One Year On…
7th of June 2025
Some of it I remember so clearly.
It was 9:30am, and I had a telehealth appointment with my GP to go over the results of a biopsy on a lump in my neck. I’d already consulted Dr Google and was feeling fairly confident it wasn’t cancer.
She asked what she could do for me. I reminded her I was following up test results.
She hadn’t looked at them yet, so she asked for a moment.
I watched her face change as she read.
There was a breath. A pause.
Then she turned back to the camera and said:
"I’m so sorry. It’s thyroid cancer."
I remember every second up to that sentence.
After that, it all becomes a blur.
She talked about endocrinologists, surgery, treatment. She said she’d call me back later that day.
All I wanted to do was hang up and call my husband.
He was 1,200 kilometres away, on a tiny island off the WA coast, and wasn’t due home for another week.
I just needed to hear his voice.
Then I thought about work.
How do you even start that conversation? Would I be going back?
And then my son came to mind. That same morning, he’d signed the papers for his adult apprenticeship.
We were heading out for a family lunch to celebrate with his grandparents.
I didn’t want my news to overshadow his moment.
I couldn’t reach my husband, so I focused on work.
My boss was incredible — kind and calm, even though I told him the news was less than 30 minutes old. I said I’d hand over to my 2IC and didn’t know when I’d be in touch.
He told me to do what I needed to do. He had my back.
Calling my 2IC was next. I started the call with:
"I’m about to tell you something. You’re not allowed to react or be sympathetic."
A big ask — she’s one of the most empathetic people I know.
I told her I had cancer and needed to hand everything over.
She nodded and said, “What do you need me to do?”
In that moment, I felt held. I knew things would be OK.
Eventually, my husband called back. I don’t remember what we said — just that I cried.
He said he’d be on the next flight home.
I may have tried to argue.
He told me (firmly) to stop.
Then came the in-laws.
Then my son came home — beaming, proud, finally feeling like life was going his way.
And I had to tell him I had cancer.
It broke my heart.
I wanted that lunch to be about him. I was so proud.
In the middle of it, my GP called again — I had a specialist appointment booked for 9am Monday.
I still didn’t know the full picture. But I knew my husband would be home by 4pm that afternoon.
Later, I learned it was Papillary Thyroid Cancer, Stage 2.
The odds were good.
"As far as cancers go, this is the best one to get," they said.
I grew to hate that sentence.
That afternoon, I had the house to myself. I stood at the kitchen counter and thought:
"This might be it. You might die."
"If that’s true — what regrets do you have?"
I didn’t have any about my family.
I’d travelled.
I didn’t want to jump out of a plane.
But there was one thing…
Art.
A friend had told me recently I should try doing a big piece — like the ones you see on this website.
I’d told her I didn’t think I was good enough.
Truthfully, it scared me.
A piece that size felt vulnerable. Exposing. Risky.
But now, not trying felt riskier.
So when my husband got home and asked what I needed, I said:
"I want to go to the art store."
The next morning, we bought the biggest sheet of fine-quality paper I could find.
And I started work on a piece called:
“Fuck Off Cancer.”
It took around 800 hours to complete.
Somewhere between the first brushstroke and the last, I discovered just how powerful — how healing — art can be.
That piece changed everything.
It gave me a sense of control.
It gave me space to process.
And it gave me the idea for this business.
Mindful Art Creation was born.
One year later…
My life looks different — mostly in good ways.
I’m still on the journey.
Some days are hard.
Some days I’m frustrated or sad or just want my old life back.
But every single day, I create.
And it helps — more than I can ever explain in words.
This blog is a place to share that journey.
Thank you for being here.