The last nine months have been a rollercoaster of emotions and some of the hardest and most transformative of my life.
Since being diagnosed with invasive triple-negative breast and lymph node cancer, my weeks have been shaped by chemotherapy and immunotherapy treatments, scans, blood tests, and, more recently, surgery.
And then, last Thursday, something incredible happened. I received the call every patient longs to hear: “Your margins are clear.”
No further surgery. Just a short course of radiotherapy as a preventative measure.
That news felt like winning the cosmic lottery of life. Relief, gratitude, and joy came rushing through me all at once. I felt a tear, not because I was sad, but because I was awake.
How I look has changed, and how I feel has definitely changed too.
My very long blonde hair is gone; in its place is soft, silver-grey stubble. But somehow, it feels more me than ever — as though everything unnecessary has fallen away, leaving only truth behind.
Life feels different now. It’s as though I’m living in technicolour, everything seems brighter, deeper, more beautiful than ever before. I see the beauty in everything and everyone, and I wake up each morning with a full heart, grateful for another day overflowing with opportunities and love.
Because when you’ve faced your own mortality, even the simplest things become sacred.
A cup of tea in bed.
A walk in the rain.
A chat that makes you belly laugh.
A bubble bath after months of not being able to due to PICC lines and wounds.
Things I once took for granted now feel like miracles.
From Fear to Faith
When I was first diagnosed, I felt shock more than fear. Then came disbelief, followed by a strange sense of calm — the kind that only arrives when you realise you have no choice but to surrender.
And that’s when something shifted.
I’d spent years teaching others how to find calm through hypnotherapy, mindfulness, and self-awareness. I’d studied nutrition, spirituality, and psychology, written books about presence and parenting, and guided hundreds of families through chaos and change.
But suddenly, all of that wasn’t theory anymore — it was practice.
This was the test life had been quietly preparing me for.
Every mantra I’d ever taught my clients — “breathe through it,” “trust the process,” “focus on what you can control” — became my lifeline.
Faith wasn’t just a word anymore. It was an act.
And here’s what I’ve learned:
Healing didn’t make me fearless. It made me faithful.
Faith doesn’t mean pretending everything’s fine. It means trusting that even when it isn’t, you will be.
Enlightenment in the Everyday
People sometimes imagine enlightenment as this radiant, untouchable state of bliss while sitting cross-legged on a mountaintop, glowing with wisdom.
For me, it looked more like sitting in a hospital chair with a cannula in my arm, smiling at the nurse who’d seen me every Friday for months, and realising how connected we all are and how much kindness exists in quiet places.
Enlightenment isn’t an escape from life — it’s falling in love with it again.
It’s not about rising above pain; it’s about softening into it.
It’s what happens when fear strips you bare and you realise you were never really in control but somehow, you’re still okay.
Enlightenment feels like light filtering through a crack in a dark room — it doesn’t erase the darkness, but it changes how you see everything in it.
It feels like a homecoming but not to the person you were, but to the soul you’ve always been.
Living in Technicolour
There’s a vibrancy to life after cancer that’s hard to describe.
Colours seem brighter. Music sounds richer. Even silence has its own symphony.
One morning, I remember standing at the kitchen sink, washing a cup, and watching sunlight hit the bubbles in the water. For a moment, I just stood there mesmerised by the tiny rainbows swirling across the surface.
That’s what enlightenment feels like: the ordinary made Spiritual.
Gratitude has taken on new meaning.
It’s no longer a list I make in my head before bed, it’s a constant hum beneath my day.
Gratitude is no longer a practice; it’s the pulse of my day.
Every smile from a stranger, every deep breath of fresh air, every giggle from my granddaughter feels like grace.
When you live in the present moment — truly live there — everything becomes precious.
The Bubble Bath Epiphany
After months of treatment, there were so many things I couldn’t do. Lifting my arms above my head or immersing my body in water, wearing creams, lotions, deoderant's, perfumes and cosmetics were some of them. So, bubble baths, once my nightly ritual became impossible.
The first evening I could finally lower myself back into that familiar warmth, I cried.
Not from sadness, but from gratitude.
I noticed the soft scent of lavender bubbles, the candlelight flickering against the tiles, the sound of water lapping gently against my skin. It felt like a sacred ceremony, a baptism back into my own life.
And as I lay there, something clicked.
I realised that enlightenment isn’t always found in meditation or mountains or books, sometimes, it’s found right there, in the simplest human pleasure you once overlooked.
Even a bubble bath can be an answered prayer when you’ve missed it enough.
What Enlightenment Feels Like
So, what does enlightenment feel like to me now?
It feels like clarity — sharp, simple truth.
It feels like presence — no past, no future, just now.
It feels like love — the kind that doesn’t need a reason or a condition.
It feels like alignment - I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be with those people I'm meant to share life with.
It feels like the divine whispering through the small things:
You’re still here.
You’re still loved.
You’re still enough.
Enlightenment isn’t about perfection; it’s about peace.
It’s about trusting that even in uncertainty, something bigger is guiding you.
Sometimes I call that presence Lady Love — my Universal Godmother. She’s been with me all along, quietly nudging me toward trust, reminding me that faith is not in the outcome but in the journey.
She doesn’t promise me an easy road — she promises me meaning, growth, and grace.
And every time I choose to see beauty in the mess, I feel her smile.
When Everything Falls Away
Illness takes things from you.
Your energy. Your plans. Your hair.
But it also gives you something in return — clarity.
When everything non-essential falls away, what’s left is love.
Love from family, friends, nurses, strangers.
Love in the messages, meals, prayers, and laughter that keep you going.
There’s a humility that comes with it, a realisation that life doesn’t owe us anything, and yet it gives us everything.
You stop trying to fix or chase or prove. You start simply being.
And in that being, you find peace.
This experience has made me softer, stronger, and infinitely more awake.
It’s stripped me down to what’s real, alignment, peace, presence, faith, and gratitude.
I no longer see enlightenment as an end goal; it’s a way of living — one breath, one heartbeat, one sacred, ordinary moment at a time.
Gratitude, Grace & Growth
The last nine months have taught me more than any book or qualification ever could.
They’ve taught me that strength isn’t about how much you can endure, it’s about how open you can stay while you endure it.
They’ve taught me that surrender isn’t weakness — it’s wisdom.
And they’ve reminded me that even in darkness, there’s beauty, not despite the cracks, but because of them.
So here’s what I know for sure:
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Life is fleeting.
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Love is everything.
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And presence is the most powerful prayer there is.
Sometimes the Universe has to strip away everything that’s not you, the noise, the expectations, the endless doing — so you can meet the truth of who you are.
That truth isn’t shiny or perfect. It’s raw, real, and radiant.
It’s you, alive, awake, and thankful.
I still have radiotherapy ahead, but I no longer see it as something to fear. It’s part of the healing, part of the journey, part of the unfolding.
And as I move through it, I’ll keep noticing the light, even through the cracks.
Because that’s what enlightenment really is, its not escaping life, but embracing it fully, beautifully, and gratefully.
Here’s to healing.
Here’s to hope.
Here’s to life — in full colour.
Em x
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