I have mixed feelings about this.

It's the confusion of it I think, the fact that everyone has moved on and it won't register with anyone else but me and maybe my cancer buddies - it's a very private feeling in my mind and I have tears in my eyes as I'm writing this.

I was in the kitchen lining up my vitamins, coffee made, breakfast ready to be eaten and I stopped as I pushed the final tablet out of the blister pack, popped it in my mouth and crunched it up. The final one done. 3 years since the first.

And this is were the huge shadow of guilt looms large over me.

Guilt that many of my friends continue to take an endless list of drugs even though they too like me have been told they have no evidence of disease. The difference between triple negative and hormone positive breast cancers. They will have to take these drugs reducing the chance of its return for 10 years plus - a daily reminder of their cancer.

I feel I got off lightly and yet it doesn’t feel that way.

It got me thinking about our language and emotions around cancer. I speak as a woman in conversation with other women so don’t know how different that conversation is for men.

• Oh I only had a wide local excision to remove the area where the tumour had been. I didn’t need a mastectomy.

• Oh I only had surgery (mastectomy and reconstruction) and feel I got off lightly as I didn’t need chemotherapy and radiotherapy

• Oh I only had a lumpectomy and radiotherapy. I feel lucky.

• Oh I just had radiotherapy, I feel I got off lightly.

• My lymph nodes were clear, I feel incredibly lucky.

These are real conversations I’ve had with women following breast cancer.

Listen to us - down playing our experience, feeling lucky compared to our friends and fellow cancer survivors. And yes, I get it. There is a huge sense of gratitude in that we get to have this conversation, we made it this far after all.

Maybe we downplay because we’re very aware of the private hell we went through when we heard the words - You have cancer and whatever ensued and unravelled for us following that conversation.

And here I am not pausing to celebrate the final bit of treatment coming to an end because I’m thinking about my friends who may never get to that point. And who do I think I am - it feels messed up.

And then I get into thinking that this means that cancer must be over now then, all treatment and meds finished. Does that mean that I’m done with cancer. Is it finally over? Am I expected to never mention it again as it’s now theoretically in the past?

The emotional and physical fallout from cancer doesn't pack up and leave just because the hospital told me I was done and I took my final medication. Finishing treatment doesn’t mean that cancer is finished.

Everyone assumes you've moved on and to the world we put on that face and smile and show gratitude. How many times have we heard the words, ‘you must be so thrilled that’s all behind you and you can get back to normal’?

We are expected to move on. But we haven't, and maybe we shouldn't. Or maybe we can’t.

Almost four years on from diagnosis, months after my final infusion, and the day I took my last medication and I still don’t have it all worked out. I’m still sitting with the confusion, the guilt, the grief.

There is no right way to process it and we are each individuals in this. However, for me, it is in community with other survivors that I feel we can truly honour our experience and speak the words we feel unable to share with the outside world. It’s not going to fix anything but being witnessed really matters.

What has been your experience?

Love

Rebecca x

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Life feels suspended right now even as it carries on. Then a hospital appointment envelope arrives: a DEXA scan. Another building to walk into. I push through the doors of the Breast Clinic and feel it immediately - the sick feeling, the waiting room full of women, the anxiety on partners' faces.

Why hadn’t I prepared myself for this feeling? Maybe I thought or was at least hoping that the nuclear medicine department was a building to the side rather than a couple of room within. Results to know whether the osteopenia has become osteoporosis will take at 6-8 weeks so I’m told.

Last night my mind decided that 4am was a good time to process everything. You can imagine the content - the nastiness, the self judgement, the fear, the anxiety because you’ve experienced it too.

I began drifting off after my camomile tea as the seagulls began their dawn screech.

This is where it feels helpful to embody being ‘good enough’. A good enough daughter. A good enough business owner. A good enough survivor. A good enough human. I can be all these things as long as I am compassionate and loving with myself. There is no value in berating myself. I’ve learned that the hard way over many years of being nasty and hyper critical to myself. You just need to ask my friends for evidence of this.

This is life. The messiness. The joy and the grieving. The frustration and the love. And through it all I am tired. I am so tired. Fatigue pulls at my ankles and sleep does not help. I had a nap this afternoon and woke feeling groggy and low.

How do you deal with fatigue? How does it impact your working life, your relationship, your family life?

I sit with my dad and find myself falling asleep in the armchair next to his bed. The nurse taps my arm gently and suggests I get home and have a rest. She assures me they are caring for him and will call if anything changes. I want to both be there and flee as far away as possible.

Life carries on within the fatigue. I go to Aldi on autopilot. I buy all the ingredients for nutritious, soul healing food and try desperately to skip the crisps and biscuits aisle. I know these give me a false satisfaction.

I’m trying my hardest to stay embodied in my own life - the work I’m inspired to do, (and how I love it), exercising and lifting weights for my old lady osteoporosis free body, dipping regularly with friends, reading and writing and eating well. Sometimes it all just feels too much.

Add into that the constant work of keeping myself regulated, keeping my nervous system somewhere in the vicinity of calm.

I take myself to the sea. I lay on my back and float. It’s heaven. The salt water holds me, I have nothing to do. I am held. My dad is being cared for by the most extraordinarily skilled and kind staff at his nursing home. The women I am working with are kind and understanding. They inspire me.

And within all this turmoil, I feel enormously grateful. I’m here. I’m alive. I’m cancer free and I am rebuilding my life even if it’s in a stop start fashion.

Are you holding two realities at once too? Do you wake at 4am spiralling, or fall asleep in armchairs next to bedsides? Are you finding your way back to yourself through small embodied acts - the sea, the weights, the friends you dip with, the food choices made with care? And can you meet yourself with 'good enough' when it all feels too much?

Love

Rebecca x

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What does self compassion look like as a practice?

This is the practice. It’s not about doing it well. It’s absolutely not doing it perfectly. It is about turning toward yourself, again and again, when the critic is loudest.

• Hearing the inner critic’s whispers and pausing for a moment to say, not today sunshine.

• Holding myself gently, stroking my arms when my breathing is shallow.

• Allowing tears to flow instead of pushing them away.

• Caressing my throat when the pain of keeping all the emotions in is causing discomfort.

• Taking time to smell the roses, to rub scented geranium leaves between my fingers, to inhale the heady scent of lavender, pausing to devour wild blackberries on my walk.

• Letting go of all excuses and reasons not to when the sea calls me.

• Being kind and understanding when I don’t have the capacity to visit my dad in the nursing home.

• Sometimes peanut butter on toast is just what I need to eat for dinner.

• Reciting my mantra - I am enough. This is my best right now. I do this when I’m fighting the urge to be swallowed by my inner critic.

• To look back at photos from 3 years ago when I was in the middle of cancer treatment and truly appreciate my resilience.

• When I feel I have failed in so many ways I look at a photo of my children and know that I have not failed.

• Speaking gently to myself when I hear the words - how have you been productive today?

• Gently, always gently reminding myself I am loved.

• Gently, always gently reminding myself of what I’ve been through and am still standing - in fact I’m walking, strength training and dancing.

• Turning to my writing as an act of self compassion, witnessing myself in language.

• I live alone so finding the balance between solitude and being sociable. Deeply knowing when I need either is an act of self compassion.

• Being compassionate and gentle with myself when guilt (a cancer survivor, a good enough daughter/mother) is sloshing around.

• Apologising to myself for the way I've criticised myself, for the years of harshness disguised as motivation, for treating myself like I needed to be punished.

Love

Rebecca x

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This is just to say hello. I’m still here.

I know that getting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard helps release whatever is stuck in my brain.

My brain goes wandering off in different directions. I’m struggling to concentrate on anything. And then the inner critic coughs loudly to make herself heard…

I came across a post on LinkedIn from a friend who was coaching a group on their ‘own, personal versions of success’. It caused me to stop scrolling.

I’ve had a love hate relationship with the word success for ever. My interpretation of it meant that I was failing at every hurdle I’d set. My inner critic was right. I was a failure… Daughter? Mother? Sister? Friend? Feminist? Business owner? Financially independent single woman? Oh I could find criticism and self judgment in all these areas.

And then cancer threw all that up in the air. Nothing else mattered and certainly none of those self written definitions of success or a successful life.

What about a life well lived/living life well instead of the word success? That feels so much gentler, more inclusive of the natural highs and lows of living life. What about good enough rather than successful?

I’ve always been drawn to these words from L.R. Knost. It truly represents the rollercoaster of life.

Right now, I’m stuck in the awful bit which is sitting at my dad’s bedside at the end of his life. Everything is paused, nothing else matters and life carries on anyway. My sister and I are both grieving and not yet grieving.

I am flooded with so many feelings right now. I lurch from fear to gratitude. The deepest sadness to joyful memories. Desperately trying to remain present to it all whilst also longing to escape it. One moment I’m a 10 year old remembering the wonderful memory of being loved and cared for by my dad. The next I’m 63 years old crying by his bed knowing I have to let him go. This is life isn’t it.

The amazing bit I’ve been breathing in is the 5 weeks I’ve spent this summer with my family in Chicago. Joyful Alma and grandma time. Precious moments indeed. We have more joy to look forward to next month - my other son’s wedding in Sardinia. Pizza, gelato, sunshine and love! So much joy and things to look forward to in the midst of the grief.

It is all breathtakingly beautiful and painful. And the gratitude I feel for being here to experience it all is immense. Since cancer I am acutely aware of taking nothing for granted even when it causes such a rollercoaster of emotions.

Love

Rebecca x

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Am I eating enough fibre? Is fibre maxxing something I need to investigate?

Carbs? Good or bad?

Alcohol? Yes in moderation or not at all?

Magnesium? But which one and how much?

Turmeric? Yes but make sure it’s with black pepper.

Creatine? Absolutely not/depends what research you read.

Refined sugar is bad - yeah but what about enjoying a slice of cake?

Ashwaganda? Yes but make sure you’re not taking any SSRIs

Mushrooms? Sure but make sure you know which supplements you’re taking. Are they independently tested and with the whole fruiting bodies?

Protein powders? Yes, but make sure they’re clean and with no fillers or added sugars.

Fasting? How many hours? 12 or 14 or 16 hours?

Vitamin D? Absolutely but how much? 1000 IU or 3000 IU. Should I make sure I add Vitamin K with it?

Only organic? Nah you’ll be fine but make sure you avoid the Dirty Dozen.

Can I eat fruit? Yes, but make sure it’s alongside protein, you want to avoid glucose spikes.

10,000 steps a day? Remember it was a marketing strategy for a Japanese pedometer company…

How much sleep should I be getting? Eight hours, seven, nine? Blue light blocking after sunset? Should I open all the windows and sleep cool? Or is room temperature better? What about my electric blanket in the winter?

Caffeine timing? Before or after breakfast? Not after 2pm, or can my body handle it? Does it block nutrient absorption? But also, doesn’t it boost metabolism? What about the toxins in coffee? Is matcha a better option? Does it have to be ceremonial grade?

Fish oil? Yes but make sure it’s not full of heavy metals or plastic.

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Water intake? Eight glasses (what size?) a day or drink when thirsty? Filtered? Sparkling? Added electrolytes? Room temperature or cold? How much is too much?

Stress management? Everyone says cortisol is the enemy, so should you be doing Breathwork? Meditation? Yoga? Is forcing it causing me more stress?

Seed oils? Oh won’t those kill me? Nah, they’re fine.

Vitamin C? Should I be mega-dosing or is the recommended daily dose okay and what if I eat a piece of fruit or veg is that enough?

HRT? Absolutely not/depends who you ask?

Vitamin B? As a complex or individually or not at all. FFS. I have supplement paralysis.

Bone broth/collagen? Gut healing miracle or just expensive nutribollocks? With or without vitamin C for absorption?

Detox my life? Should I avoid EVERYTHING that has a chemical in it? Do I put up with mosquito bites rather than using a product that actually works? Do I not borrow a friend’s ‘toxic’ sunscreen because I forgot mine? Do I avoid all ultraprocessed food and feel miserable because I didn’t get to eat the birthday donuts? Etc etc etc etc

What have I missed?

Excuse me whilst I go and lie down.

Love

Rebecca x

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I’ve spoken with a number of friends and cancer survivors this week about this - the guilt, the exhaustion, the frustration, the longing. There’s a sense I get of us feeling we need to try even harder to perform, to prove ourselves. Is this to ourselves or is to the world? I’m not sure. Is it trying to make up for time lost to the hours of chemotherapy or radiotherapy, the days lost to recovering from surgery? Is it to prove to our friends and loved ones that we’re ‘back to normal’?

At times, does it feel like you’re ‘performing’ life? For me that might look like agreeing to something without giving myself time to check in with myself. Do I really want to do that? It might mean doing things on autopilot and because I’ve always done it that way - answering Whatsapp messages as soon as they come in, getting back to a work/Women Beyond Cancer email even if that’s at 10pm. For me, pausing is usually the way out of performance. And yes, this can take effort and practice especially when recovery beyond treatment can still feel hard, tiring, overwhelming and frustrating.

I’m currently in Chicago being grandma to my 4 year old granddaughter. I’m helping out with summer childcare as both my son and daughter in law work full time. The first cohort of the Women Beyond Cancer programme has just begun. The heat in Chicago has been overwhelming. I’m tired for sure, yet incredibly, I’m not feeling guilty when I need to rest. And I’m curious about this. Perhaps it’s simply because I’m not at home or maybe it’s me finally accepting that rest is part of living life after cancer. I could so easily have brought the guilt around rest with me in my luggage. Maybe I’m beginning to see the futility of guilt. It’s not helping me in any way. My focus is my wellbeing and health and guilt has no place there.

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Rest used to be something I did whilst doing something else. A cup of coffee and emptying the dishwasher. Sitting down and making shopping lists. Going to bed early and doomscrolling on Instagram. Sitting under a tree in the woods and thinking of it as a teachable moment. I’m sure you’ve got your own examples.

I’m currently writing this in the backyard, listening to the birds and feeling the warmth of the evening sun on my legs. Am I resting? Well sort of, writing has always been a way for me to download my busy mind so, yes, I feel this is a type of rest.

“Too tired to do anything, too guilty to rest”, this has been my soundtrack for a long time and very much my experience of life once treatment ended. What’s your experience?

How can we turn this around so that we actually enjoy the much required rest?

• We don’t have to earn our rest.

• We don’t need to accomplish anything in order to choose rest.

• Rest is not something that we roll our eyes at.

• Rest is restorative, it’s nourishing. It’s vital. It’s not an optional extra.

What’s getting in the way of prioritising rest? A serious question to pause with… write a list until you’ve exhausted your reasons and notice whose voice you’re hearing. It just might give you some answers.

Love

Rebecca x

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Time has definitely split into before and after. The before feels increasingly distant (YAY), not because it was that long ago, but because the person I was then is not really the woman I am now.

The after is layered with moments where I remember viscerally that my body grew the cancer that wanted to kill me. That’s a hell of a thing to hold in your thoughts and body. Thankfully not every moment, but enough moments, that I’m aware and it can throw me off randomly throughout the year. I'm hyperaware of it - it lurks just underneath the ordinary.

I no longer wake up worrying about cancer. But I do recognise that my body could decide to betray me once again. So yes, no evidence of disease but not cancer free.

The mammogram later this year will tell me, for this year, that it hasn’t happened again. The mammogram is a small annual ritual of reassurance. And then I go back to living, knowing that NED is not the same as cancer free. It’s just the best language we have for living in this liminal space. If you know, you know.

On Gratitude Alongside Grief

Here’s what nobody tells you about gratitude after cancer: it doesn’t cancel out the anger, the grief, the sadness, the fear. I can wake up genuinely grateful to be alive and simultaneously furious that my skin feels so different, that I can’t wear an underwired bra without my scars speaking up, that I can’t leap out of bed with ease, that fatigue can feel overwhelming, that brain fog and forgetting words drives me mad. The gratitude and the resentment live in the same body and they’re not in conflict. They can live side by side within my body.

I try to teach people this in my coaching work: that you can hold two opposing truths at once. But I’m learning it for myself now. I’m not grateful despite the joint aches. I’m grateful, and the joint aches are real, and some mornings I genuinely hate them. Others I’m grateful and am reminded to send loving thoughts to my feet. Sounds woo woo? Try it!

This loving-kindness to my feet is not spiritual bypassing. It’s me choosing to redirect the story I’m telling about this body. Other mornings I’m allowed to just be pissed off.

On What "Living Differently " Actually Means

I thought survivorship would be about getting back to normal. That’s what we’re supposed to expect, isn’t it? The old life, reclaimed. Bouncing back, slotting back into society as if nothing ever happened. But standing here now, on the other side of treatment, I realise I don’t want that life back! Some parts, maybe. But not the pace. Not the way I said yes to things that didn’t light me up. Not the way I performed life rather than living it well.

Living differently means I’ve stopped pretending that rest is something I need to earn. I don’t automatically reach for productivity. It means I’m choosing to spend time with my young granddaughter (I’m currently in Chicago for 5 weeks), really with her, not mentally half-somewhere else and that choice itself feels like I’m reclaiming what life is really about. It means I’m writing what matters, not what might perform well. It means I’m making different choices for my life.

What lights me up now is very specific: the smell of the sea before a dip with my friends. A conversation that goes somewhere meaningful. My granddaughter’s hand in mine. A morning where the pain is manageable and I can sit with my coffee without twisting and turning to relieve the pain. None of these require productivity. None of them need to be optimised or ‘maximised’. They just need to be chosen - deliberately.

Love

Rebecca x

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REST, why is it I still battle with it? 3 years ago I was just about at the end of chemotherapy, the tumour was no longer visible on a scan, I was awaiting surgery and radiotherapy. 3 years ago, and knowing what I know now and what my body and mind has been through I still have times when I give myself a hard time about REST.

My battery is low - there are many reasons for that and I know that should give me permission to rest - good grief I’ve just written those mad words that I’ve coached so many women on - SHOULD AND PERMISSION!

You may be reading this whilst you’re still going through treatment or just out of it or even many years since you had treatment. Please know that as women we still seem to struggle with those words - should and permission. Why is there such guilt about it. Why has productivity at all cost so deeply rooted in us? Why do I/we/ feel unworthy of rest? What a load of shit that is. As if cancer wasn’t enough to go through we’re now working out whether we qualify for REST.

I have to say that most of the time I do, now, speak to myself with kindness and self compassion but there are still more times than I’d like to admit that I’m a tough on myself and my language is not one I’d use when speaking and supporting a friend.

REST feels like such a complex concept (to me at least!). And maybe that's where I've been getting stuck. Because there are so many types of rest - emotional, physical, social, spiritual, mental, creative, sensory. And I've been measuring myself against all of them like another to-do list I'm failing at. Not that that’s meant to be another stick to beat ourselves with - am I getting the right type of rest? But I’m curious as to what type of rest I need. And maybe rewording it or understanding it more fully enables us to embrace it a little more easily.

For me I know it begins with sensory rest - a rest from scrolling before I go to bed. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve coached women on this one. And I still, every single night, come up with another reason my phone needs to be there. Missing a call from my dad's nursing home at 5.30 the other morning because I'd put it on silent didn't help my resolve on that one.

When I think of rest I immediately assume it’s physical rest I need - napping or a bath or curled up with the dog. Do you think the same? Does it make it easier if we consider all these other types of rest? What if we asked ourselves, ‘what do I need right now?' and waited for the response.

Love

Rebecca x

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  ---

Day One was exciting and freezing cold! A whole bunch of us in Maggie’s orange T shirts and BayFitness beanies ran into the sea screaming, breath leaving our bodies as we felt the cold creeping up our legs and bodies. I could barely breathe. I managed to stay in a few moments and ran out.

In a word: euphoric. I knew in that moment that nothing was going to stop me getting in the sea each day.

31 dips later (I missed a couple but double-dipped to make up), and I’m a convert. Cold water really does something to my body and mind that I want to describe here. (And apologies to the real cold water dippers, I appreciate that May and a sea temperature of between 10 and 14 degrees celsius is hardly Baltic!)

I’ve heard getting into cold water compared to closing down a hundred browser tabs. There’s nothing - nothing - it’s possible to worry about when all you’re focused on is getting a gulp of oxygen into your lungs. The shock strips everything else away.

The neoprene socks I’d bought (£8, best money ever spent) took the edge off my chemo-damaged toes. The long-sleeve swimsuit made it a little more bearable. These small investments in my comfort turned out to be real investments in my showing up, day after day.

The physical shift is undeniable. Cold water strips you back to basics - to the next breath - and that’s extraordinarily humbling. The endorphins are real. I thought it was all hype! The sense of freedom and power in what my body is capable of this past month has surprised and delighted me. I’ve laughed more this month than in a long time.

I feel more me again. And who’d have thought it was the cold water that teased her out.

But the deeper thing is the women. Holding space for each other, witnessing each other’s courage, showing up come rain or wind or huge waves - that’s when the real healing happens. I’ve made new friends and deepened friendships that really matter to me. Each woman has her own story, her own reason for stepping out of her comfort zone. Women supporting women is powerful. The sea can hold all our worries and anxieties. I’ve learned that I no longer need to hold it all. Letting it go, releasing it into the sea is a moving experience.

And somehow, looking in the mirror now, I feel nothing but love and awe. I’m proud of myself. I’m in awe of my body and what it’s been through. I can do hard things. My overall wellbeing has shifted - I’m able to look at myself and feel grateful, not just for surviving, but for being alive and capable and free.

Knowing we raised almost £3,000 (and counting) for Maggie’s Swansea- the centre that held me in my darkest moments through and after my cancer treatment - brings tears to my eyes. This whole experience has brought me to tears many times.

Trust me, there were plenty of wet, grey, cold days. But these big-hearted, exceptional women committed to getting out of their comfort zones to support others. And I’ve already decided: I’ll be stripping off and getting in the cold water again next year.

Healing happens in nature. I’m grateful to have both ocean and woodland on my doorstep. But I’m most grateful for the women who’ve shown me what’s possible when we show up for each other.

With love

Rebecca x

Your nervous system doesn’t care that you *know* you’re safe. It cares that you *feel* it. And there’s a specific alchemy that does that: birdsong, dappled light, the quiet underneath everything.

This is forest bathing—not hiking, not exercise, not self-improvement. Just: being still. Listening. Letting your heart rate remember how to slow down.

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For women navigating life after cancer, this isn’t optional wellness. It’s repair work. Your nervous system has spent months in threat mode—appointments, scans, uncertainty. Forest bathing is how you teach your body that the crisis has passed. That it’s actually safe to come down.

This is why forest bathing is woven into everything we do at Women Beyond Cancer. Because survivorship isn’t just about the body healing. It’s about the nervous system remembering what safety feels like.

Have you found practices that genuinely slow you down? I’d love to hear what works for you.

Love

Rebecca x

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These words have been on my mind since I wrote them in an essay a few weeks back. I thought I might explore them particularly because today I feel more fragile.

And yet, even as I write that I realise just how resilient I am, well, certainly my body.

• I’m strengthening my body by lifting weights at the gym twice a week with a badass group of women my age.

• I’m relaxing my body and resetting my nervous system in yoga twice a week.

• I’m currently fundraising for Maggie’s Swansea with my Bay Fitness gym buddies getting in the sea every day during the month of May.

• Setting up my non-profit - Women Beyond Cancer - is not something I imagined doing whilst going through and recovering from cancer and yet here I am.

This is not to say, look at me, aren’t I marvellous. This is to show myself that I’m doing a lot to look after myself because we know that exercise is essential in recovery. My body took such a hit with the life saving toxic cocktail that was issued to rid my breast of cancer. The side effects will be with me always.

Lifting weights makes me feel strong. Relaxing into yoga releases all the held onto emotions that my body needs to release. Fundraising for the charity closest to my heart (and life) makes me weep and getting into cold water helps release all the emotion lodged in my system. Creating a community of women who like me have finished active treatment enriches my soul, creating something I wish had been available when I was just out of treatment - journaling, peer support and nature.

So why am I feeling more fragile today as I write this? I guess because all of the above takes effort. A lot more effort than it would have done pre-cancer.

I’ve also just celebrated my 63rd birthday so maybe there’s that. I’m also on high alert as my dad comes towards the end of his magnificent 94 years and it hurts so much. This is life. I know that. We all experience ageing and grieving.

It’s not just a fragility in my mind but also my body. I ache, my joints, my hips, my hands, my back. Getting out of bed in the morning feels tough some times, desperately trying not to be an old woman. Some days I worry that my bones are indeed becoming more fragile now that I’ve completed my bone strengthening infusions. Fragile and frail - words I want to run from.

There is an unpredictability in my body which I never had to consider before. Some days I can walk for miles, others barely around the supermarket. Some nights I sleep like a log, others I’m still tossing and turning at 2am. Some days I’m barely aware of sciatic pain, other days it makes we weep.

There is this constant push pull in my life after cancer. I long to jump in feet first, do all the things I’ve longed to do. Cram everything into the however many years I’ve got left. Squeeze every last drop out of life and at the same time all I want to do is lie on the sofa with my knitting or my book. I’m hungry for life and want it all. I’m also SO tired, so tearful, so full of emotion.

And I can’t seem to find a balance that works. This is why I feel more fragile today. All the things I want to do I can’t seem to fit into a day without absolutely exhausting myself. That’s when the negative self talk erupts. And that’s not helpful.

There is also fragility in not wanting to let people down when you have to say, I can’t make that meeting, I can’t fit that in today, I need more time to get that done. I’ve burdened people long enough with my cancer and although they would never roll their eyes, I do feel it. Maybe it’s me rolling my eyes.

It seems that, yes, it is possible to be both more resilient and more fragile.

What’s your experience?

Love

Rebecca x

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We were guided into pigeon pose as we breathed long slow breaths allowing our bodies to relax into the stretch. “Breathe”, our instructor said, “breathe”.

And then “why do we find it so hard to be uncomfortable?”

I could feel tears pricking my eyes. Oh this is it - this desire to shun being uncomfortable, to look away from it, to carry on as if there is no discomfort. The problem with that of course is that our body stores it somewhere. I know this only too well as I’m discovering with my weekly chiropractor sessions. Two book titles come to mind - When The Body Says No and The Body Keeps The Score. Both authors who tell hard truths, and ones I've learned so much from.

Breathing is our aid here. Breathing into pigeon pose lets the body know that it’s safe. Yes, it’s stretching muscles that feel uncomfortable but it’s safe to do so. Keep breathing, release, relax, breathe and ever so slowly we soften into the pose. Gently, gently and pause. Breathe. I usually find tears at the end of this pause - tears that have been kept inside for way too long.

Why do we find it so hard to be this emotionally uncomfortable whether in a yoga pose or in life after cancer? I ask this of myself, although you might find yourself asking the same thing.

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Others held us as we were going through treatment and now that support has gone or at least changed we are the ones to 'hold' ourselves. And that's hard. "I've got this", "I'm so grateful", "Yup, thriving, thanks"… But have we given ourselves permission to be curled up in child's pose, hugging our knees close to our chest, rocking ourselves?

Can we sit with this metaphorical pigeon pose stretch and nurture and love ourselves enough to be with the discomfort we feel in our bodies? To tell our head that it’s okay to feel the discomfort, that we’re not in any danger, that in fact we truly need to feel this in order to release, to relax, to grow.

I trust the chiropractor as he works on my body. I’m held by him as he twists and presses and adjusts my body. I inhale and exhale as loud pops release muscle tension. I trust him, I allow him to hold me. I feel myself relaxing into the process. My mind seems to trust him as well and this means we can work more profoundly.

This trust is something I’m working on within myself. I’m beginning to trust my body in these yoga poses, I remind myself to breathe, to pause, to settle and the deeper I am able to move into the stretch.

Maybe this is all part of growth post cancer trauma. Facing, exploring, feeling, releasing… Each time I allow myself to feel and release I come closer to myself, to my core. And at that place I learn to be with all my emotions - the fear, the sadness, the gratitude, the love - all for myself and with myself. It is in experiencing all these emotions - not shrinking or hiding from them- that we get to be more of who we really are.

Love

Rebecca x

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I don’t know why today it made me pause whilst brushing, maybe because of the sciatic pain I have almost constantly when I’m standing or walking. Whatever the reason, I finally made the link.

Let me take you back. I began clenching my jaw as I was diagnosed with triple negative breast cancer and especially at night. I’d wake with a headache, lines down the inside of my cheeks where I’d been chewing and clenching my jaws through the night. Mouth ulcers became frequent and painful. It became part of the cancer journey. STRESS. And I ignored it as ‘just another thing’. Painful but not as painful and overwhelming as weekly chemotherapy. There was cancer to worry about and toothache seemed like a side issue that was an afterthought.

The day before surgery I went to the emergency dentist as the pain was really bad and I just wanted to check in with them that there was nothing serious going on. An Xray revealed an abscess under a cracked tooth. AN ABSCESS UNDER A CRACKED TOOTH. I had been clenching so hard, I’d cracked a molar. A MOLAR. I’d ignored it as a side issue….because cancer.

They wanted and needed to remove it there and then as I wouldn’t be able to go in for breast surgery already infected. So they did. There and then. Followed by antibiotics and the anaesthetist would then decide if she was happy with access to my mouth should I need intubation during surgery…

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There was no space for ‘dwelling’ on the emotion of this because my body was already braced against any further emotion having just finished 6 months of chemotherapy.

No time to pause, no time to feel, no time to grieve, no time to cry, no time to process, no time to experience any of the emotion. I shut it all down. I couldn’t ‘fall apart’ now. I didn’t have time.

And I’ve been carrying it ever since. I continue to wake with tension. I’m still bracing. I’m now piecing together all the strands of the impact of cancer on my body, my nervous system, my emotions. That tooth is the trauma. It's the slow unpacking of what the tooth meant - evidence of what my body has been carrying since my diagnosis.

The tension I feel in my body today is another way my body is nudging me to face the experience. It’s urging me to grieve. It’s reminding me that healing is an ever-evolving process, it’s not linear. As one thing is healed another seems to demand attention.

So there is no resolution, there is absolutely not a sense of, 'okay I've dealt with that now'- it will become an ongoing conversation between myself and that gap. That gap in my mouth continues to teach me so much about survival, resilience, stoicism, the many layers of trauma and about the many things we don’t have time to heal because there’s always something more pressing that shouts louder for our attention.

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Love

Rebecca x

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I can be stuck in this space for days at a time. I get used to this feeling until something tips me over the edge.

This is no way to live. We’re designed to be in an activated sympathetic state for mere moments as we chase off the tiger that’s on our back - not the hours, days, months that many of us experience.

The Why - What breaks the nervous system down

The metaphorical tiger I’ve come to feel on my back is the cumulative load of almost 12 months of treatment, ongoing recovery and healing, hypervigilance, and the “being okay for everyone else.” My body has learned to brace — you know that position we never hope to hear about over the tannoy from the air stewards.

I had no idea that recovery and healing doesn’t automatically mean settling. It’s possible and normal to be in remission, with no evidence of disease, and still be running on emergency power. We’ve learned this way of being because we needed it to get us through the toughest episode in our lives.

There is a huge gap between cancer being medically over and there being a felt-sense over. I wonder truthfully if it’s ever over. Maybe it’s just time. Maybe it’s because I feel so different now. Maybe there will always be physical and emotional scars to remind me of what I’ve been through.

The What - What a nervous system reboot actually is (and isn’t)

Okay, so here’s what it’s not - it’s not a wellness trend or a spa day. It’s not a scented candle and a bubble bath. It’s not a one-off massage. It’s not a single cup of chamomile tea. It’s not a one-off anything.

Here’s what it is likely to look like - it’s the slow, unglamorous work of teaching your body that the threat has passed. The difference between thinking you’re safe and your nervous system believing you’re safe. It’s learning to notice when we’re braced, purposefully exhaling, and pausing. And then being consciously aware of our next action.

For me, the moment comes when I can’t feel my toes for the pins and needles, or there’s a shooting pain in my neck. This is the moment that brings me right into the present. It’s my body screaming at me. The red lights flashing, the siren going. It’s time to breathe, to pause, to recalibrate - to do something to bring me back to a place of calm.

The How - What the reboot looks and feels like

It’s not a list of tips (although I will share what works for me) - it’s the actual texture of it. The embodiment of it. Sensory anchors. Breath. Rest without guilt. Noticing what the body does when it finally exhales. The non-linearity of the process. Trusting your body once more to be your guide.

This rebooting requires us to both pause and notice, and to put in the effort - knowing the practices that resonate with us. This is vital work. We cannot run on empty. We must not run on empty.

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These are the things that work for me. They’re absolutely not prescriptions, just an honest account of what brings me back into my body when I’ve lost the thread/plot.

5-4-3-2-1 - pause, notice 5 things you can see, 4 things you can hear, 3 things you can touch, 2 things you can smell, 1 thing you can taste.

Grounding - standing barefoot on grass or sand and breathing right down to my toes.

Belly breathing - slow, rhythmic breathing right into my belly.

Cold water - splashing cold water on my face, switching the shower to cold, or cold dipping. I’ve just signed up to support Dip a Day in May for my local Maggie’s centre.

Humming - turn on your favourite tunes and hum along. It’s all about the vagus nerve.

Rhythmic movement - swaying arms, rag doll, bouncing, tapping. Tai Chi. Getting the lymphatic system moving.

Human connection - this is the one that trips me up, especially as I live alone most of the time. Arrange a coffee date, walk the dog, hug someone - or their dog.

Nature, nature, nature - get out and hug a tree.

Chiropractor / EMDR / yoga / embodiment practices - more on this in another post.

The After - The beginning of ease

This is not a triumphant, once-and-done resolution. It’s a work in progress. A remembering. A teaching. A practice. It’s reminding the nervous system that it can begin to trust again.

I love leaning into what I’m able to feel when I’m not bracing.

The after is a coming home to a body that’s been at war.

Sitting with the beginning of ease - noticing that I spent almost an hour in nature on a photo shoot without any pain at all. Nature held me. Doing something fun brought me back to myself. Splashing in the freezing cold sea in the name of art made me laugh out loud. Hugging a tree in the late afternoon sun settled me. Watching kids having surf lessons, dogs chasing tennis balls, lads racing each other into the cold water. Dancing in the late sunshine in my fancy brightly coloured dress. I was completely oblivious to the pain and stress I’d been in earlier that day.

Reconnecting with my body is the medicine that heals me.

Love

Rebecca x

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I recently read a post on LinkedIn written by a beautiful woman I met many years ago. She is sharing her cancer story with such honesty and love, it often brings me to tears. In her video yesterday she shared some words that haven’t left my mind since. She talked about letting go of the words, ‘I used to’.

As in…

I used to be this woman with her head thrown back laughing

I used to be able to get through the day without napping

I used to be able to get through the day without paracetamol or ibuprofen

I used to not think that every ache and pain was cancer returning

I used to sleep through the night

I used to wake feeling ready for the day

I used to walk for miles without pain

I used to feel certain I’d find love

Cancer changed everything.

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There was a woman living her life before cancer and there is now a woman trying to rebuild a new life beyond it. It’s not as straightforward as ‘Go live your life.’ If only it were that simple.

And the guilt I feel writing this, knowing that so many are living with incurable stage 4 cancer. Knowing that a wonderful woman I met in my journalling sessions recently died.

The push and pull of gratitude and guilt is a heavy burden.

I am enormously grateful to be alive - but please don’t tell me I must be over the moon that cancer is in the past, that I can simply jump back into life. Cancer leaves so many hidden scars that only I, and those who’ve walked this path, can see. I carry this weight in my body every day, whilst trying to show myself the softest compassion and tenderness.

I am no longer the woman in the image above. I miss her. I love her with all my heart. The photo was taken as we came out of the Covid pandemic — stepping back into life, free to travel, to hug people, to gather with those we loved, to celebrate once more.

I’m meeting the photographer who took this image next week. It feels about time to update my photos - to represent who I am now, the woman I am becoming after cancer. I know she will capture that essence of me.

This woman is wiser, both more resilient and more fragile. She is tender, compassionate, more emotional. She is less tolerant of shitty behaviour and opens her arms wide to those she cares deeply for. She knows how important it is to be creative, to be outdoors, to listen to birdsong and waves crashing on the shore. She understands the importance of moving her body, of building strength. She hurries less and savours more. She knows that pausing is part of living.

Letting go of the words ‘I used to’ feels important for my continued healing - but goodness, it’s hard. We compare so naturally, don’t we? The weight we used to be, the hours we used to sleep, the things we used to remember. We compare our recovery to others and convince ourselves we’re falling behind. We are each on our own path, even when someone else’s looks more appealing.

I am learning to love the woman I am becoming. She has a story to tell about love, connection, compassion, healing, and being real. She is softer. She is learning to be lighter in spirit - to laugh and dance again, to find joy in ordinary things.

She no longer keeps things for best.

Love

Rebecca x

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We don’t give ourselves this time do we. We’re rushing onto the next thing and in my case that’s the desire to be done with recovery and healing and catapult myself back into a full on life….or so I thought, or have been programmed to believe. There is another way. I’m learning that now, yoga pose by yoga pose.

These feelings began a couple of weeks ago. I keep a notes page in my phone for thoughts or ideas for this blog. I jot things down when I don’t have time to expand in that moment. The words I wrote at that time were, ‘I love myself’. Even as I wrote it I thought, oh god that’s a bit yuk isn’t it, a bit self indulgent, a bit woo woo.

How crazy that we’re pushed away from a deep and loving relationship with ourselves, it’s somehow frowned upon as if it’s some weird hippy shit. Instead, tough talk, bullying of ourselves, criticising and judging becomes the norm. And many of us are so good at it.

Yet deep down or maybe even on the surface we know it’s not good to do this. We’d never speak to our friends like this, those close to us, our children or grandchildren. We’d never say, go harder, be meaner, be nastier. The very thought turns my stomach. And yet….. and yet….

Louise Hay, the doyenne of the self help book said, “You’ve been criticising yourself for years and it hasn’t worked. Try approving of yourself and see what happens”. These words have always popped into my head when I’ve been in a bitter rage with myself over the years.

Cancer changed everything for me as far as self kindness and compassion is concerned. It comes when I’m in a peaceful state on my yoga mat or in meditation or in the woods or sitting on the beach. It’s when I connect with my body rather than being stuck in my mind and when I’m grounded and in touch with the natural world. Everything else falls away. I find a sense of peace within and in that moment, how could I not love myself?

As I lay on my yoga mat I felt overwhelmed with love for my tired bones and my aching muscles. Instead of the criticism and judgement of my ageing body I felt a deep tenderness for all it’s been through these past few years. The terror I felt when I was diagnosed that lodged deep in my muscles, tensing them up with the words - be scared, be very scared - resonating in my ears. The chemotherapy that truly took me to breaking point - my body screaming to my team in my blood results indicating that my body really was struggling with the highly toxic drugs. The surgery that removed the site of the tumour and has left me with the permanent reminder of the cancer - the aching under my arm from where lymph nodes were removed, the tightening of skin on my breast from the surgery. All reminders of what I went through. The tiny tattoo dots on the side of my breasts and in my centre to mark the exact place that radiation was zapped into my body.

How could I not love myself after it went through all that? How could I not love myself when the recovery and healing has been so hard?

I’m also aware in this moment that it’s hard to write this stuff. I’ve stopped, walked away, made a coffee, hung the washing out on the line - I’m curious about this. I’m also aware that I’m not judging or criticising myself for needing a little break to breathe, to embody the feelings. That’s a welcome change for me. I’m learning.

Self compassion has been one of the greatest learnings for me during this time of existential crisis - for that is what I feel cancer has been - self compassion is a process of unlearning and relearning how to be with ourselves. A tenderness that I’d not known before.

This photo of me is stuck into the corner of a picture resting on my fireplace and I keep looking at her. The tenderness I feel towards her, the same feelings of love that I have for my own children I feel for her. She’s me. She had no idea what she’d go through later in life or just how resilient she’d learn she was. And by the way, I loved that swimsuit, navy, green and white in stretch terry cotton that wasn’t great in the water!

And I’m back on my yoga mat in my mind. Filled with gratitude for my body, the vehicle that has got me this far in life, that has weathered so many storms and still shows up daily for me. Resting on my mat, I can exhale with grace, exhale with deep respect, exhale with gratitude and thanks.

I’m curious, what has your body been through that deserves to be acknowledged? Could you take ten minutes and write a letter to yourself - not a list of complaints or wishes, simply one of recognition. What has it survived? What has it carried?

Love

Rebecca x

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And then one day, it’s over. Treatment has ended. You’re supposed to feel relieved. Grateful. Ready to move on.

But for so many women, that moment feels anything but straightforward.

The medical team steps back. The appointments thin out. The people around you breathe a sigh of relief and assume the worst is behind you. And you’re left standing there, wondering why you don’t feel like yourself - and why nobody seems to understand that finishing treatment is not the same as being okay.

This is the gap that Women Beyond Cancer CIC was built to fill.

I’m incredibly proud to share that we’ve just been awarded funding to deliver a 12-month pilot project for women in South Wales - and digitally, for women across Wales and beyond - who are navigating exactly this transition. I’m incredibly grateful to The National Lottery Community Fund Wales for believing in this project and funding this pilot project.

Over the past nine months, I’ve spoken with over 60 women about what life after treatment really feels like. The word that came up again and again? Lonely.

Lonely because the structure has gone. Lonely because people expect you to be back to normal. Lonely because you’re grieving a version of yourself while also trying to feel grateful to be here.

The project we’ve designed responds directly to what those women told us they needed: peer connection, nature-based support, space to reflect, and the chance to be around people who truly get it.

Starting soon, participants will have access to weekly guided journaling sessions and peer support groups, as well as forest bathing and mindful walking in Swansea green spaces, and later in the year a one-day retreat.

Everything is free or donation-based. Because being off work due to cancer treatment is already hard enough.

This is just the beginning. And I can’t wait to share the journey with you here.

If this resonates with you, or someone you love, please share it. The more women who know this support exists, the better.

Love

Rebecca x

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Why do I stop doing the things that are good for me - the things that centre and ground me? Why is that?

I know with every fibre of my being that spending 10 minutes in meditation first thing in the morning lifts me up. I exhale with that deep knowing of oh, this feels good. I feel an inner peace. I feel my shoulders drop.

So why do I stop? Actually, it’s not even a decision or a choice to stop. It just doesn’t happen one morning and then that’s it - it’s lost. And it’s only when I feel wound up or heavy or a bit out of sorts that I remember my meditation. Same goes for stretching each morning. I would do a series of stretches in the kitchen whilst I waited for the kettle to boil. It felt so good to loosen up, to hear the clunks and creaks of my body coming back to life and reminding myself that I’m still here. And then one day I didn’t - and there we go again, back to not doing it until I remember once more.

I feel so frustrated. I can feel it now in my body as I write - a tightening, a resistance, a tension building. I’ve got better at not criticising myself, but it’s hard. I’m learning to be okay with sitting in the frustration with a certain tenderness. I’ve learned that much.

So what is it? Dopamine? Needing an instant hit, like a drug? Not allowing myself the pause to slow down my thinking in mindful meditation? Heading straight to Instagram to check out another knitting pattern or talking dog video? It feels mindless. Ultimately it doesn’t fulfil me - it simply keeps me numb. It keeps me in an observing life position. It’s not active, it’s watching. I think that’s what it is.

Some days there’s a lethargy, a moroseness - it’s an effort and I just don’t have the energy to be active.

Fuck cancer. The side effects have a huge reach. I long to be living a full and fulfilling life and, don’t get me wrong, I’m so grateful for being here, for being cancer free — but the side effects are insidious.

I get that inactivity - at least that’s what it feels like - is what my body needs to continue healing, but it pisses me off so much. I hate having to not overload myself. And it’s not even that. I’ll give you an example: I had a consultant’s appointment this morning. I have piriformis syndrome and chronic sciatic pain. I was hoping for a certain outcome and I didn’t get it - I was hoping for a steroid injection and to be done, back to being pain free. I came home exhausted… from a doctor’s appointment. I felt miserable and, once again, frustrated at this situation. And that’s what gets me down. The lethargy kicks in, I know that exercises would help ease the pain but I can’t be bothered. So what’s the point…

How do I override this state of mind and body in the kindest possible way? I need a gentle nudge - a reminder that climbing a mountain (because that’s what it feels like) is done one step at a time.

I have so much to create and to share. I get excited and then I crash. I don’t like being this starter and non-finisher. I need to find a way to listen more to my inner mentor than to the inner critic who has become a mouthy b*tch. I love her too, but I feel she needs to go on an extended sabbatical so that I can get on with living fully, without the burden of this heavy weight.

I appreciate that this is a meandering post, a stream of consciousness. I’ve no idea whether you connect with this, but it’s helping me make some sense of how I’m feeling right now. This is what I love about journaling - the meander, the pause, the space to consider and then to write some more. Nothing has to be resolved. I can sit in the muddle and still appreciate my life.

Love

Rebecca x

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What it actually feels like

Fatigue sometimes comes out of nowhere. Mid thought. Mid bite. Mid walk — sometimes about 5 paces from home, wondering how on earth I’m going to make it. During a yoga class when all I want to do is curl up in a ball. Often mid conversation. In the evening I can barely climb the stairs, and spending two minutes brushing my teeth feels an eternity.

And it’s not about needing sleep. It’s a bone-deep ache. Lead boots. It’s so hard to explain to people. There’s an emotional and mental weight to it that sits alongside the physical — and sometimes I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

The weight beneath the weight

I know that it’s extra tough right now as we’re slowly saying goodbye to my wonderful father. Sitting by his side in the stiflingly hot nursing home. Preparing for the grief to come. My muscles ache, my breath is shallow, my diaphragm aches because I’m not breathing fully. This fatigue is not about needing sleep. It’s needing to stop existing for a while.

It’s knowing that eating well and exercising help, and at the same time having no energy to prepare and feed myself. And at the same time being alert and alive to the fact — the good fortune — that I made it through cancer treatment and have no evidence of disease. Something to celebrate every single day, if I had the energy.

The phone battery analogy

I feel like a phone with a battery that’s constantly running low, never charging fully. Sometimes it goes from 30% to zero in a matter of moments. Fully charged overnight, and depending on how much it’s been in use, by lunchtime I’ve used over 50% of the battery. It’s downhill from there — sliding into the red mid afternoon, needing a little charge to get through the evening.

Does that resonate?

Grief for the old me

I was always an early riser. My life was always full, busy living it, rarely sitting to relax and rest. Overnight it feels I’m exhausted. I feel old, and I hate that feeling. I grieve my old energy levels — the version of me who never had to build conscious rest into daily life.

Everything takes longer now. I used to write at lightning speed, so many thoughts pouring out of my fingertips. Now, especially when I feel swamped by fatigue, my writing takes ages — pausing, drifting off into space, staring out the window, mind wandering, eyes closing. Resting my top lids, as my dad used to say. Lurching from peace to frustration.

The invisible burden

The invisible nature of fatigue means that I look well whilst running on empty. It doesn’t help when there’s also the pressure to feel grateful and full of beans now that treatment is over. The feeling of not wanting to let people down anymore. Putting a brave face on it and saying yes, I’m fine thanks.

It doesn’t help when someone says: “Oh you’re still tired? But treatment finished ages ago, didn’t it.” That stung. It made me feel isolated and alone.

No. I’ve not bounced back. Fatigue is a constant, unwanted companion. And there’s a niggling fear that this is just how it is now — that I’ll continue to need to rest a lot, that I let friends down because I can’t do the long hikes we used to do. I try not to think about that. I’m not ready to be the aged grandmother in the rocking chair.

Self-compassion as a survival strategy

Daily life with fatigue involves lots of rescheduling, changing plans, shifting expectations — and speaking kindly to myself. In fact I think one of the ways I mentally manage fatigue is with self-compassion. I’ve tried yelling at myself and it doesn’t work. What works is understanding all my body has been through, and respecting it. Respecting that there is no time frame on recovery. Appreciating that I’d never dream of being nasty to a friend and telling her to get her act together if she’d been through what I’ve been through.

Fatigue is not laziness. It’s not feeling sorry for oneself.

It’s biology.

Love

Rebecca x

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3 years, 2 months and 4 days in fact. I had my final 6 monthly Zoledronic Acid infusion, a bone strengthening concoction following chemotherapy, it also helps reduce the risk of breast cancer returning and spreading to the bones.

So that’s it! All treatment done. Annual mammograms continue but that really is it. The stabilisers/trainer wheels are off and I’m on my own now. Oof.

How do I explain how I’m feeling? What comes to mind is the terror mixed with joy and exhaustion of coming home from hospital with my first born in my arms. Who was going to look after us? How was I going to know what to do? Me? Really? Did I have responsibility for this little bundle? Well, that’s a bit how I feel now.

Active treatment ended back in September 2023 and these 6 monthly infusions along with blood work have been my regular check in/reminder that I had cancer and that my bones are/could potentially be at risk. Ringing the bell did feel amazing. It does feel momentous. Crossing the finishing line in a way. And yet I’m well aware that cancer doesn’t end when treatment does. Cancer will be part of my life’s journey. I’m incredibly grateful that I have been able to get to this point, the end of treatment when so many don’t.

It feels important to mark this point in my cancer story. The nurse you see me hugging in the video was the nurse who was with me the first day of treatment, a friendly face I knew, she used to live next door to me. I’m incredibly grateful she was there on this final day and asked if I wanted to ring the bell.

How do I feel?

Exhausted when I cast my mind back to the almost 6 months of weekly then fortnightly Paclitaxol, Carboplatin, and AC (aka the red devil). It was a hell I endured because it rid my body of the cancer. This was the hard and fast regimen that was called for as treatment for my triple negative breast cancer.

I’m in awe of my body’s resilience. There were so many days I didn’t feel I could take anymore. That’s a terrifying place to be. And yet, if I could breathe through this one moment then maybe I could breathe through the next. That is how we get through. It’s how we survive, one breath, one moment at a time.

And then surgery, a wide local excision to remove the site of the tumour. The bruising on my body was extraordinary. Daily exercises to raise and lower my arm to bring back movement and strength. I’m still numb under my arm from the sentinel node removal as well as the scar on my breast. I’m considering a tattoo.

There was more treatment, oral chemotherapy this time, Capecitabine, it was horrible and I decided after 3 cycles I couldn’t take it anymore. It’s the weirdest thing to be taking chemotherapy drugs whilst having no evidence of disease. It was the impact of peripheral neuropathy in my hands and feet that made the decision for me.

And then radiotherapy as the big full stop to treatment. 5 days of being blasted with radiation. The process took moments, the fall out enormous. I thought I knew fatigue before radiotherapy. Maybe it was also knowing that the end was in sight and I could give in to wanting to hold it all together.

My treatment has now ended. Many other friends recovering from breast cancer have to continue taking drugs to suppress oestrogen with all the many and varied side effects. I feel lucky and grateful I don’t need to do that.

I now understand the importance of living my life fully - I’m careful how I word this because this isn’t about guilt or expectations or shoulds. It’s about being in the present as often as I can be, noticing the tiny little joys, revelling in the fact that the sky is blue today (it’s been a long, wet winter here in Wales), doing what lights me up - my sewing machine is back out and oiled ready for action.

Before my diagnosis I was like most people. I’d not delved into the world of cancer. Yes, I knew of people who’d had it, some had made it and looked ‘fine’. Others didn’t make it. I brushed over it. Didn’t want to go there. Cancer was too terrifying a word to want to dig into.

And yet, so much has changed over the past decades. Outcomes from treatment are so much more positive. People are living longer post treatment as well as those living with Stage 4 incurable cancer. Thank heavens for all the amazing scientists who research this terrible disease.

We must bring the conversation about cancer out into the open because people’s lives are changed completely after a cancer diagnosis.

I’m not the same woman I was before. I might look the same, apart from marginally shorter hair. I care for my loved ones just as before with maybe an even tighter squeeze. Now I notice the beauty around me more especially when there’s so much fear and chaos all around us in this magnificent world of ours. I pause more, I check in with my breathing. I smile more. I pet more dogs on my walks. I lift heavier weights. I eat the protein and fibre as well as chocolate covered Malted Milk biscuits! I’m so much more aware of the fragility and glorious gift of life. If I want to get into my pjs at 7pm I do so. I cry in yoga when I need to. I sit and tell my dad how much I love him. I’m creating my first knitting pattern. I tell my friends how much I love them. I no longer fear my emotions as I did.

Life is different now for sure.

We don’t bounce back to the old version of ourselves. We can’t pretend that cancer was nothing. And this is what I want people to understand. We may look like we’ve simply picked up where we left off. But underneath, any number of these may be quietly present:

Fatigue, brain fog, menopause, emotional rollercoaster, anxiety, depression, lymphodema, neuropathy, aching joints and bones, osteoporosis, digestive changes, infertility, sexual dysfunction.

This is not self-pity. This is just the truth of it.

I’m excited about my mission to support Women Beyond Cancer. This time of ‘what happens now I’ve rung the bell?’ It’s the time we need community, women who understand, a chance to write, to be in nature, to connect with others.

If any of this resonates — as you’re standing on the other side wondering what on earth comes next - this is the community I'm building. You don't have to figure it out alone."

I survived cancer and now I’m learning to embrace and live my life again. I’m reminded of the words on a banner in the conference room when I trained in NLP and coaching back in 2008.

How shall we live? How shall we be?

And that’s it isn’t it? Aren’t these questions for us all whether we’ve had cancer or not?

Love

Rebecca x

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