There are moments in life that change you forever — the kind of moments that divide everything into “before” and “after.”
For me, that first moment came back in 2013, when I was told I had melanoma. I didn’t know then that it would become a lifelong companion, weaving its way through the years, testing every ounce of strength and spirit I had.
Since that day, cancer and I have been through a long, brutal battle. I’ve endured surgeries, lost organs, sat through endless rounds of treatment, and faced the constant uncertainty that comes with every scan. I’ve been lucky — more than once — to hear the words No Evidence of Disease, and I’ve tried to make every one of those moments count. I’ve stood on mountain summits, raised awareness for Melanoma UK, and shared my story so that others might recognise the signs early enough to make a difference.
But once again, the ground beneath me has shifted.
A couple of weeks ago, I was told that my cancer has reappeared — this time in my small intestine and bowel. It’s hard to describe how that feels. You think you’ve been through the worst of it, that you’ve already fought your biggest fight. You tell yourself that maybe, just maybe, you’ve reached the other side. And then, with a few quiet words from a doctor, you find yourself right back at the beginning. I remember playing a game called “snakes and ladders” in my youth. This time the stakes are way higher!
I’ve had eleven years to get used to living with uncertainty, but somehow, this time feels different. Perhaps it’s because I’ve lost so much along the way. My mum passed away in September 2022, and then my dad followed in April 2024. Losing them both within such a short space of time was devastating — they were my anchors, the people who always believed I could keep going, no matter how hard things got.
When my mum died, I was still finding my way through the aftermath of treatment, trying to rebuild my strength and my sense of purpose. Then, just as I was learning to live with that loss, my dad — my quiet, dependable dad — was gone too. There’s an emptiness that comes from losing your parents that nothing can fill. No mountain summit, no medal, no words of comfort can patch that hole in your heart.
And yet, I know they would both be telling me the same thing right now: keep going. Keep fighting. Keep climbing.
Because that’s what this has always been — a climb. Sometimes steep and punishing, sometimes breathtakingly beautiful. There have been moments when I’ve stood at the top of a peak, whether it was Kilimanjaro or a metaphorical mountain in my own life, and felt Mum and Dad with me — proud, smiling, still guiding me.
This new chapter isn’t one I ever wanted to write. But if the past twelve years have taught me anything, it’s that we don’t get to choose the path — only how we walk it. And I’ll walk this one the same way I always have: with honesty, courage, and gratitude for every single day I’m still able to see the sunrise.
Cancer may have returned, but so has my resolve.
This new chapter will not be easy. There will be more tests, more treatment, and no doubt more moments of fear. But as I’ve done every time before, I’ll face it head-on — with the love of friends and family, and with the same determination that carried me through the darkest days.
I don’t know what lies ahead, but I do know this:
- I’m still here.
- Still fighting.
- Still climbing.
And if my story helps even one person check their skin, get that mole looked at, or catch something early — then every scar, every setback, every sleepless night will have been worth it.
And somewhere, I know Mum, Dad and indeed Norman (my Border Terrier) are still with me — in every step, every breath, and every climb still to come.
Bring it on!!
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