For most of my career, I’ve used my voice to help people understand their bodies. As a GP, my instinct has always been to reassure, to explain, to empower. I believe deeply in prevention, early action, and in listening carefully to what patients tell you, especially when symptoms don’t neatly fit a textbook description.
What I hadn’t understood, until recently, is how different everything feels when the body you’re trying to understand is your own.
Six months ago, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
I want to say straight away that I’m doing well. I had surgery, followed by further treatment, which I’ve now completed, and I’m healing. But hearing that diagnosis dismantled a sense of safety I didn’t even realise I relied on. Not the safety of daily life continuing, but the belief that if you are health-aware, medically literate and proactive, serious illness is less likely to happen to you. That belief fell away instantly.
What came first was shock, followed by a fear that felt physical, almost cellular. I was sitting in a consultation room, hearing words I’d said to countless patients myself. But this time, they landed differently. Plans became tentative. The future felt conditional. The assumption that my body was fundamentally reliable was suddenly gone.
As a doctor, I’m trained to stay calm, to assess risk, and to hold uncertainty for other people. I’m used to explaining probabilities, outlining next steps, and offering reassurance when someone is frightened. But when it was my own body, knowledge didn’t protect me in the way I had quietly assumed it might. That experience taught me something fundamental: there is a difference between understanding illness and living inside it.
My story didn’t begin with something obvious. There was no dramatic symptom or clear warning sign. Instead, there was a persistent, unfamiliar discomfort around my chest and into my armpit. It wasn’t painful. It didn’t stop me from doing anything. But it was new, and it didn’t go away. It was the persistence, rather than the severity, that mattered.
Alongside that physical sensation was a quieter awareness that something wasn’t right. That instinct mattered.
I didn’t ignore it, and I didn’t panic. I paid attention. When it didn’t resolve, I went to see my GP. She listened, took my concerns seriously, and acted. I was referred to the breast clinic on the NHS urgent cancer pathway. Investigations followed, and the cancer was found. My whole world as I knew it changed in an instant.
The months that followed were demanding, both physically and mentally. Treatment does what it needs to do, but it also takes something from you – energy, confidence, and the sense of being fully at ease in your own body. What surprised me most was how much of the experience existed outside hospital walls. The waiting. The anticipation. The long spaces between appointments where your mind fills the gaps. It’s horrible.
In those periods, life still carried on. It had to. The days were taken up with ordinary routines and responsibilities. But everything felt muted, as though I was moving through each week with a thin layer of fog between me and the world.
What made the biggest difference was how I was held by the people around me. My GP, who listened carefully and acted without hesitation and the breast care team, who explained things clearly and treated me as a person, not a problem to solve. Friends and family who showed up in quiet, practical ways. And moments where I was allowed to say, out loud, that this was hard — without needing to be brave, upbeat or endlessly positive.
That compassion matters even more when you have young children. Illness doesn’t pause family life. School runs still happen. Meals still need cooking. Bedtime stories still matter. You don’t have the luxury of falling apart, even when part of you wants to. Much of the emotional processing happens quietly.
Keeping life familiar became unexpectedly grounding. Sitting together on the sofa in the evenings. Walking to school. Making packed lunches. Doing ordinary things. Those moments anchored me, reminding me that life was still happening alongside illness.
I was careful about how much I shared with my children. I waited until I had answers and until I could speak without a shaky voice. When adults express fear, it can easily transfer to children, so I kept explanations simple, honest and reassuring. I focused on what would stay the same, rather than what might change.
One of the biggest lessons I’ve taken from this experience is how incomplete our understanding of recovery often is. From the outside, finishing treatment can look like closure. But the body may recover faster than the mind. There is an adjustment period and a need to rebuild trust in your health.
That loss of trust surprised me. I hadn’t anticipated how unsettling it would feel to question something that had always seemed dependable. Relearning confidence in your health, your resilience and your future takes time. Healing is not linear. It is layered, personal and ongoing.
Early action changed the course of my story. If there is one message I hope people take from my experience, it is this: you are your body’s greatest advocate. This isn’t about living in fear or scrutinising every sensation. It’s about noticing change. About staying connected to your body. About giving yourself permission to act when something feels persistently different.
Many people find it hard to advocate for themselves in a doctor’s surgery. If a symptom persists, say so. Describe how it has changed for you. Ask what the doctor’s plan is. My consultant told me that just a few months can change a person’s outcome. I’ve held onto that not in fear, but as a reminder of the quiet power of listening to your body early.
Being on the other side of the consultation table has deepened my understanding of medicine in ways I couldn’t have imagined. It has sharpened my empathy and reminded me that health is not just clinical – it is emotional, relational and profoundly human.
I’m still healing. Still learning. But if sharing this helps someone trust themselves a little more, then it feels like a continuation of the work I’ve always believed in. Because beyond every role we play — doctor, parent, professional — our health underpins everything. And it deserves our attention, our patience and our care.
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