I awoke this morning with a quiet heaviness. Today marks twenty years since my life changed forever. On this day in 2005, I was wheeled into an operating theatre where cancer was cut from my body, but not without cost. The surgery removed the cancerous cells from my neck, but also severed nerves, took away muscle that would never return, and left behind deep scars, both visible and invisible. The disfigurement and the permanent loss of full function in my left arm and my neck became part of my new reality every day.
In recent years, I’ve been able to compartmentalise that part of my life. I’ve stayed positive, lived forward, and tried not to look back too often. But this year has felt different. The memories have crept in more sharply. Perhaps it’s the weight of time or perhaps just how the last week of May always seems to carry a certain stillness, a certain echo.
I’ve also felt more alone this time around. In the past, I’ve been lucky to have the support of loved ones to hold me, to remind me I’m not alone, to simply say, “It’s going to be okay.” But this year, that comfort has been missing. There were moments I wanted to stay under the duvet until June, to let the days pass quietly and unnoticed.
And yet I’m still here. Last night, I kept wicket for twenty overs. I’ve just finished my 15th season as a rugby referee. I play tennis. I move. I laugh. I breathe. I live.
And this weekend, I’m looking forward to something truly grounding: time with my son and daughter. They truly understand the mental toll these anniversaries can take. They’ve seen the shadows but have grown into bright, compassionate, beautiful human beings. Being with them reminds me of how far I’ve come and how lucky I am to witness their lives unfolding.
This morning, I noticed something that stopped me in my tracks: a Midland Hawthorn in bloom, right in my village. A tree I’ve walked past for 19 years and never really seen. Today, I saw it. And in that quiet moment, it reminded me that life and nature go on. Even when we feel stuck in our own heads, the world keeps breathing, blooming, and moving forward.
So, I’ll do the same.
To those still fighting, grieving, or living with the silent aftermath, please know you’re not alone. Talk. Write. Call. These simple acts can begin to heal the dark corners of our minds that like to haunt us.
Keep going. Keep attacking. There’s still beauty to be found even in May.
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