Hope amongst fear.

From the moment Ben proposed, the planning began.

Within a few short months, we’d found our venue, and not long after, we’d booked a celebrant, a photographer, a florist, and a band.

I'd even found my dress.

It was crazy, really. It was 2017, and the wedding was still one and a half years away.

There was absolutely no need to be as prepared as I was, but I couldn't help it. I was in full-blown organisational overdrive – spreadsheets and Pinterest boards multiplying like confetti.

But like most little girls, I’d been dreaming of this day my whole life. So when it finally became real, of course, I couldn’t wait to get started.

If we could’ve married sooner, we would have. The only thing holding us back were the waitlists — every venue we loved was booked two years in advance – and we were stubbornly determined to have our date.

But then, out of nowhere, came the diagnosis.

And the version of me who obsessed over table plans and flowers seemed to vanish overnight, replaced by someone just trying to make it through each hour.

Yet, in the quiet moments, when fear pressed in and the days stretched impossibly long, wedding planning remained the thread I clung to.

My anchor.

A distraction from the chaos.

A reason to feel excited.

A future to believe in, that didn’t involve IV bags and hospital gowns.

And I know, a wedding isn’t everything.

The size, the venue, the dress – none of it really matters in the grand scheme of things.

But getting married – starting a new chapter with Ben – that was different.

That was the thing that kept me going, giving me purpose and something solid to believe in – even when everything else felt shaky and uncertain.

I’d chat about colour palettes and table décor with the nurses. My mum and I would lose whole afternoons scrolling through bridesmaid dresses, laughing about outrageous hen party ideas, and debating favours for the guests.

And at night, when I lay alone in that little room – monitors beeping, trolleys rattling past the door, the low murmur of nurses at their station – I’d listen to the song Ben had picked for our first dance.

I’d close my eyes. And I’d picture it. 

That one moment:  my hand in his, the sweep of my dress against the floor, our family and friends around us.

Hoping. Willing. Manifesting. 

That one day, it would all be real.

Looking back, I’m not sure if that focus helped me survive. I want to believe it did – to believe that daring to look beyond the cancer and to picture life “after” helped keep the fire inside alive.

But that’s not to say there weren’t moments when I questioned it all. When I lay awake, wondering if all of this was pointless.

Why plan a wedding if I wasn’t going to be there? Why get excited when everything was so fragile?

On those days, the tears came fast and hard. 

I was terrified of dying. Terrified that even if I lived, I wouldn’t be the same.

Would Ben still want to marry me if I couldn’t give us the family we dreamed of?  Would he still want to marry me if I came out of this changed?

But having something – anything – to dream about on those nights when I felt broken made all the difference.

It’s not naïve to hope. And it’s not wrong to be afraid.

I think it’s about learning how to hold both – and still keep going anyway.

I don’t believe positivity cures cancer. But I do believe it helps.

It keeps the embers burning, and sometimes it's what gets you through the night.

I wasn’t going to leave this world without a fight. So I held on to what mattered, and I believed in it. I put all my faith into a single day that symbolised everything waiting for me on the other side.

Did it save me? I’ll never know. But it gave me a reason.

And sometimes, that’s enough.