Month: September 2025

Here I talk about my unexpected feelings two and a half years after I was diagnosed with ocular melanoma, forcing me to have my left eye removed, suddenly. Namely, the unanticipated adrenalin void left behind that’s hard to fill. 

A cancer diagnosis is horrifying. That’s not breaking news. But how it’s inextricably changed my emotions and feelings is entirely unexpected and quite mixed up.

Cancer forces you to exist on heightened sensations. Augmented anxiety speckled with inordinate amounts of love. Frenzied fear and a cascade of ‘what ifs?’. So much noise, while time seemingly stands still. 

Messages, flowers, food, hugs, reluctance, gratitude, panic, terror, kindness.

Living on the edge

For a while, you live on the edge of what’s mentally – and physically – manageable. Everything at full throttle. The bad, and there’s a lot of bad. But also, the good. The urgency feels energising. The sense that you’re fighting for your life gives you a sense of purpose. You are, essentially, on a mission to survive. And there’s nothing that carries greater gravitas than that.

You are on a mission to survive. And there’s nothing that carries greater gravitas than that.

When the dust settles – perhaps after surgery or treatment – something strange and unexpected happens. Well, it did to me, anyway. And this, I’d never heard of or anticipated, after months longing for the humdrum of normal life.

What’s left is a sense of flatness; difficulty finding joy.  Is it sadness? Or depression? It could be. That would certainly make sense. Grief for my carefree life pre-ocular melanoma diagnosis? Perhaps. I do yearn for those days. But I think it’s more than this. And that’s let me to another theory altogether.

Feeling truly seen

I am no psychologist, but I’ve thought about this a lot. I wouldn’t wish my cancer diagnosis and surgery on anyone. But it did push me to feel in a way I hadn’t before- with profundity, clarity and discernment. The love that envelopes you from all angles is also quite addictive. You feel truly seen. And you know who has your back. And who you’d do anything for, if push came to shove. 

Then there’s the adrenalin of life-or-death medical scans and appointments. 

“You have a large tumour in your eye. We have to remove in as soon as possible. As in, the eye. It may have spread to your liver. Or may do in the future. It’s a very aggressive type of cancer. How many children have you got?”

Conversations like this – so dark and deep – make it hard to go back to small talk or shallow relationships. And this concept or rather, seismic shift, I’d never heard of or anticipated, after months longing for the humdrum of normal life, before that fateful jog.

I went from out running one grey day, to weird vision, to rare eye cancer diagnosis (ocular melanoma) …to having my left eye removed within just three weeks. (I’ve written for The Times about this aspect of my story). I then had to find out whether the cancer had spread. Hideous scans, appointments, discussions. All terrifying and of grave importance; ultimately to discover whether I was going to see my daughters grow up. Or whether I was going to die early – and perhaps, quite swiftly.

Ultimately to discover whether I was going to see my daughters grow up. Or whether I was going to die early – and perhaps, quite swiftly.

All the while, in the early shock and awe phase, I was staggering round our neighbourhood river towpaths with just one eye, while I tried to heal physically enough to be able to have a prosthetic. Those walks, however, were also my mental lifeline. Pounding the pavements to stamp out the noise. Chatting to friends to keep the horror and dread from bubbling away in my brain.

Flatness pervades

Two and a half years on, a sort of flatness pervades. I don’t think it’s depression. It’s a dull state of post-cancer monocular monotony. After living in a constant start of alert – fuelled by adrenaline, cortisol and compassion – I feel disorientated and a little bored, if I’m honest. This, despite training for Mount Kilimanjaro, running a business and writing a book. 

After living in a constant start of alert – fuelled by adrenaline, cortisol and compassion – I feel disorientated and a little bored, if I’m honest.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to relive the horrors of yesterday. And for those reading who have a cancer diagnosis, we can’t live freely; we’re never really off the hook. That’s the stuff of nightmares. But maybe some of this resonates? For now, I am learning to navigate this weird vacuum I find myself in – constantly grateful I am alive and kicking. But also, constantly contemplating how bloody complicated cancer is, beyond the disease itself.

Do follow me on Instagram: @seeing_life_clearly.

Welcome to my ‘views’ (pardon the pun). Here I will house my musings on all things eye related. 

As any good communicator knows, it’s best to go back to basics. Namely, who am I and why should people care?

I am a former journalist turned comms specialist – CEO of my own business, The Power of Words.

An odd and unusual sensation

Until March 2023, life was ticking along fairly normally. Whatever normal is, as a busy business owner and mum of two girls. Until, that is, I was out running one grey day along the river towpath in pretty suburban south-west London where I live, when I noticed my eyes weren’t working together. Sounds like a strange thing to say. And the sensation was certainly odd and unusual.

Off I trotted to the local optician, where I often go as a shortsighted ‘myop’ (made up word), assuming they’d suggest a contact lens prescription tweak. I sat in the chair, with my coat still on, blissfully unaware that my life was about to take a serious nosedive. A colleague is called for a second opinion. “Yes, there’s something there.” My heart starts racing. What could possibly be there inside my eye?

What, cancer?

“You have a choroidal freckle or a melanoma in your left eye.”

“Cancer?” I blurted out.

“We are sorry these aren’t the words you wanted to hear.”

My smart watch starts to flash stress alerts. My heartbeat, clearly struggling to cope with the enormity and gravitas of the sudden turn of events.

I realised that I’d never felt true terror before. Sadness, yes. Grief, certainly. But not sheer horror that feels like it’s in your bones, rattling you at your very core. 

I was ushered to a suburban eye hospital, told it was a tumour of some sort, warned it could be leaking from my brain. Something I later discovered simply wasn’t possible. And then shipped off to an ocular oncologist, and a lexical journey of discovery – learning words like enucleation, ocularist and the like, for the first time. Words you’d rather never hear. 

How many children have you got?

“You do have ocular melanoma, and the only option is to remove your entire left eye. We have no time to waste. It may have spread to your liver. You’ll need full body CT scans to find out. How many children have you got? See you in two weeks for enucleation surgery.”

This is a brief synopsis of my diagnosis from my ocular oncologist – and extraordinarily gifted man, who’s ultimately saved my life. Even if just for now.

If you haven’t guessed it, enucleation = eye removal. Not your average everyday chat or verbiage.

I will save writing about my ‘shock and awe’ surgery for another time; it warrants its own place. Suffice to say for now, those 14 days were filled with horror, heartbreak – but also heartfelt gratitude. For discovering the cancer, not early, but before it was too late. For my friends and family, whose love I could feel palpably and who carried me through the fear and foreboding; in a heartbeat I discovered who my ‘ride or dies’ were.  For my girls and my husband, who helped me keep a sense of humour in the dark hours. And who never treated me differently – even when I returned home from my operation with just one eye (and a glamorous pair of very dark, very big sunglasses).

Trauma clarity

It’s simply that I now see life clearly, despite my -8 one eyed shortsighted and less than great vision. There’s huge clarity in trauma; it hones the senses and reveals what matters most. It’s a shame that it’s taken the loss of my left eye and a cancer diagnosis to have this sharpened vision. 

I will be writing about all these emotions, but also, what it’s like having an eye removed and living with a prosthetic. What monocular vision entails. About ocular melanoma – and why rare cancers aren’t given enough priority. Cancer stigma and stereotypes. And so much more.

In the meantime, please do follow me on Instagram. I’d love to hear from:

@seeing_life_clearly.