It began with symptoms that seemed harmless enough: abdominal pain, bloating and exhaustion. But they didn’t go away. Over two years I went back and forth between my GP and A&E and was repeatedly told I was “too young” for anything serious to be wrong. Eventually I was told it was IBS and reassured it was nothing to worry about.Â
With no clear answers and little concern from doctors, I decided to go travelling, hoping sunshine and adventure might help me feel better. Instead, everything fell apart. I only managed three weeks in Thailand before my stomach became so swollen and painful that I knew something was seriously wrong. When I returned home, my condition worsened rapidly.That’s when my sister stepped in. She took me back to the doctors, this time to a different surgery. This time, they listened.Â
In March 2015 I was diagnosed with stage 4, advanced and progressive lymphoma. It was the first time I had ever heard the word lymphoma. Scans revealed the reality of what had been happening inside my body for over two years. A 15cm lymph node in my abdomen was pressing against my spine. There was another behind my heart, one in my neck, and the cancer had spread to my bone marrow.
Overnight, my life changed. Adventure filled plans, were replaced with biopsies, fertility treatment and chemotherapy. My treatment wasn’t designed to cure me.Â
After six months of chemotherapy and two years of immunotherapy, I reached remission. I was overjoyed. But with incurable cancer, remission doesn’t mean the end. It means uncertainty. I was placed on active monitoring, living scan to scan, knowing the lymphoma could return at any time.Â
In March 2022, I found a lump When it didn’t go away, I went straight to my consultant. A biopsy confirmed my worst fear. The lymphoma had returned.
I underwent radiotherapy, hoping it would control the disease. It didn’t. Within weeks, new lymph nodes appeared, and I had to start an aggressive combination of chemotherapy and immunotherapy.
The treatment was brutal. My body struggled. I caught Covid and was admitted to hospital on Christmas Day with a blood clot. After four months, my consultant made the difficult decision to stop treatment because my body could not tolerate any more. Thankfully, it had done enough. I went back into remission. But in May 2025, my lymphoma relapsed again, ironically while I was in Thailand, the same place my journey with cancer had first begun.
At this stage, my care is no longer about standard treatment pathways. It is about innovation. I have now received multiple lines of NHS therapy. Clinical trials are no longer a distant concept. They are a critical part of my future. For patients like me, clinical trials are not a last resort. They are often the most realistic route to accessing emerging treatments.
My current pathway includes advanced immunotherapies such as bispecific antibodies and CAR T cell therapy. Entering a clinical trial is an act of hope. You are placing your trust in science, in innovation, and in the possibility of time. Because that’s what this is about. Time. I am here today because of research. Because of innovation. Because patients before me said yes to treatments that didn’t yet exist, helping move science forward.
And this is why early diagnosis matters so much. If my lymphoma had been diagnosed sooner, before it became advanced and incurable, my pathway could have been very different.
Living with incurable lymphoma since 2015, I know first hand how isolating a diagnosis like this can feel, especially as someone young. Follicular lymphoma is a cancer that’s rarely spoken about, and I wanted to be part of championing the voice of FLF patients and supporting the fight to find a cure. It felt like the natural next step from what I was already doing through Lymphoma Out Loud, the charity I set up to help young people recognise the signs and symptoms sooner than I did.
Being apart of FLVoices has given real purpose to everything I’ve been through. For a long time my story was just something that happened to me. Being part of this programme has turned it into something useful, a way to connect with other patients, share what I’ve learned, and remind people that a diagnosis doesn’t mean your voice disappears.
I met Alison at the very first FLF collective meet up. It became clear that our connection had become a friendship when I relapsed most recently. Alison was there for me straight away, checking in regularly, and it hit me that this wasn’t just a connection built around shared diagnosis anymore. It was a genuine friendship, the kind where someone shows up for you when things get hard.Â
Alison is someone I properly look up to. She’s resilient, she seizes life with both hands, and honestly she’s just this big ball of joy to be around, the kind of person who lifts the whole room. We share the same daft sense of humour, and neither of us ever says no to a glass of red wine.Â
Lymphoma doesn’t get to write the story for either of us. We’re both determined to keep travelling and keep saying yes to life, whatever our bodies throw at us. During my last relapse I lost my confidence a bit and stopped playing football, but watching Alison carry on playing tennis, relapse or not, was the nudge I needed to get back out there myself. It’s a reminder I don’t think I’d have found anywhere else.
