I'm Still Here

The Results Are In!

Tomorrow marks five weeks since my double mastectomy with DIEP and TRAM flap reconstruction.

I chose to go aggressive with surgery. I didn’t have to. But I wanted to. I needed to. After reviewing my options, I followed my gut. Maybe it was my history. Maybe it was the echo of something deeper that said: don’t wait.

This wasn’t my first brush with cancer.

In 2012, I had my thyroid removed following biopsies that were deemed benign. They weren’t.

In early 2013, I underwent treatment for thyroid cancer and I have been NED (no evidence of disease) ever since. At the same time, my mom was fighting for her life. She had been re-diagnosed in late 2011 with Hodgkin’s lymphoma. She died on 24 April, 2013 (my dad had passed less than two years before). That date, that time, often still sits heavy in my chest like a stone, albeit now with softened edges. Some days I carry that stone in my pocket, while other days, it carries me.

(Image: One of my very first drawings of Rabbit. Bear came a bit later. The dialogue reads—"Make a wish." said the dandelions.

"But, where will you go?" asked Rabbit.

"We'll become your wish and one day we will return to you." the dandelions said.

"You mean, you won't die?" Rabbit asked.

"No." the dandelions laughed. "A wish can never die. It can only come true.")

Grief doesn’t end.

It shifts.

It reshapes itself.

Some days it whispers.

Some days it roars.

But it’s always there—woven into who I’ve become.

This new chapter with breast cancer brought all of that back to the surface.

Again, I was told the growths were benign.

But I knew my story too well not to recognise the familiar weight of uncertainty.

I chose surgery.

And once again, I’m glad I did.

Cancer was found.

But here’s the good news: it’s gone.

Removed with clear, wide margins. No spread to my lymphnodes.

Gratitude doesn’t begin to cover it.

Still… I think of my mom. The anniversary of her passing draws near.

It remains bittersweet.

When I woke from surgery in the early hours of March 5th, I felt a growing sense of renewed purpose.

A pull toward healing. A need to move forward.

And I have. Slowly, steadily, gratefully, and with tenderness and understanding for myself and anyone facing, going, or already through this particular journey and others like it.

There are still aches. Still moments of fear. Still fog.

But also strength, clarity and love.

Each day, I feel a little more like myself again.

Yes, my body has changed and my mind has, too... but they had already changed, long before this.

Grief changed me.

Loss changed me.

Cancer changed me.

And somehow, through all of it, I found my way back to myself—again and again—through writing, through drawing, through cooking, through creating.

That’s where Rabbit & Bear were born.

In 2019, in a moment of quiet desperation, I drew a simple picture and I shared it. No expectations. Just hope.

Hope that maybe someone else out there would find comfort in it too.

Then the world shut down.

And suddenly, Rabbit & Bear were everywhere.

(Image: In March of 2020 this drawing of Rabbit & Bear went viral. The dialogue reads—"I'm afraid." said Rabbit.

"What are you afraid of?" asked Bear.

"I don't know." replied Rabbit. "I just am."

"Then I will sit with you until you're not afraid anymore." said Bear. "We'll face it together.")

That early drawing—"I'm afraid," said Rabbit—was taken from my social media at the time, cropped to remove my signature, and shared widely without my name.

But in the strange way life works, it reached millions.

And as I chased it, it opened doors. It brought connection. To those of you who found comfort in it, and to myself.

And now, as I continue to create, I keep chasing that image—all the way back home.

To me.

Rabbit & Bear are pieces of me.

Of the pregnancy I lost, and the child who could have been.

They are my parents.

My grandparents.

They are how I speak to those I can no longer call.

They are my doctors and therapists.

They are my friends, and bits and pieces of everyone I've ever met. They are you.

They are how I remember.

How I hold on.

They are how I hug the world, and myself.

With words.

With softness.

With simple truths.

With empathy.

(Image: Rabbit sits snug against a smaller rabbit and the text reads— “I have felt no greater pain than the moment your heart stopped beating and mine carried on...”)

I’m neurodivergent, diagnosed later in life—autistic, with a side of ADHD.

I’ve always known my brain worked differently—big thoughts, deep feelings, a visual mind, and a hunger to understand the world around and within me.

School never seemed to fit. I itched at the seams of it. Once upon a time, I never thought I would graduate high school, let alone graduate university. It was a struggle, but somehow, I did it. And in doing so a new world opened to me and I carried on.

Life often didn't make sense the way it was presented to me, especially while I was growing up.

But creating—that made sense.

That brought order to the chaos.

So I drew.

I wrote.

And I cooked and baked.

Cooking became another form of therapy.

A connection to my roots—to my Irish dad and my English mum.

To my grandmother’s kitchen.

To the smell of stew and warm bread.

To Sunday dinners and laughter around the table.

Good memories.

In 2016, I studied at a cooking school in Dublin. Close to the family I still have there, and close to my roots.

It was a way to reclaim something I’d lost.

Not just my love of food and learning, but my sense of home.

Ireland felt like healing.

A return.

A breath.

I came back to Canada a few months later, ready to begin again.

And though I detoured for a while—following someone else’s dream instead of my own—I never stopped creating.

I just needed to remember who I was.

I’m here again.

Rooted. Reaching. Renewed.

In my life I have survived heartbreak, abuse, loss, and illness.

I’ve stared grief in the face and found the strength to stand again, even when I thought I couldn’t. Many of us do this, I know it’s not unique to me but still… we each take from these experiences our own understanding and learning as we move forward.

I have also had the immense privilege of being able to see many of my dreams come true.

And now? I feel ready.

Even more so than before.

To write more.

To share more.

To cook again—on my terms.

To keep healing.

To keep growing.

To keep being.

I’m not afraid of the dark anymore.

Because I carry light within...

(Image: Rabbit & Bear sit side by side. The dialogue reads—“If ever you find yourself alone in the dark, look within.” said Bear. “You’re filled with the light of a thousand stars. All of them just waiting for their moment to be free.”)

The light of Rabbit & Bear.

The light of my family.

The light of me.

Being true to myself—through writing, cooking, drawing, creating, and trusting my voice, and my gut—has led me to a life I never imagined.

A life filled with meaning.

With opportunity.

With connection.

And I can’t help but wonder…

Where will I go next?

Are you ready?

Let’s go. ❤️✨️