Hi I’m Emma!

My cancer journey began in 2023, and from the moment I heard the words triple-negative breast cancer, my world changed forever. It wasn’t just the diagnosis itself that terrified me, it was everything that came with it: the statistics, the aggressive nature of the disease, the worst-case prognosis that hung in the air like a shadow I couldn’t escape. When doctors talk about survival rates, you cannot help but wonder if you will be on the wrong side of those numbers. Fear moves into your body instantly. It becomes part of you. But the fear was never just about me. My daughter had already lost her father. She had not even fully processed that grief when I had to sit her down and tell her I had cancer. It felt like I was dropping a grenade into what little stability she had left. The thought that she might lose both parents is something no mother should ever have to imagine. The idea that she could grow up without either of us, without that parental safety net, is a pain that is almost impossible to describe. The first time I went through chemotherapy was one of the loneliest experiences of my life. In the beginning, people rally around you. There are messages, flowers, support. But chemo is not a one-day event. It is relentless. It is repetitive. It is sitting in a hospital chair for hours while poison drips into your veins, hoping it destroys the cancer before it destroys too much of you. You lose your hair, your strength, your energy, and sometimes your sense of who you are. There is a particular loneliness in treatment that people do not talk about enough. You are surrounded by medical staff and other patients, yet you feel completely alone inside your own thoughts. 

 I endured surgery. I endured treatment. I endured the fear of every scan. And eventually, I was told the words every cancer patient longs to hear: that there was no evidence of disease. I allowed myself to believe I was cancer free. I allowed myself to breathe again. 

I began living with urgency and gratitude. I started working through my bucket list, travelling, making memories with my daughter, squeezing every drop out of life because I understood how fragile it was. For a moment, I believed I had been given a second chance.

 Then everything changed again. I was told the cancer had returned, and this time it was stage 4. Secondary. Incurable. Treatable, perhaps, but not curable. The difference between stage 3 and stage 4 is not just a number. It is the difference between fighting to survive and managing the knowledge that this disease will one day take you. The future suddenly shrinks. You begin thinking in months rather than years. In February this year, the reality became even more stark. I was told that without treatment, I may have around four months. With chemotherapy, the average might be six to nine months. But averages are just numbers, and no one can tell you exactly where you will fall.

 The chemotherapy offered to me is not a short course. It is lifelong, or until it stops working. The drug, Trodelvy, works well for some people and not for others. Some tolerate it. Some cannot. It feels like Russian roulette, not knowing how my body will respond or how much more I can endure. Initially, I did not want chemotherapy again. I was exhausted from fighting. Exhausted from being brave. Exhausted from the physical and emotional toll it takes. But then I was told something that changed everything — that without treatment, I likely would not make my daughter’s 18th birthday. Her 18th is only a few months away. The thought of not being there for that milestone made my decision for me. I will fight for that day. I do not know how Trodelvy will affect me. I do not know how long it will work. No one does. It is uncertain, unpredictable, and frightening. But what I do know is that I am her mum, and while I am here, I will do everything I can to stay here for as long as possible. This journey has been defined by fear, by loneliness, by moments of hope and moments of devastation. It has forced conversations no family should ever have to have. It has meant watching my daughter carry worries far beyond her years, even though she is still processing the loss of her father. But I am still here. And while I am here, I will keep choosing time.

I braved the shave in the summer of 23 to raise money for MacMillan and we raised £1700 which was incredible!

follow my journey https://www.tiktok.com/@ems65059?_t=8k98p6KohW5&_r=1