Chapter 12
Moving Forward
Scars
On 17 January 2023, I touched my reconstruction scar for the first time.
For a year, the idea of looking at it - let alone touching it - made me feel physically sick. But I did it. I held my left boob and ran my fingers along the 6-inch line. I expected tears, revulsion, maybe even pain… but I felt nothing. Just skin. Just a scar.
But maybe that’s where healing begins.
By acknowledging the wounds you can see, you start to make space for the ones you can’t
JuJu 2.0
I’d been discharged from everyone except my GP. The specialists had done what they could. My GP told me we’d reached the top of the pain medication ladder - the focus now was balance: activity and rest. Managing, not curing.
So, this is it. This is life now. This is our new normal.
We had to stop measuring life against “before cancer.” That way lies heartache. Our reality now includes crutches, a mobility scooter, chronic fatigue, and unpredictability. We plan less and adapt more. It’s hard - especially for someone like me who loves a good schedule - but it’s survivable.
We made a new chores chart at home so my husband wouldn’t carry the whole load. The kids stepped up in incredible ways. They cook, help out, and even tell me when I need to sit and rest. We’re learning how to function as a unit, with everyone playing a part.
I got my hair cut again - the same short style I’d had for 12 years before growing it during COVID. That small change made me feel more like myself than I had in ages.
I was focusing on more seated activities like bullet journaling, creating space for my mind to heal and hopefully - eventually - for my body to stop screaming with pain.
I’m still here.
I’m still fighting.
It's time to start living life a new way.
It's time for JuJu 2.0.
Holidays
After months of delays and cancellations, we finally made it to our “End of Treatment Holiday” - the one I’d dreamt of since February 2023. Lanzarote, at last.
I’d realised that while we were away, it would be the anniversary of my A&E dash after chemo number 4. A tough memory. So I planned something joyful: a sea lion experience for the kids. We replaced a traumatic date with a magical one.
We had it all: boat trips, poolside fun, local football, eating out, my son’s first scuba dive, lazy markets, sunshine on my joints, laughter, shooting stars, and rehab in the pool. I mostly stayed in the shade and soaked it all in - the sun, the joy, the normality.
Airport and airline staff were brilliant, and I can’t recommend the lounge enough for a quiet pre-flight experience.
Lanzarote, October 2024 - you were pure bliss. We’ll be back.
1st Of The Month
On the 1st of every month, I remind everyone:
Check your chest.
Find your normal. Get to know your body.
I know it’s scary. Some people tell me they’d rather not check because… what if they find something? But not knowing doesn’t make it go away. Trust me, I wish it did.
So on the first of every month, I say:
Get your boobs out.
In My Husband's Words
Almost two years after my diagnosis, my husband shared this on social media:
“Julie doesn’t know I’m doing this, but here goes…
Nearly two years ago, I found the lump. Yes, me. On a Sunday morning.
So please - when you read this, grab your partner or yourself and have a proper feel.
1 in 2 people don’t check. If you need help, I’ll offer my hands 🤣.
Watching Julie live with chronic pain hurts. Crutches at home, a mobility scooter outside. She stays positive. But it’s hard. I’ve bottled up a lot for the last two years, but I’m learning to talk more.
Julie, our kids, our family - you’ve all been amazing. 27 years together, and this tested us in every way. But we’re stronger.
Life is short. Feel it. Live it. Laugh."
It's The Most Complicated Time Of The Year
I used to love Christmas. But now? It’s… complicated.
Shops are hard to navigate in a scooter - too many crowded aisles and unstable displays. My second annual mammogram was due. December was full of emotional landmines.
We still decorated the house and shopped for gifts, but it was exhausting. My husband led the charge this year, and I did what I could.
It reminds me of how people talk about COVID - “Was that before or after?”
Now I think in terms of “Pre- or Post-Cancer.”
That December, we already knew my diagnosis, but we kept it to ourselves. I think that’s why Christmas still feels a little broken.
Two Years On
March 22nd, 2025. Two years since my very first chemo.
I’m grateful for it. It dropped my recurrence risk by 10%. It was brutal, yes - but necessary. Life-saving.
During treatment, time stood still. I counted every day.
Now, two years later, it feels like yesterday… and also like a lifetime ago.
Did it really happen?
Yes.
Did I really lose all my hair?
Yes.
Did I survive it?
Yes.
To those going through it: you will get through it. And one day, you’ll look back and see how incredibly strong you were.