Liz.

Everything happens for a reason.

That’s what people say, right? When you find yourself struggling. When things fall apart. When you feel like you’ve hit a brick wall with no idea how to climb over it.

But sometimes, that phrase lands differently. Sometimes it’s not about the struggle at all.

It’s about you finally finding your way. When you meet someone who changes you. When life gently nudges you towards something – or someone – that matters.

Everything happens for a reason.

Which is, I suppose, why I ended up working in the bank.

You already know the story – or at least the short, not-so-sweet, sanitised version. I couldn’t find a job, landed one in banking, was moved across three branches in eleven months, was good with customers, but terrible with finance.

So why bring it up again? Because everything happens for a reason.

And for me, the reason I ended up in that utterly unsuitable role…The reason I cried most nights at the thought of going back the next day…The reason I was shuffled between branches like a problem no one quite knew how to solve…Was Liz.

And while I could list a hundred words to describe this beautiful soul – her unwavering kindness, boundless generosity, and quiet selflessness – there isn’t a single one in the English language that fully captures the heart of who she is. At least, none that would do her justice.

And yes, I know – it all sounds a little cheesy, maybe even over the top. But Liz held our family together in ways she’ll never fully understand.

The cost of cancer reaches far beyond the hospital walls. It seeps into every part of your life – even the smallest, most insignificant corners.

Relationships shift. Confidence falters. Control slips away. Careers are cut short. Family dynamics realign. And for most families? It threatens to bankrupt you.

With my mum, dad, and brother now in Scotland, we needed a plan.

Ben couldn’t keep the flat on his own, especially not as a student. And while I was receiving sick pay, we knew that would only last so long. So the first step was to hand in our notice, and Ben would move back home.

Next, we had to find somewhere for my parents to stay – close enough to the hospital to be with me, but affordable enough to survive on. Options were slim.

Eventually, they found a small flat just minutes from the ward. It was perfect for what they needed, but it wasn’t cheap. Around £1,500 for the month – and that didn’t include food, transport, or the fact they still had a mortgage back home, and a teenager who needed to be back in school soon to sit his exams.

How were we supposed to sustain this? For six months?

Of course, the reality is, we would have made it work. Support from family. Dipping into savings. Taking out a loan. Doing whatever it took to keep us close.

Thankfully, by the end of the first month in Glasgow, my parents would be offered a room at Marion’s House – the name given to one of Young Lives vs Cancer’s (formerly CLIC Sargent) incredible homes-from-home.

No cost. No strings. Just one of the many amazing services they offer to young people and their families during cancer treatment.

So, at least by that point, rent was no longer a worry, but what about everything else?

Chemo was proving to be a rollercoaster, and I was fully embracing all the side effects – the main one being unrelenting nausea. And with the hospital’s unique take on what counts as food, my mum often made a dash to the M&S in the atrium to grab whatever I could stomach – which, for a solid few weeks, was baked potatoes.

You can take the girl out of Northern Ireland, but you can’t take Northern Ireland out of the girl, eh?

Between my plain-but-boujee appetite, and my parents regularly grabbing ready meals to heat in the hospital microwaves – or a late-night takeaway on the way back to the house – we were still bleeding money at a time we should’ve been saving it.

But that’s how it goes, especially in those first few weeks and months. Your life – and your family’s life – becomes rooted to a hospital ward. From early morning to late at night, they were always there.

And they weren’t alone in this.

Even in a house with eleven other families, my parents would rarely cross paths with other parents – because everyone was doing the same thing: staying with their child.

But what does all of this have to do with Liz?

Well…Liz called my mum with a plan. One she wanted to check was okay with us first. She wanted to set up a fund – something to help ease the pressure.

To cover the mounting costs. To give us a little breathing room. To help take even the slightest bit of weight off our shoulders at a time when everything felt impossibly heavy.

But this was more than just a fund.

With that infectious can-do spirit of hers, Liz organised not one but two fundraisers in Scotland: first, a climb up Conic Hill in Balmaha, followed by the main event – reaching the summit of Ben Lomond.

However, her efforts also sparked a wave of support back home in Northern Ireland, where my family organised their own events, including a climb of the small but mighty Slemish – all of which went towards the fund’s final amount.

Her warmth, persistence, and quiet stubbornness inspired so many to give. And in the end, those collective efforts raised £25,000 – money that supported us through my treatment in Glasgow, and helped me rebuild after.

It eased an overwhelming financial burden at a time when everything already felt like too much.

And, perhaps more importantly, it gave us the chance, on the rare days I was allowed out of the hospital, to do something special. To make the most of our time together. To feel, just for one afternoon, like life wasn’t dictated by blood tests, chemo schedules, or doctor’s orders.

There are more important things in life than money – I know that better than anyone. But without that financial support, I don’t know where we’d be. I’m almost certain we’d still be trying to find our way back to stability, and that those first years after treatment would’ve looked very different to the life we were lucky enough to have.

All I know, is that I will always be incredibly grateful to Liz for what she did for my family.

Everything happens for a reason – and for me, Liz is living proof of that.