For good reasons, many people decide to carry their cancer diagnosis close to their chests, perhaps only sharing with a close circle of friends and family.

​

But we are all different and must approach life’s challenges in the way that works best for us. Sharing openly and honestly feels like an important step on this particular personal journey for me. This year, unable to gather loved ones around our kitchen tables, we have been driven to connect in our virtual spaces in a way we perhaps have not experienced before.

​

I seem to physiologically challenged when it comes to disguising my emotions. My face often gives them away. Much to the amusement of my children, I am useless at playing Cheat. To keep my diagnosis private would, for me, mean having to cut myself off from contact with people for the duration of my treatment. I do not want to do this.

​

Covid has shown us how important human contact and connection with our loved ones is. This has been reinforced for me since my diagnosis, and I feel incredibly blessed to have the support of dear friends and family holding me aloft as I embark on this voyage.

​

Eighteen months ago, we nursed our remarkable mum to her death from secondary breast cancer. We did not realise until after her death that mum had not told some of her best and oldest friends just how ill she was. She did not want anyone to view or treat her differently, or to make them uncomfortable.

​

I absolutely respect her decision. It was the right one for mum.  But it is not the right one for me.

​

I was struck by the enormous cost of this approach on those she did not tell of her illness. She unwittingly deprived people who loved her of the opportunity to be there for her in her time of need. And she also deprived herself of their loving support.

​

So often I turn to writing as a means of cognitive filing. Committing words to paper can help me sort a muddied mess of emotional responses into something more coherent, allowing me to move on. My cancer diagnosis and the weeks since have brought with them a flood of thoughts, feelings and reactions. Journalling has provided an effective way for me to process my responses, quietening the noise in my head.

​

I have written frankly about my diagnosis on Facebook, and will continue to do so.  But I wanted a space where I could expand my thoughts in longer form. And so I have decided to throw myself (with some trepidation) into another unfamiliar and slightly baffling world - that of the blog.

​

As well as serving my own need to process and document my feelings over the coming months, I hope that this blog might provide a way, for those who choose to subscribe (see below), to walk alongside me more closely - demystifying a little a life lived in the shadow of cancer.

​

We are drilled to fear cancer and view it as something extraordinary. We hardly dare utter its name - cloaking it in mystery...'the Big C'.  But cancer will be a reality for half of us, with breast cancer being the most common type in the UK. One in seven women will be diagnosed in their lifetime.

​

So while personally I may feel thrown into a surreal and unfamiliar world, my experience is not an extraordinary one. In fact, it is actually very ordinary.

​

I respect that everyone's experience of cancer is different, and I speak only for myself. But I hope that by writing about my own journey I can perhaps put a small pin prick into some of the mystique that surrounds cancer and life beyond receiving a diagnosis.

​

Am I nervous about sharing my writing and my thoughts, warts and all, publicly? Hell yes.

​

Do I feel vulnerable about how it might be received, concerned I might be seen as in some way self aggrandising? Deeply.

​

Am I having to loosen my innate drive for perfection and accept 'good enough' in order to move from 'draft' to 'publish'? Absolutely.

​

But I figure these lessons are just small parts of a far bigger and steeper learning curve this year. 

​

I have a great deal to live for, and I am looking forward to life beyond breast cancer. In the meantime, I am grateful that you are here alongside me on the ride, reading this.

​

I appreciate it, hugely.