Ok. What do I even write? I guess I write the truth.

The truth about what it feels like to live with a death sentence — one you can see heading straight for you, and you can’t stop it. Or maybe you can?

To everyone out there at stage 4, stuck in palliative care, I see you. I hear you.

I was diagnosed on my son’s birthday — 12th May 2022. Happy birthday, right? That day our world fell apart. All I heard was: “You have cancer. I’m pretty sure it’s ovarian. And it’s far gone.”

Until then, life was good. We’d just launched a team in Dubai. My teaching agency in Manchester was flying. I was meant to get on a plane to Dubai a few days later. Cancelled. Just like that.

This can’t be happening, I thought. No symptoms, other than what I thought was IBS. My stomach hurt when I ate. It bloated so badly sometimes I looked nine months pregnant. But I got used to it, blamed it on menopause or IBS.

The waiting for that official diagnosis was torture. Then came the words: Peritoneal cancer. I’d never even heard of it. Turns out it’s like a curtain covering all your organs, and when cancer hits it, it’s too late to detect until your body starts filling with fluid.

Fast forward: ovarian peritoneal cancer, stage 3. Secondary. Prognosis: 3–5 years.

I was broken. My family, my friends — broken. I didn’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I raged at God, then fell into sadness, then clung to hope that maybe, just maybe, I’d prove them wrong. Back to rage again. Grief, over losing who I thought I was.

Eight months of chemo. Major surgery. Honestly, the surgery was worse. I felt like I was dying and didn’t even care some days. I lost all my hair. That broke me — it was the thing I loved about myself. I remember sitting in the kitchen, crying uncontrollably, as they shaved it off.

But here’s the thing: I’ve always been glass-half-full, even when life has kicked that glass over, smashed it, left me with nothing. I knew if I wanted a chance, I had to stop fighting reality and start fighting the cancer.

So I dug in. I read everything. I searched for stories of people who beat the “terminal” label. And they all said the same: change your diet, change your mindset, cut stress, pump yourself with intravenous vitamins, oxygen therapy, supplements, overseas treatment in cancer hospitals such as Mexico to name a few. And above all — cut sugar.

The irony? Hospitals literally feed you sugar. They know cancer feeds on it — they give you a jug of glucose before scans so the cancer lights up. And yet they say, “eat whatever you like, keep your strength up”. I don’t get it. I’m not criticizing NHS as I owe them my life and will still be continuing with conventional treatments too.

I cut out sugar. Hardest thing I’ve ever done. I threw what I could at supplements, organic food, all of it — though it costs a fortune. £600–£1000 a month on pills alone. Organic meat? Forget it, I couldn’t afford that every week.

It’s a full-time job, just trying to stay alive. Meanwhile, my business took a hit, my family took a hit, I took a hit. This time, if I’m going to give myself any chance, I need to step back 100% and let my team run it.

Most mornings, I wake up with a black cloud. That’s cancer. For three years I’ve stayed positive, but right now I’m scared. I feel the cancer moving in me, rummaging around my abdomen, filling me with fluid again. My options are shrinking — chemo or nothing.

But I’m still here. Still fighting. Still dreaming of seeing my grandchild grow up. Still holding on to the belief that the body can heal itself if I give it everything.

Because when you have cancer, there’s only one dream left: to live.

If I hadn’t made the changes I made, I’d probably be dead already. Imagine if I go further, get specialist advice on what will work for my individual cancer, fight harder, and not only stay alive but give others hope too. I’ve beaten one killer disease before. I’ll fight this one too.

That’s why I’ve moved this fundraiser to YesToLife.

They’ll manage the money, pay for treatments directly, and if I don’t make it (which I will)— what’s left helps someone else trying to go down the same road. Plus, gift aid means more help for everyone.

So thank you for being here. For standing with me. The battle’s on.

— Karla xxxx