All Posts

It’s been a bit of an emotional couple of days for us. Yesterday was actually meant to be such a lovely milestone. We took Betsie to the play park in town for the first time in eight months. Eight whole months of watching from a distance, of saying “not yet,” of being careful in ways most people never have to think about. And she loved it. Proper, carefree, childhood joy — running, laughing, exploring everything like it was brand new. And then, in a split second, it all chang

Last week, Betsie went through her high-dose chemotherapy — something we had been building up to for a while, knowing it wouldn’t be easy. And yet, here we are, just days later, and she is doing so incredibly well. It almost feels surreal to say it out loud, but things are genuinely looking good right now. She’s brighter, more comfortable, and even finding the energy to sit outside and enjoy the sunshine. There’s something so healing about those quiet moments — fresh air, war

Our stay in Southampton for Betsie’s high dose chemotherapy has felt long, emotional, and tiring, but we are getting through it one step at a time. Monday was mostly a day of waiting. We arrived and then spent hours just sitting, not really knowing when things would start. We were waiting for the chemo to be prescribed, then made, and then finally brought up to the ward. Time felt very slow, and it was hard not knowing what was happening or when. By the time everything was re

Tomorrow we head back into Southampton, where we’ll be staying for at least four nights while Betsie begins her next round of high-dose chemotherapy. These admissions are never easy. No matter how many times we’ve done this, there’s always that familiar knot of nerves before we go in—the unknowns, the long days, the emotional weight of it all. I find this part especially hard, being the only parent there. It can feel quite isolating at times, trying to be everything at once—c

It’s been a little quiet from me lately, and I wanted to share why. The past few weeks have been a mix of ups and downs as we’ve been navigating Betsie’s cancer treatment. Some days have felt heavier than others, and it’s taken a lot of energy—physically and emotionally—to keep everything going. But we’ve had some really positive news yesterday, we got the go-ahead to start Consolidation 3, which feels like a big step forward and something to hold onto. Betsie is doing okay o

When my daughter Betsie was diagnosed with leukaemia, the world didn’t just stop — it tilted. The ground felt uneven, like I was walking on a floor that could give way at any moment. And somewhere in the middle of hospital corridors, medical jargon, and the constant beeping of machines, I found myself crying not just because she was sick… but because it felt so unbearably unfair. And then came the guilt. The guilt for thinking why her? The guilt for thinking why us? The guilt

When Betsie was diagnosed with cancer, the world as I knew it split in two. There was life before cancer — and life after. But what I didn’t fully understand at the time was that chemotherapy wouldn’t just attack the cancer. It would ripple through every part of her tiny body, and her even tinier emotional world. And in turn, it would ripple through mine. Chemotherapy is brutal. We were prepared for the physical side effects — the nausea, the fatigue, the hair loss, the endl

Today is International Women’s Day. A day that celebrates strength, resilience, and the incredible women who face life’s challenges with courage. And honestly, when I think about strength now, all I can think about is Betsie. Watching her fight cancer has shown me a level of bravery I didn’t even know existed. The appointments, the treatments, the medicines, the uncertainty — she faces it all with a quiet determination that leaves me constantly in awe of her. She is stronger

The last few days have felt very long. Betsie has been taking Cytarabine, and although we knew there could be side effects, actually watching her go through them is something else entirely. The evenings have been the hardest. She’s been so sick, and each time it happens it feels more upsetting than the last. Yesterday evening was particularly rough. Betsie suddenly got sick all over the kitchen floor. It happened so quickly, and it really distressed her. She didn’t understand

Watching someone you love go through chemotherapy is like standing in a storm with no shelter — you can’t stop the wind, you can’t quiet the thunder, and all you can do is hold on and hope it passes soon. Lately, that storm has been named Betsie. After each round of Cytarabine, I watch it hit her. The exhaustion that sinks into her bones. The nausea that rolls in waves. The way even simple things — standing up, eating a few bites, walking across the room — suddenly become mou

Before Betsie started chemotherapy, I didn’t realise how much of my identity lived in the small, ordinary rhythms of social life. Texting friends about weekend plans. Popping out to meet with friends. Saying “yes” without checking blood counts first. Now everything is filtered through one word: chemotherapy. While Betsie goes through chemotherapy for leukaemia, my world has become both painfully small and emotionally enormous. Small because infection risk means we can’t just

Tomorrow we start another round of Cytarabine. The second round of this phase, and the last lot of intravenous chemotherapy before we start the next phase. This round is four consecutive days. It’s strange how the day before always feels. Nothing dramatic is happening yet, but everything feels heavier. I find myself mentally walking through the next four days before they’ve even begun. Tomorrow morning we’ll pack the bag for the hospital. Snacks she might fancy. Drinks. Anti-

After a long and emotional five-week delay, we are finally back on treatment for Betsie, and what a relief it is to say those words. The past several weeks have felt incredibly heavy. When your child is fighting cancer, and interruption in treatment can feel terrifying. The waiting, the uncertainty, the endless 'what ifs' - they have a way of creeping in during the quiet moments. Not knowing when chemotherapy would restart was one of the hardest parts. It felt like standing s