Today’s newsletter is one that I think will resonate most with my fellow survivors out there. It is uncensored, unfiltered. Not as upbeat as my many conversations over on my The Menopause And Cancer podcast, perhaps, but very much real life.

I am currently wrapped up in a somewhat intense phase of health anxiety.

And when I say intense: it’s bad. If you know, you know. My thoughts are invading at all times, my heart rate is through the roof, my blood pressure is up. I go from imagining the worst-case scenario, seeing how I’d have to tell my daughters my cancer is back, or I have a new cancer, to having to have a pacemaker fitted for heart failure. I mean, the random mix of catastrophe my brain makes up is quite astonishing at times.

So if you’re struggling yourself, perhaps don’t read on. Or perhaps you’re reading this, thinking,’ Oh yeah, my brain thinks up some wacky stuff too sometimes!’

Unlike during my weekly podcast episodes, where I sit with doctors and women in the ‘messy middle’ and where I think I have become pretty good (if I may say so myself) at helping others live with uncertainty, it seems my brain does not extend that same kindness to myself.

But of course, when it’s your own body, the rules change.

The fear becomes deeply personal.

I understand that “my anxious brain is writing the ending before the next chapter has even begun.”

I also understand that our brains are extraordinary at linking bodily sensations, places, smells, sounds and even seasons with traumatic memories. It’s why cancer survivors can worry about any new ache or pain in their body, why veterans can react to loud sounds, or why someone who has been in a car accident can feel anxious at junctions even years later.

I understand all this. And I’m sure you do too. But my brain and my nervous system are not quite behaving themselves, it seems. They choose to override those ever-so-sensible bits of information. My brain and nervous system duo are like rebellious teenagers: they go all out, get wasted and then throw around a load of drama and rubbish to dwell in all day. Sometimes I do just want to go and say, ‘Oh F*** off!’ At times, I even mumble this under my breath - those are the moments when I know I have a tiny bit of control over those unruly thoughts of mine, all whilst looking like an unhinged menopausal woman! Again, if you know you now! ;-)

And so, my dear reader, what do we do? Let me ask you: what do you do when your anxious thoughts creep into your everyday life and suddenly bring everything to a halt?

Well, here’s my plan:

After hundreds of conversations with myself about whether I should or shouldn't go... tomorrow I'll still go to the GP.

I’ll probably still have an elevated heart rate.

I’ll probably still imagine catastrophes. Yup.

But I’ll also get up, make breakfast for the girls, answer emails, record podcasts, walk the dog, laugh at something ridiculous, and carry on living.

Because I truly believe: courage is not the absence of fear.

Both can and do co-exist. Isn’t that life itself? The full expression of life is to experience and feel ALL of it! And so today, I also feel immensely grateful that I get to feel so deeply, that I get to feel afraid, as this is also feeling very alive at the same time.

And I'm grateful that I get to share it all with you too.

Thank you for being here.

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Over the last few weeks I’ve been asking myself if I should keep going with my The Menopause And Cancer podcast.

I’d never asked myself that question before, but after 4 years (!) of weekly episodes, the recording, editing, writing, travelling, running Menopause and Cancer full time as well and trying to be present for my family, I’d realised I hadn’t stopped for a long time to ask myself why I was still doing it.

And so I knew I needed to pause. I needed to look backwards before deciding how I wanted to move forwards.

Around the same time - hear me out here, I promise it’ll make sense - I was reading ‘There Are Rivers in the Sky’ by Elif Shafak. Have you read it? It’s an amazing book! One storyline follows the discovery of the Epic of Gilgamesh, which is the oldest surviving written story we know of - preserved on clay tablets thousands of years ago. Like, isn’t that amazing!

Even when I was halfway through the book, I knew I had to see these clay tablets - with the oldest surviving story in history for myself.

And so last weekend, I dragged Tim, my husband, to the British Museum. It was a busy and hot day, and I think he was thinkig, “Why are we going to look at some old stones?” ;-)

When we finally stood in front of the little old clay tablets, I remember thinking, ‘Gosh, whoever pressed those tiny marks into the clay could never have imagined that thousands of years later, people from all over the world would still be reading them.’

They were just sharing and preserving a story - in the only way they knew how to. It was a real goosebump moment for me, and standing there, everything clicked for me.

Every week, people trust me with their most sincere stories. Yes, stories of navigating menopause after cancer. But also stories of fear, resilience, grief, hope and finding themselves again.

Experts trust me with years, sometimes decades, of knowledge, and my job is to help make that information understandable and accessible to the people who need it most.

I’ve often said that what keeps me going isn’t the download numbers or the charts. It’s the stories.

Standing in front of those 4,000-year-old clay tablets reminded me why:

• Because stories are how we carry knowledge forward.

• They’re how we learn from people we’ll never meet.

• They’re how we realise we’re not the first person to feel frightened, lost or uncertain.

Last weekend, thousands of years separated me from the person who pressed those tiny symbols into clay, but they understood something we still understand today: Stories matter.

Will my podcast still exist in four thousand years? No ha ha!

But perhaps that’s missing the point.

The people who created those tablets had no idea what influence their stories would have. They couldn’t have known that one day someone would travel to London, stand in front of them, and leave feeling certain about the direction of their own work.

We never really know where our stories will end up.

Or whose life they might change.

Think of it that way: Every single person carries a story that someone else needs to hear. We just rarely know which one, or when!

And so I knew.

I left the museum with much more than I’d expected.

Yes, I found the world’s oldest surviving written story, which was amazing.

But I also rediscovered why I want to keep sharing new ones. And so: The podcast shall continue to be the keeper and sharer of stories. But it’ll be a bit different…I think a ‘Next Chapter’ is due…and of course, I’ll keep you posted.

Love Dani xx

P.S.: And since you are my little Substack-family here - if you want to share your story on my podcast, it will be a privilege for me. Let’s chat and email dani@healthywholeme.com

Years ago, I was doing everything I could to survive, to see my little girls start school and watch them - with their curly hair and too-long skirts - walk down the alley and into the school playground. I so desperately wanted to be a part of their milestones, and I know how lucky I am to have been around for so many.

So why did I not prioritise the prom? Why? Is it the cost of building something that matters? Is this what comes with following your purpose? Or am I just a rubbish mum?

Well, like most things in life, to answer this truthfully requires a more complex answer than a simple yes or no. We actually got the date wrong and thought the prom was the following day. Huge error number one! I mean, can you imagine if she had missed it? You’ve got to laugh! I had everything planned, and precision planning is certainly required when you’re juggling team members, last-minute prom dress alterations, 3-hour drives to conference centres and all of that during the summer of a heatwave and the morning after my other daughter’s 18th birthday party (which I did make - you’ll be pleased to hear!)

Changing the many plans seemed just too much to get sorted in a short period of time, but my real and most uncomfortable reason is this: I also wanted to be at the conference.

I met with a professor whose work will shape the lives of my daughter’s generation. I spoke with a doctor who helped me create the agenda for our very first ‘Global Menopause And Cancer Conference’, which we are hosting later in the autumn. A world’s first. This has the potential to make a tangible difference to survivors and their families. Yet. I wasn’t there to help my daughter into her dress and smother her with kisses, telling her she looked beautiful.

Now, let me reassure you (or perhaps I'm only trying to reassure myself): my daughter had her dad, my wonderful husband, there with her all day. He took her to and from her hair appointment, her nails, and all the other pre-prom preparations. He was there to tell her how beautiful she looked and to wave her off as she left.

Maybe this is what it feels like to build something you believe in and there isn’t a perfect answer.

I wonder where your own thoughts have taken you as you’ve read this.

I also found myself wondering something else.

Do dads feel this too when they miss one of their children’s milestones? Or is there something about motherhood that leaves us carrying a particular kind of guilt?

I don’t know the answer.

What I do know is that, as I sit here writing this, I’m still not sure I made the right decision.

And with love to my six (!!) subscribers... thank you for being here at the very beginning.

Dani xx

It was a place where I shared reflections on wellbeing, motherhood, food, yoga, purpose and the lessons I was learning along the way.

Then life took an unexpected turn.

In the last few years, I’ve been building something I never imagined would become such a big part of my life — and my identity.

What started as my own search for answers after cancer grew into a podcast, a bestselling book, a community, healthcare professional training, workshops, retreats and a movement supporting people navigating menopause after cancer.

Eventually, it became Menopause and Cancer — the world’s first and only non-profit dedicated to supporting people experiencing treatment-induced menopause after any type of cancer.

It has been one of the greatest privileges of my life.

But somewhere along the way, I realised I missed writing in the way I used to.

Not as a founder, advocate or educator, but just as me, Dani. There are many stories and conversations that don’t quite fit there. And so this Substack is here to make room for all of that; I hope. Let’s see.

This space is for those other stories. The things I’m still trying to work out as I go along.

The parts of life that happen alongside the work: motherhood, relationships, intimacy.

Trying to work out why a friendship drifted away or ended altogether.

And occasionally asking yourself whether everyone else is having loads of sex and you’re the only one who’s not... ha ha.

The title Still Becoming came to me because it perfectly describes how I feel.

I’m 47 years old. I’ve survived cancer. I’ve written a book. I’ve built an organisation that reaches people around the world.

And yet I still feel like I’m becoming something or someone else....(is this normal?)

I still have moments where I feel brave, and moments where I feel completely lost.

Do you even have the vaguest idea of what I’m talking about?

Anyway, here you’ll find personal reflections, behind-the-scenes stories from building Menopause and Cancer, conversations about intimacy and relationships after cancer, thoughts on wellbeing, purpose and identity, and occasional glimpses into the everyday moments that make up my life.

Over time, I’d also love to share other people’s stories. And I have a feeling they will be sexy ;-)

Most of all, I hope this becomes a space for honest conversation.

Not because I have the answers, but because I’ve always known that sharing whatever it is - the rawness of life, the pure joy, the nothingness, all of it is better when we explore them together, when we share what is going on.

Thank you for being here. It feels like my first chapter - ha ha - how strange a thing you say, when you’re right in the middle of life!

Perhaps, we’re all still becoming.

With love,

Dani