objective, determined not to let fear cloud my decisions.
And yet, I still felt lost—vulnerable and unsure of what or whom to trust. Nothing was certain anymore.
By 2010, the cancer had metastasised to my clavicular lymph nodes, those under my right armpit, and to the lining of my lungs. Fear, confusion, disbelief, and vulnerability became regular companions. I came to realise that breast cancer is never simply “breast cancer”—there are many forms, and the profile of an initial diagnosis can evolve with time and treatment.
So what could possibly shed light on such darkness?
What would allow me to keep being the person I loved being most—Mum to my girls?
Two questions kept rising to the surface:
How did I contribute to my diagnosis?
What does my mind, heart, and body need for me to heal from this?
With these questions in mind, I began to pay closer attention to how I responded to life. And slowly, four key lessons began to take shape—lessons that have helped me live with more awareness, more presence, and more purpose.
Lesson 1: My body ‘speaks’ to me – but was I willing to listen?
It’s when I ignore its whispers that I’m forced to hear its cries.
I remember that ‘frozen in time’ feeling the moment it was confirmed I had breast cancer. Outwardly, I appeared composed, engaged in conversation. But inwardly, everything stopped. Time slowed. I was numb, yet acutely aware of everything happening around me.
Something shifted in me then. A split occurred between how I had been living and what I was now being called to understand.
Our bodies speak to us. Mine had been speaking for some time—but until that moment, I hadn’t truly listened. I became aware that two versions of me existed: the external self that others saw, and a deeper internal self I had ignored.
That realisation marked the beginning of a powerful awakening. I could no longer take for granted that I was only the version of myself reflected by others. There was more. Much more.
Lesson 2: I could choose a new way to live.
I discovered a depth of resilience I never knew I had. I realised I had a choice: I could live in fear, as a cancer patient… or I could use this experience as a doorway into something deeper—something more authentic and awake.
Einstein once said that insanity is “doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
Cancer taught me that simply existing—going through the motions of the “same old, same old”—wasn’t serving me. That way of living had led, at least in part, to a diagnosis that threatened my life.
So I chose to re-learn how to live. To re-member how to be present. How to savour the ordinary. How to notice the small things and hold them with gratitude.
I began to live more consciously and intentionally—because truly living, not just surviving, had become non-negotiable.
Lesson 3: Surrender brings freedom.
Being diagnosed with a life-threatening illness impacts us physically—but it also challenges us emotionally, mentally, and spiritually.
Until my diagnosis, I’d felt in control. I was capable, self-reliant, and fiercely independent. I didn’t want to ‘burden’ others. Everything I did had a goal, and I liked to believe I could influence the outcome.
Cancer changed all that. No one—not even the experts—could predict my outcome. I lost control over my privacy, my plans, and parts of my body. I had to place my trust in medical professionals I didn’t know, in treatments I didn’t fully understand.
There were moments when I felt broken—less of a woman, less whole.
And yet… it was through surrender that I found freedom.
Not the surrender of defeat, but the kind that comes from letting go. The kind that says, “I don’t have to carry this all alone.”
I surrendered the need to control every detail. I surrendered the weight of resentment. I let go of the belief that I needed to appear ‘together’, or be as capable, clever, or funny as others.
Surrender gave me permission to simply be—fully, freely, and imperfectly me.
Lesson 4: Life is a glorious mystery.
Perhaps most surprising of all, cancer led me back to joy.
It seems strange to write that—but it’s true.
The Taoist concept of Yin and Yang teaches that two halves create wholeness. It’s only through contrast that we appreciate what we have.
We can’t recognise beauty without ugliness.
We can’t feel peace without having known conflict.
We can’t value light without having walked through the dark.
In the same way, I couldn’t recognise what I truly needed without facing my insecurities. I had to sit with fear, anger, confusion, and limitation. Only by doing so could I begin to dig deeper—to uncover what was waiting on the other side.
That process helped me reconnect mind, body, and spirit. It taught me the necessity of wholeness, not just health.
From that place, I am learning—daily—to surrender, to trust, to laugh, to give and receive, and to be grateful for this strange, flawed, and beautiful life.
And so here I am today—still living with metastatic cancer but living life well. This afternoon, I am celebrating my granddaughter Sadie’s first birthday with my family.
Life is uncertain, but it is also precious. I am grateful for every moment I get to spend with those I love.
