Held together, pulled apart.

It’s strange, the things you learn when life falls apart.

One of the biggest lessons? You find out who really shows up. Not just in the easy moments – but in the heavy, unpredictable, terrifying ones. The people who let you fall apart, and somehow still manage to help piece you back together.

I truly believe our lives are shaped most by the people we meet – whether that’s through school, university, work, or just life doing what it does.

And when everything changed for me, the first person who showed up – quite literally – was my high school friend, Zach.

I needed someone who could be honest. Who could help me make sense of it all. Who I knew would keep it private until I was ready to speak out loud the words I’d only just whispered to myself. And I knew Zach would be just that.

With his experience as a nurse, I knew he’d give me some clue as to what I was facing. He’d break down the medical jargon in a way that made it slightly less terrifying. Help me understand what questions to ask, what to expect, and – most importantly – what on earth a bone marrow biopsy actually involved.

I messaged him on the Saturday evening and 24 hours later, that beautiful man – never one to hesitate, always one to lead with his heart – was by my side, having travelled up from Manchester.

No questions, no delay. Just action. He even dragged his poor friend Sarah along for the ride. All to give me the hug I didn’t know I needed – one loaded with all the things we didn’t have to say out loud.

It was a hug that instantly took me back to school – to afternoons spent hiding in the piano rooms, where he played with that quiet kind of magic that mesmerised anyone listening. I’d sit beside him, flipping sheet music or quietly humming along – both of us completely lost in the notes.

It took me back to The Wizard of Oz – where he, ironically, played the Tin Man without a heart, while I sat in the orchestra pit watching on – barely paying attention to my own music, too busy watching my friend shine.

And now, here he was. Towering over me like he always had. Wrapping me up in the kind of hug that grounds you – even when nothing else makes sense.

A friend I hadn’t seen in so long, showing up when I needed him most. Proving that no matter the time, the distance, or the diagnosis, he’d always be there with a reassuring hug and a cheeky smile.

Unfortunately, I’d come to learn that not everyone could do the same. Even the people you see often – the ones whose struggles you’d helped carry – can let you down in ways you never imagined.

A few months before I was diagnosed, a close friend was going through a rough time. We’d spend nights messaging, circling around the same heartbreak. I listened. I offered advice. I showed up. Because that’s what you do when someone you love is hurting.

So I understood, at least in part, that hearing your friend has cancer would be a lot to process. I wasn’t expecting perfection. I didn’t know what I needed, either. But from the moment I told her, something shifted. And we never really came back from it.

It started with memes – one a day. Each one filled with inspiration: reminders that I was strong, that I was loved, that she had my back. In theory, I understood. She wanted to lift my spirits and show she was thinking of me. But in practice? It felt like she’d hung a giant sign above my head that screamed: I’m dying… pity me!

Perhaps I was being overly sensitive.

Perhaps it was my own fear that I was, in fact, dying.

Perhaps I was just being a bitch.

But it didn’t stop there.

I’d asked for space – time to get my head around it all. To be with family. To breathe.

So much had happened in such a short time. So many changes, choices, and challenges to process. I’d started chemo on the Thursday – it hadn't even been a full week since admission –and this was my life now.

I needed my mum. My dad. My brother. Ben.

I didn’t need a guilt trip. But that’s exactly what I got.

“I’m just in the atrium. I’ll be here all day.”

No. No. No.

This wasn’t what I wanted.

“Don’t feel you have to see me. Just know I’m here.”

Of course. That’s what I’ll do. Just let you sit there, floors below me, all day long – and pretend I don’t know.

I wanted to cry. To hide. To scream.

I wasn’t ready. Not to see her. Not to be seen.

I felt awful – my skin pale and sickly, my body heavy with nausea and fear. I didn’t have the mental capacity to ‘show up’ for anyone. I just wanted to sleep. To weather the sickness that was coming. To simply be.

But of course, I gave in.

I loved her to pieces. I really did. But I needed her to see me – not physically, but emotionally. To understand the fear, the pain, the need for space. But she couldn’t. And she never really did.

Thankfully, there is one upside to being seriously ill. People usually do what you ask.

So I gave Ben a flutter of my eyelashes (while I still had them), my best puppy-dog eyes, and asked if he might gently have a word. Just get her to ease up a little.

Although that one kinda backfired. Because after that, despite living just a 15-minute subway ride from the hospital, I barely saw her. And when I did, it felt like the focus had shifted. Away from what I was going through, and back onto her.

I mean, of course, I wanted to know what was going on in her life. I wanted to be there for her if she needed me. And honestly? I didn’t want all the focus on me – on the cancer. I wanted to feel normal. But somehow, for both of us, we could never quite find the balance.

Even when she offered to raise money for a charity of my choosing – a kind and generous gesture – it still felt like it became more about her than the cause. I didn’t feel part of it. I felt like a prop.

I won’t lie: there’s a lot to this story. And not all of it was sad or bitter. There were good moments too. Loving ones.

And I know I wasn’t perfect. I was scared, emotional, overwhelmed. I probably expected too much, and I definitely said too little. But she could have done better, too.

We were best friends. And cancer broke us. Or maybe, more truthfully, it showed us the cracks that were already there.

Either way, things didn’t go back to the way they were. And neither did I.