I’m writing this under the influence of antidepressants so take everything with a pinch of salt, but I’ve had a revelation. Almost two years since my secondary breast cancer diagnosis, I realise I’ve been dealing with a case of FOGI. Fear of getting ill.

I am thinking about enrolling on a writing course to find some inspiration and structure. But a huge part of me wonders if I’ll cope with the course, if I’ll be too tired, if I’ll become unwell again. Despite the obvious repercussions of cancer treatment, I actually haven’t been unwell for well over a year. I’ve dodged COVID, avoided colds and had many stable scan results.

This got me thinking about butterflies and metamorphosis. I feel like a caterpillar, stuck as a crawling creature unable to break free. I need to accept the new reality that is my life and start to enjoy it.

It’s hard to move on however because I feel broken by life. Growing up disabled and dealing with cancer leaves me bruised but also desperate to appreciate what I do have. It feels right now like a half-life. It is not the horror of chemo when I had to wear gloves to eat as my fingertips stung so badly. But nor is it the highflying days of teaching in London and seeing new plays in the evening. It’s something different, something new.

I need to be a butterfly, peel off the chrysalis and find a new way of living.