Tomorrow marks fifteen years since my cancer diagnosis. Fifteen years since the shattering moment of clarity which recalibrated and reconfigured my life. Fifteen years since I learned the golden secret of mortality, the incredible present-ness which that imbues, and the weight of the knowledge that all we have is this beautiful, technicolour moment. Fifteen years of living with gratitude and joy, and sometimes fear and anxiety. The cancer bag may not always be heavy, but I carry it still, alongside my scars.
It has been a lifetime since I had my breast amputated. My children, then 3 and 6 have grown into incredible young adults who teach me daily. It is more than I could ever have hoped for. I cannot deny that for many years, possibly a decade, I lived counting forwards from their ages at my diagnosis, hoping and praying for more time with them. How would it feel to survive for five years? They would be 8 and 11. Not enough time. How about ten long years? 13 and 16. Not enough time. The truth of this one, beautiful life, is that there is Not Enough Time, so spend your minutes wisely.
I remember clearly, sitting in the oncologist's office, already rejecting the 3-5% chance of chemotherapy improving my 5 year survival. I knew that I would choose my own path. My strength and focus amazed me. Overnight I gave up gluten dairy, caffeine, alcohol and sugar. I understood something fundamental: I desired to live. I told myself that if my healing protocol got me to five years, it could get me to ten. And if I made it to ten, I could survive to 15. And here I am. 55 years old. Alive. Living.
It took me years to get back my pre-diagnosis weight. Weight is hard to bank when eating a clean, nutritious diet. It also took me many years to drop the fear around cancer, to trust my body, to stop blaming myself for my descent into ill-health. To stop wondering what was bubbling beneath the surface. Even though I now understand that those were years wasted, sometimes those fears return, whispering with the language of 'not good enough' to remind me to meditate, move my body, believe in the power of healing, to stop trying so hard. To Let Go.
I stopped working as an illustrator shortly after my diagnosis. Tight deadlines became faintly ridiculous with the knowledge that I was going to die. Not yet, but at some point. I steadfastly set my sail for a new destination, truly living, seizing joy. My move from London to Lewes to home educate my children remains one of the most joyful, honest and humbling experiences of my life. It reset my trajectory still further to living daily with integrity.
My life since breast cancer has been beautiful, challenging, privileged, painful. My marriage to my best friend ended. There have been countless deaths of souls I connected deeply with in the cancer world. I have learned what it is to grieve. I recommend it. Grief speaks of love which no longer has anywhere to go. Grief speaks of gratitude: to witness another sunrise, to sit around a fire with community, to baptise ourselves in the sea, to see the horizon, to connect to what is real and meaningful to us as human beings and to advocate for others. Grief is loss and it is also the potential catalyst for incredible growth.
My sweet, dead, unruly, too-big-for-this-world dog still makes me cry with longing for the life he showed me was possible. A life fully embodied, love unconditional, foraging in nature, waterproof. Our passion pathways persist and I revisit them with reverence. He showed me real connection and I am grateful for his short but meaningful companionship.
As many of you know, I now work as a naturopath. My path to this incredible job was nothing short of miraculous, as are the clients I work with, who largely have cancer and are open to the golden lessons of this chronic, metabolic dis-ease. Their unique work underpins my own belief that, given what it needs, the body heals. Eschewing a synthetic life for one of integrity, learning the language of the body, respecting stress with awareness, eating well and supporting systemic detoxification will allow us to stay longer on this mortal coil with vitality.
Over the last fifteen years I have breathed. I have allowed my outside world to inform my inner terrain. I have tasted food, life, love and recalibrated friendship in ways which are truly fulfilling. I have travelled with curiosity, respect and gratitude. I have sobbed and shed versions of myself which no longer served me. I have belly-laughed, danced, made medicine and experienced weekly life-saving sea swimming with a tribe of women to whom I remain eternally grateful. I have explored, opened and surrendered. I believe (deeply) that we are here to gather information, to grow and to play. If we are lucky, life changing diagnoses offer us this opportunity.
I do not consider myself cured. Cancer is a powerful teacher. She may yet return if I do not respect my physical, emotional, mental and spiritual bodies. If I veer to far from my path she may have more to teach. But she has shown me that if fear is the enemy, love is our ally. Even beyond health, love is the answer.
Here is to me, and to you. Particularly if you understand the profound lessons of cancer, be it in your own body, or in the body of a loved one. Cancer is a symptom of toxicity and deficiency. What lessons has cancer come to bestow upon you? How can you actively become part of your body's intricate and exquisite feedback loops so that you can support balance and heal? Where is your joy? We do not strive to reverse chronic disease only to survive: we owe it to ourselves to thrive.
