A dream with an asterisk.

Cancer doesn’t just change everything – it rewrites the script, line by line.

Sometimes, for the better.

You learn to value time more fiercely - no longer waiting for things to happen but instead living life as best you can. You begin to notice the people around you – not just the ones who stay, but the ones who make the hard days easier. And you find joy in the smaller things: quiet mornings, shared silences, a moment of calm in the chaos.

Ultimately, you learn to protect your happiness – to say no, to walk away, to trust your gut when something doesn’t feel right. But I won’t lie: more often than not, it leaves scars deeper than any lessons it teaches.

When I heard those words: “You may struggle to have children.” I froze. Each syllable landing like a punch to the gut.

I was 23 years old – of course I wasn’t planning to get pregnant right then and there – but that didn’t mean it wasn’t always there, quietly waiting in the back of my mind, tucked into those silent moments when I dreamed of someday.

Ben and I had been engaged for almost a year, and the date was set: June 30, 2019. A summer wedding at the Brig O’Doon – the perfect spot for a Scottish/Irish wedding.

It would mark ten years to the day since we met on a little French campsite just outside of Paris. Ten years since we first walked side by side, shyly sharing glimpses of who we were, our lives beyond this quiet little haven. Ten years since our first kiss – two nervous teenagers, with no idea this was the beginning of something extraordinary.

Of course, we both had goals beyond marriage – careers, travel, time to just be - but in the quiet of night, I’d lie awake thinking about what might come next.

We already knew the names we’d give them – because there would be a them. Two, in fact. (He’d suggest more. Not a chance, I’d laugh. Two’s my limit. A boy and a girl – as if such things could be arranged.)

And yet,  in the utterance of a single sentence, everything I’d ever imagined, suddenly came with a question mark. And a thousand other questions:

Will Ben still want to marry me?

What will his parents think?

What will my parents think?

Isn’t cancer enough of a bombshell?

How can this be fair?

But the hardest question to face – the one that still lingers in the back of my mind: 

What is the point in me now? What’s left, if the one thing I was sure of might never happen?

Yes, it’s dramatic. And yes, I know feminism says there’s more to a woman than motherhood.

But I had always imagined myself as a mum. In fact, I could see it so clearly – from bump to baby, toddler to teen. And although I never really felt like I was good at much, I believed I could be good at this.

And of course, I know families come in all shapes and sizes. A mum isn’t made from carrying a child in the womb. A mum is made from unconditional love; from always being there no matter what; and from being your greatest champion.

But that doesn’t take away the sting of being told you might never carry a child. Of learning that the process might no longer be simple. Or realising that the dream you held for so many years might never come true. 

Because cancer changes everything. 

Not just in the moment. But in all that might have come after.