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There is something about the word cancer that changes the air in the room.
Even writing it here feels heavy still.
Before cancer, I thought I understood what mattered. I thought I knew what I valued. I thought I knew how quickly life could change, considering the spinal cord injury my husband had back in 2022, and all the experience that comes with having to resuscitate your husband back to life (literally). I thought I knew how important time was too, me more than most people. I thought I knew how much I loved the people around me.
I was not wrong.
But cancer simply magnifies everything I ever thought I knew. It has sharpened it further, if that’s even possible, stripped away the noise and held it up to the light, asking me to look again – deeper.
Some lessons have arrived gently. Others have arrived like a slammed door.
There has been fear. Copious tears. Grief. Anger. Exhaustion. There have been moments when I felt brave and moments when I’ve felt anything but. I am still learning how to hold the messiness of all that this is – active cancer treatment – chemotherapy right now, then surgery, then radiotherapy, then years of hormone therapy – so I can get to the finish line, whenever that finish line may be.
Yet alongside the hard things, there has been strange moments of clarity.
Cancer has taught me that the ordinary is not ordinary at all. That time is precious. Love is eternal. God is real. And that so much of what once felt urgent was not at all important whatsoever.
And that life, even when it’s frightening and uncertain, is still SO full of beauty.
The things I thought mattered
Before cancer, I’d be completely consumed by details.
The emails. The deadlines. The Teams calls. The laundry. The unanswered messages. Things I thought I should be doing.
I am a mum. I am a successful business owner. I am a woman who carries a lot. Like so many of us, I’ve spent years trying to keep everything moving. And if I am honest, I often believed that keeping everything moving was the same thing as living well.
Cancer makes me question that.
The things I used to rush towards do not seem urgent now. Some of the things I once carried like enormous weights have become surprisingly light and easy.
Does this really need to happen today?
Will this matter in a week?
Am I doing this from love, or from fear, guilt and the pressure to be everything to everyone?
Those questions have become a kind of compass.
I still have responsibilities. I still have messy days, unfinished jobs and moments when I lose my patience. Cancer has not turned me into someone who floats peacefully through every morning with a cup of hot tea and perfect outlook.
There is still chaos. There is still the occasional for goodness’ sake when something spills.
But I am learning to let most things be unfinished.
I am learning that my worth is not measured by how much I complete.
Time is not waiting for us
I used to think of time as something I had plenty of.
There would be time later!
Later to rest. Later to call someone. Later to say the thing I really wanted to say. Later to make the memories, take the photographs, sit in the garden or simply be still.
Cancer has made “later” feel much less certain.
I do not mean this in a way that encourages panic or pressure. We cannot live every day as if we must accomplish everything before bedtime. That is just another form of exhaustion, and most of us are already carrying enough.
For me, it’s more about presence.
It’s about noticing the day I am actually in, rather than constantly reaching for the next one.
The future still matters. I still make plans. I still have hope. But I am less willing to miss the present while waiting for life to become easier, tidier or more convenient.
Time is not just the big holidays or milestone birthdays. It is – in equal measure – the five-minute conversation at the school gates. The little hand held in the car. The message sent because someone crossed my mind. The ordinary Tuesday evening that I might once have hurried through on my laptop, writing this blog believe it or not.
My day in front of me is not a placeholder.
It is my life.
The small things are the big things
I used to believe that happiness would be obvious, like it would arrive with good news, a beautiful view, a fun project or a perfectly planned day out.
Now, I find it in much smaller places.
A warm drink.
Fresh sheets.
The sound of my boys laughing in the lounge.
A hand resting on my shoulder.
Sunlight on the wall.
A message from a friend who does not need me to explain everything.
These things are not small to me anymore.
They are the fabric of my life.
Cancer is forcing me to notice moments that I’m usually tempted to overlook, but these are the moments I will, one day ache to remember. The morning cuddles. The familiar voices. The ordinary. The cups of tea. The jokes that are not even that funny but make us laugh anyway.
Seemingly insignificant moments are carrying us all.
They always were. I just didn’t always have the stillness to see them.
This is one reason I have become more protective of my quiet. More grateful for slowness even more than ever before. More willing to put my phone down instead of disappearing into doom scrolling.
Not every moment needs to be productive.
Some moments are simply meant to be felt.
Love is eternal
Love has always mattered hugely to me. I’ve always known that.
But cancer makes love feel bigger still.
It’s in the people who show up. The people who stay. The people who send a message, drop off a meal, sit in my uncomfortable silence or offer practical help without making me feel like a burden.
It’s in the people who let me be frightened without rushing to make me strong.
It’s in the fierce love I feel for my boys. A sort of love that can break your heart simply because it is just so enormous.
And it’s in friendship. In kindness. In the unexpected tenderness of people who likely don’t know exactly what to say but reach out anyway.
Cancer has reminded me not to ration love.
Not to wait for the perfect moment to say:
I love you.
Thank you.
I miss you.
You matter to me.
Why do we hold these words back? Why do we assume there will always be another time?
Love is not made smaller by being spoken. It grows. It moves between us. It leaves traces and it becomes part of who we are.
I believe that is what I mean when I say love is eternal. Love does not disappear just because circumstances change. It continues, in memory, in the way we care, in the values we pass on, in the people we become because someone loved us.
Love remains, always.
I am feeling all of it
One of the hardest lessons has been accepting that gratitude and fear exists in my body at the same time. I can feel thankful yet overwhelmed.
Hopeful and heartbroken.
Strong and utterly, totally exhausted.
I can appreciate the beauty of my life while still mourning what cancer has changed in it.
There is no prize for pretending this is easy. It’s really not easy. It’s really hard – so hard I can’t quite put it into words.
But I don’t need to turn every hard experience into a lesson. I do not need to find a silver lining before I am ready. Some days are simply, really f*cking hard. Period.
If you are carrying something hard too, I hope you know this: you are allowed to have complicated, messed up to the max, feelings. You are allowed to soften too and be kind to yourself. You need to rest. You need to be cared for.
You do not have to perform bravery every minute.
Sometimes bravery looks like getting through the day. Sometimes it looks like asking for help. Sometimes it looks like saying, I cannot do this alone.
That is not weakness.
Living more truthfully
Cancer has made me want to live with fewer masks. To be more honest about what I need. To stop editing myself so heavily for other people’s comfort.
To spend more time with the people who feel safe, kind and real, making space for the work that matters to me and the words I am here to share.
It has also made me more aware of how many women are quietly carrying impossible loads. The mum who’s holding everyone else together. The woman who is working through burnout. The friend who says she’s fine because she does not know how to explain that she isn’t.
I see us differently now.
With more tenderness.
We are not machines. We are not here merely to achieve, organise, provide and cope. We are living, feeling people. We need care too.
If you’ve been waiting for permission to slow down, choose differently or put something important back on your list, perhaps this is it.
Not because you have to become a completely new person. But because your life deserves your attention now.
You can read more about making space for yourself in The Art of Softening, and if you are feeling behind in life, please visit You Are Not Behind. Both hold reminders I have needed to return to myself.
A gentle reflection for you
You may, like me, be facing fear, grief, burnout, illness, uncertainty or a season that has simply become too much. Whatever brought you here, take a gentle moment.
Ask yourself:
- What am I treating as urgent that may not truly be important?
- Who do I need to tell that I love them?
- Which ordinary moment deserves more of my attention?
- Where am I postponing rest, joy or connection?
- What would it mean to live this week a little more truthfully?
- What can I release, even temporarily?
One honest conversation. One quiet cup of tea. One boundary. One afternoon spent properly present with the people you love (minus your phone)
Summary: what cancer taught me (so far…)
Cancer has not given me all the answers. I am still learning, and wobbling. Still having days when perspective disappears beneath chemo tiredness and worry.
But so far, it’s taught me this:
- Time is precious, but I do not need to spend it in a constant state of panic.
- The small things are the big things: the ordinary moments are where life is actually happening.
- Love is eternal. It should be spoken, shown and received without waiting for the perfect time.
- What once felt important may not be important anymore, and I am allowed to change my priorities.
- Every feeling is allowed. Gratitude does not cancel fear, and hope does not erase pain.
- I am more than what I produce or manage.
- Presence is a gift I can offer myself and the people I love.
- Life is still beautiful, even when it’s messy, uncertain and scary.
Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading my words and making space for this part of my story.
With love, courage and a very soft heart,
Sophie
You are enough, exactly as you are.
