A weirdly beautiful thing about having cancer
Everything gets very simple, very fast.
An audio version of this post, narrated by me, is available here:
When you’re seriously ill, life becomes very simple. You sleep, eat, drink – if and when you can – and undergo the medical procedures that keep you alive. You lean into the support around you without question or guilt. You do what you're told, by the experts and by the people who love you. Your days revolve entirely around your illness and your people… and that becomes the whole of your world.
There’s a peace in that. It’s strangely beautiful to have the noise of everyday life stripped back to the bare essentials: survival, love, hope.
When you feel so ill that even a year after your diagnosis, you still struggle to find words for it – even though finding words is your actual job – and the memory alone can make you cry, then everyday worries lose all meaning. The anxieties that once kept you up at night fade like sun-bleached photographs. All your energy goes into getting through the next moment, the next day, the next night. In showing how much you love and how much you hope. Nothing more.
The guilt that gnawed at you. The shame. The regrets over chances not taken or moments not savoured. That constant, nagging feeling that you’re not doing enough, not feeling enough, that you are, in fact, not enough – all of it gone, as though you’ve shrugged off a heavy coat. Trust is all that’s left. Trust in the system, the medicine, your people, your body. It is entirely mindful. You are present in every breath.
It’s fucking beautiful.
By the time I was diagnosed with Stage 3 colon cancer in March 2024, just weeks after giving birth to our son, Billy, I was already very ill. So ill that surrendering all agency and allowing myself to be looked after wasn’t a choice – and there was peace in that, too. In letting go of any reluctance to ask for help. In trusting that people genuinely wanted to. In hearing loved ones pottering outside the bedroom door, making sure that everything I couldn't do, but that still needed doing, got done.
Now, post getting the all-clear and while trying to re-establish ‘real life’, I keep thinking how strange it is to have found so much peace in such trauma. My cancer therapist reassures me that it’s normal – that many cancer patients find calm in the chaos. And it makes sense. When else are you truly allowed to just… stop? To ignore the endless to-do lists and demands of modern life? To stop caring about petty upsets or embarrassments? To stop deep-diving into the bombardment of terrible global news? When else is your daily existence solely concerned with being fed, watered, cleaned, and loved – with no guilt or shame attached to such selfishness or vulnerability? It’s like being a child again.
How did we reach a point where only a brush with death feels like a proper break?
As I’ve written before, it’s hard to keep insecurities from creeping back once you start feeling better. We are who we are, after all. We like to believe big events should always be transformative, making us ‘better’ people. Yet, more often than not, they’re just part of the story – experiences that leave their mark, but don’t fundamentally change us. And that’s okay.
But more simplicity – that’s something I can aim for. No, I’m not about to drop everything to live in the woods or try #vanlife (*shudder* – have you met me?), but I can streamline. Let go of tasks I once believed essential but which clearly weren’t. (Hell, I didn’t do them for a year and survived.) (That was a cancer joke!) I can get better at asking for help. Accept kindnesses with less guilt. I can try to focus on the present moment. On what brings me joy, not unease. I can invest in things that make life easier (like a co-working space and HelloFresh) while getting rid of things that don’t (Duolingo streaks). I can Marie Kondo all of the possessions that no longer serve me. I can be gentle with my body and protective of my time.
Often, it’s just a matter of remembering to do so, though, amid all of the hustle and noise.
Just One More Thing
I realise how lucky I was to be able to sink into survival mode when I was ill. I had people to care for me and lift the burden of everyday life from my shoulders. I know many others don’t. I know that even while battling extreme illnesses, many still juggle huge responsibilities – or feel deep anxiety about not being able to. I am beyond grateful that I was able to focus solely on taking my next breath. Those of you who have to do it alone are incredible and have my utmost admiration. I hope, within the chaos, you can find moments of peace, too.
*Exceedingly modest reminder that I have written eight bestselling mental-health books which have been translated into dozens of languages. I’ve also written a book about the TV show Friends which would make a delightful gift for any Friends obsessives. All are available to buy online or at your local bookshop.
Beautifully said. I had a bit of a thing about 15 years ago (f*** how am I that old?) and I came out of it with these kinds of realisations. It took a long time, but I fell back into the rat race and sweating the small stuff; you have reminded me to go back to that understanding about how unimportant certain minutiae are.
I feel like this is such a weird thing for me to say, but I love reading about your cancer journey. I lost my dad to cancer when I was young, and feel like your sharing of the experience gives me an insight into what he might have been thinking and feeling – I hope he found peace in the surrender like you did. (I also love knowing that you survived, and that the science has come so far!)