23 - Breast cancer has joined the conversation

Writing a blog is different these days. My newly turned 1-year-old is ramming his walker into my legs and shouting at me (it sounds like 'BA BA BA', but he seems very passionate about it, so I assume there's a deeper meaning). I've also just caught him eating mud, which he surprisingly enjoyed so he went back for seconds. I'm in the full throes of motherhood, and this opening paragraph has taken me 35 minutes to write.

Anyway, what are the chances this update comes in January? It seems this month has, and still does, hold significance.

• January '24 - Announcing what life was like after mum died (blog 21)

• January '25 - Announcing the birth of my miracle boy, conceived through PGD (blog 22)

• January '26 - Announcing my brand-new cancer diagnosis (yep, surprise!)

I’m quite disappointed that I’m writing a blog with the key headline being ‘cancer’. Almost as if it’s the main event of the last 12 months, and everything else carries less weight. In reality, my year was shaped by watching Jax grow, and it doesn’t really get any better than that. We’ve made some incredible memories as a family, travelling to Italy, Tenerife, Cyprus and Poland, with more trips in the pipeline. These moments, and watching how he changes over time, are what define the last 12 months for me, not cancer.

Anyway, with all that said, let’s talk about cancer. My official diagnosis is Invasive Breast Cancer, HER-2 positive. I have three tumours in my right breast, with lymph node involvement in my right axilla. On the downside, HER-2 positive breast cancers tend to be more aggressive than other types, which may explain why it has already spread beyond the breast and into my right axilla. On the upside, this type of breast cancer responds well to modern treatment and comes with significant survival benefits. The plan is to start treatment urgently, to hopefully stop it spreading further. This includes 5 months of chemotherapy and 12 months of targeted HER-2 treatment. After chemotherapy, I’ll have breast surgery, followed by further surgery to remove the affected lymph nodes.

Those are the facts so far. I have an appointment with my oncologist this week, where I’ll learn the finer details, including the exact treatment regimen and start date. For now, though, I want to write about the 2 questions I get asked most:

-       How did you find out?

-       How are you? 

How I found out

I first noticed a lump in my right boob in September '25, but because I was still breastfeeding Jax, I assumed it was milk-duct related. It wasn’t until November '25 that I booked an appointment with my GP, after I noticed another lump in my right armpit. Still, I wasn’t concerned. Probably mastitis, I told myself.

I was referred to the breast care clinic and seen on 22nd December. Even then, I wasn’t worried. If breastfeeding wasn’t the cause, I’d had 2 cysts in the past, so I assumed it was history repeating itself. Just FYI, I named my previous cysts 'Snowy' because they were both joined and looked like a little snowman. How cute.

It’s definitely not cancer, I kept thinking. Cancer doesn’t even run in my family! We all know dementia is in my genes, that's literally why you're reading this blog. I don’t know a single person in my bloodline who’s had a breast cancer diagnosis, so I assumed it wouldn’t happen to me (naïve really, given it affects 1 in 8 women!). Anyway, they told me there and then, on 22nd December, that it was cancer, and it felt like I'd been full-on walloped in the face. Merry Christmas, Jess!

How I’m feeling

Side note, this is why I blog, it’s my therapy. Putting my emotions into words helps in a way nothing else can match. Naming my feelings, analysing the highs and lows of my emotional journey, and trying to understand why I feel the way I do gives me a real sense of clarity. Honestly, if something is sitting on your mind, pick up a pen (or your laptop, I suppose it is 2026).

Back to how I’m feeling. The last four weeks have taken me through more emotions than I can neatly summarise, but the overall headline is this: I’m actually alright. Living with dementia in my world, losing my mum, and sitting with questions about my own future have already shaped me in ways I didn’t fully appreciate until now. Somewhere along the way, I learned what resilience looks like. I knew I was strong, but now, in a situation I never imagined I’d be in, I’m quietly grateful for my outlook on life (quietly? I’m writing a blog about it FFS).

Also, I’ve only just realised I’m okay. I’ve categorised my emotional journey into 4 stages:

1. The ‘just been told’ stage

This was the walloping I mentioned earlier. A proper sucker punch. I remember leaving the breast care clinic and retching in the car park. I was alone (obviously… it definitely wasn’t cancer!) which meant I had the awful job of driving myself home. Trying to drive while having a panic attack felt like a real-life version of the first time I played Ridge Racer. No control at all, pure chaos. Am I showing my age with that reference?

For the first few days, this feeling didn’t shift. I was still in shock, and trying to rationalise my feelings was out of the question.

2. The ‘how society tells you to feel’ stage

I’ve already mentioned that I didn’t know of any relatives who had received a cancer diagnosis, but it didn’t stop there. I didn’t know anyone. I’d always felt lucky that cancer was a disease I’d never had to experience, even within my wider circles.

The problem, though, was that I’m a firm believer in ‘knowledge is power’, yet I was, and still am, relatively uneducated on the matter. When the initial shock wore off, I began my ‘breast cancer for dummies’ self-taught course. I followed my golden rule, only researching credible sources, and soaked everything up like a sponge.

A lot of what I read was written with care and compassion. I was met with sentences such as:

• It is common to start to struggle with your mental health

• It can feel like grief for the plans you had for your life, or what you thought your life would be

• You might experience disbelief and ask, why me?

All of it was well-intentioned, and I understand why those words exist. They’re meant to reassure, to normalise, to let you know you’re not alone. But somewhere along the way, I started to assume that this was how I should be feeling. That I should be asking why me? That I should be grieving the life I thought I’d have. That I should feel a deep sense of loss for plans that now felt uncertain. I began to believe this was the correct emotional response, whether it matched how I actually felt or not.

3. The ‘how family and friends tell you to feel’ stage

One thing I’m very grateful for is the support network I have around me. I had a lot of family and friends to tell, and despite everything I’ve already been through medically, this was the hardest part by far. For context, within a short space of time, I had a PET-CT scan, MRI scan, blood tests, biopsies and more. All of it felt completely manageable. Telling my own dad I had cancer? Emotional, uncomfortable, and I hated every second of it.

Again, and as expected, I was met with real compassion and support from my loved ones. I was told:

• You poor thing, you never get a break.

• Why you? You’ve already had your fair share of bad luck.

• You have a young baby, this is heartbreaking.

None of it was wrong. It all came from a good place. But much like the research I’d been reading, those words carried a message about how I should be feeling. If the people who loved me most were framing this as tragic, unfair and devastating, then surely that was the correct emotional response?

Then I realised, there was one sentence my loved ones always ended with:

• I’ve never met anyone stronger. If anyone can handle this, it’s you.

And oddly, that one landed differently. Not because it made me feel pressure to be strong, but because it made me stop and check in with myself. I realised I wasn’t trying to be brave or resilient. I just… was. That was the first time I started to question whether the emotional scripts I’d been handed actually matched my experience at all.

4. The ‘how I actually feel’ stage

I only really processed what I’d been told once the initial shock had passed and I’d told my family and friends. That was the point I could finally take a breath and listen to what my emotions were telling me.

What is wrong with me? I thought initially. I genuinely told my husband I wanted to go back to therapy because I felt my response to this news wasn’t normal. I realised it didn’t match the script I had been given. I didn’t feel devastated. It didn’t feel like the start of a mental health decline. I felt… positive? Before you think I’m a psycho, I'll explain why.

Let’s start with the question why me?. Honestly, my response to that is why not me?. Cancer isn’t personal, it doesn’t pick and choose who it targets, and I don’t see myself as ‘unlucky’. If I was, I wouldn’t have Jax. I wouldn’t have a cracking husband, a home and step-kids I love, or a business I’m proud of. My whole life is mainly just one big ball of loveliness. Why would this one diagnosis make me unlucky? It doesn’t.

Then it got me thinking about ‘suffering’ in a bigger sense, and I think I just handle suffering well. I assume it comes from living around uncertainty for so long. Maybe life has already taught me that things can change without warning. Maybe I expect the unexpected, and therefore suffering doesn’t feel like an overwhelming blow when I face it?

Even I questioned my own positivity when I found myself excited for an upcoming appointment though… Was I not taking this seriously? I quickly batted that away and realised this is just how I’m wired. I like understanding what I’m up against. I need context, structure, and facts. So, I treated it the same way I treat most hard things in my life, like a project. Learn everything. Work out what’s within my control and what isn’t. Then crack on. If upcoming appointments give me clarity, why wouldn’t I look forward to them?

Of course, chemo is still to come, and emotionally that’s the part that challenges me most. I’m not under any illusion about it. I’ll likely feel awful at times. I’ll lose my hair. My skin, nails, and body will change, and there will be moments when I don’t recognise myself. Chemo, though, is also the thing that gives me a chance and might allow me to watch my baby grow. So yes, it’s hard, but it’s also worth it.

I’m curious about what I’ll learn about myself along the way, too. I know I’ll need to practice patience, ask for help and be kinder to myself than what I’m used to. I’ll have to feel okay in a body that might not look like mine for a while. If something this difficult can also change me for the better, then maybe that’s not such a terrible thing?

And not to brag, but I know I’m an hard-case. I’m going into this the same way I’ve gone into other hard things. Laser hair removal? Fine. IVF? Handled. A C-section and recovery? Done. Breastfeeding? Completely manageable. Maybe chemo will humble me entirely, but I’d rather walk into it believing I can cope, than convincing myself I can’t.

I’m not saying my diagnosis is a ‘challenge’ or a ‘game’. I know this is serious, and I know the next 12 months will be hard. I also know that everyone experiences this differently, and none of those responses are wrong. This just happens to be mine. Breast cancer is the card I’ve been dealt. It’s not one I wanted, obviously, but one that now exists. Why not go into it positively?

Besides, because this is how my brain works, I’ve also found myself noticing a few unexpected #cancerperks…

• At my last hair appointment, I cancelled my upcoming bookings (no hair, no need). Normally, I have a cuppa and a biscuit. After telling my hairdresser the news, I got a cuppa, 2 free biscuits and a little chocolate.

• I’ve always wondered what shape my head is under all this hair. I’ll soon find out.

• I have Critical Illness Cover… hello new downstairs floor.

• If I do need a mastectomy, I’ll be able to wear backless dresses.

I’m sure my feelings will shift as this unfolds, and I’m open to that. I know there will be days where this feels heavier, scarier, and harder to hold. But today, this is my truth. Honesty has never been the easiest thing to write, but it’s always been the point of this blog. If I’m going to write about this next chapter at all, it must be written the same way.

P.S. Do I need to change the name of my blog? (I’m kidding… I think.)