August 11th, 2025
I was doom scrolling one day last month. Not a particularly special day, and not one I remember where I was, or what I was doing.
What I do remember about that day was landing on a post where Princess Catherine talked about her months post cancer treatment.
And I cried.
I'll share it here…
@theprimrosecentre
“The hardest part comes after.”
— Princess Kate of Wales
In her quiet yet powerful words, Princess Kate once opened up about something many don’t talk about:
“You put on a brave face during treatment, but the real struggle begins after.”
She was speaking about her experience with chemotherapy—a journey that doesn’t end when the last session does.
Because once the treatments stop…
The world expects you to bounce back.
To smile.
To “go back to normal.”
But the truth is, that “normal” no longer exists.
What follows is a deep emotional rollercoaster:
The medical team is no longer by your side every day.
The adrenaline of survival fades.
The exhaustion lingers.
And you’re left navigating a new version of yourself—physically, emotionally, mentally.
“It’s a much harder process than I ever imagined,” she said.
This isn’t just a story of resilience.
It’s a reminder: healing takes time.
Not just the body—but the soul.
So if you—or someone you love—is in that space after the storm, don’t rush the calm.
Let it come, slowly. Gently. With grace.
And above all, don’t expect to be who you were before.
You’re becoming someone even stronger.
— Princess Kate of Wales
In her quiet yet powerful words, Princess Kate once opened up about something many don’t talk about:
“You put on a brave face during treatment, but the real struggle begins after.”
She was speaking about her experience with chemotherapy—a journey that doesn’t end when the last session does.
Because once the treatments stop…
The world expects you to bounce back.
To smile.
To “go back to normal.”
But the truth is, that “normal” no longer exists.
What follows is a deep emotional rollercoaster:
The medical team is no longer by your side every day.
The adrenaline of survival fades.
The exhaustion lingers.
And you’re left navigating a new version of yourself—physically, emotionally, mentally.
“It’s a much harder process than I ever imagined,” she said.
This isn’t just a story of resilience.
It’s a reminder: healing takes time.
Not just the body—but the soul.
So if you—or someone you love—is in that space after the storm, don’t rush the calm.
Let it come, slowly. Gently. With grace.
And above all, don’t expect to be who you were before.
You’re becoming someone even stronger.
This hit home for me. I immediately shared it with Jess, and an online friend who is currently supporting her young son through his cancer journey.
She's right.
No one talks about the after.
No one really cares about the healing story, and how perhaps THAT requires equally as much strength as surviving treatment.
I remember the day Jess finally rang the bell.
Our family were the only ones left on the cancer floor (wish this room was always and forever this empty…) because we were waiting for Jess to have her pic line removed (it got stuck).
When she got to the doorway of that room with her angelic nurses following closely behind, I remember feeling almost numb.
Maybe too, a feeling of denial?
She rang the bell, we took the pictures.
But I remember thinking, how many people ring this bell only to have to come back to this wing of the hospital?
I remember swallowing this doubting feeling of ‘is it really over?’
Jess and I have talked about this moment since.
Ironically, she feels the same way about the bell. She also admitted that when she was in the middle of treatment, the bell made her sad.
She would be slumped over on my shoulder battling nausea and intense headaches knowing it would be weeks before she could also do the same and that the bell was a bit torturous for her.
It took weeks after that last treatment for Jess to feel even a little human.
She was still very ill.
I wasn't prepared for this part, naively.
I assumed once treatment was over, we got our Jess back.
Spoiler alert… we didn't.
By the time she started regaining some energy, an appetite and a glimpse of her spirit… she lost her eyebrows.
Ironically, when she lost her hair in the early stages of chemo, she said something I'll never forget.
“now, people can see on the outside how I feel on the inside”.
We chatted at length just last night about this stage of her ‘after’.
She confided that this was the part she dreaded most. When the doctor told her she would lose her hair.
Not that she would lose it, but that window of time when she would feel normal, but her appearance would remind her (and everyone around her) that she was previously sick.
I tried my best to be supportive at this stage, but when the words come from mom, they always seem less effective somehow.
Her body went through war.
Now her body is fighting it's way back to it's new normal.
She fought with hormonal issues for months due to the intensive surgeries done even before chemo.
Her body morphed and evolved through stages she didn't recognize.
What many may not know is Jess is a quiet sufferer.
But, we are both empaths.
So although she never complained or lashed out (which she had every right to) I knew in my bones she was struggling in her ‘after’.
As an impatient control freak, I wanted to help. But looking back, I unknowingly gave her the space to heal in her own way.
She clung on to ‘the next season’ which in our case was fall.
I let her drive her own healing bus, and said yes to whatever she needed to do.
We embraced both fall, then winter by going to bookstores, starting a book club, decorating our new bookshelf with seasonal knick-knacks.
All things I've NEVER done in my life.
We slowed down and enjoyed the next year of seasons.
It distracted all of us from the immense need to have Jess healed.
Instead, we started taking the little things less for granted. Watching the joy on her face as each season brought a new source of hope was healing for all of us.
So here we are.
It's August 11th, 2025… exactly 2 years from her last treatment.
Our daughter is back.
Actually, our daughter is back but not as she once was.
She's stronger.
She heads to her three month check ups solo (even when I beg to go with her).
She writes notes about any changes to her health she thinks the doctor should know.
She has reconnected with old friends who she adores, while remaining a steadfast friend with her new ones.
As she rounds into her last semester of school, I see that cancer took a lot of time and life experiences away from our daughter.
But, cancer didn't extinguish her fight.
It didn't take away her hope.
It ignited a stronger, more independent woman who will regain that lost time and experiences and never take for granted things that maybe we do.
She's emerging through her ‘after’ like the champion she is.
Me, however…
I find myself still a bit numb.
Like did this even happen? Was it just a fevered dream(nightmare)?
I remember a few times over these last couple years feeling anger.
Comments, and situations that reminded me most people we know who were once invested in this journey have moved on. Forgotten, maybe. And I was left in these moments feeling a bit raw.
My ‘after’ apparently needs more work.
But, watching our daughter bravely navigate through hers, I'm committed to finally facing mine.
Happy 2nd Cancer Free Anniversary Jess.
We love you.
mom❤️
3 comments
The after part sounds like the coming out of a cocoon. It’s taking her time to flap her wings so she can fly about here and there. So happy there is good news on this side of her two years. I hope you are doing just as well Miss Sandi. ❤️
This is a beautiful essay. Thank you for sharing your journey 🩷🩷
Beautiful words, congratulations Sandy.
I pray that putting all this “after” in words helped you come out of your numbness and realise : “Yes, we’ve done it. Jess won her battle and we, Mark and I, supported her as best we could.”
I’ve supported my daughter Cécile through her time as a widow for 3 years (alone with her 5 very young children) and she just remarried. It’s a bit like she was cured, like your Jess. And I feel the same numbness as you did… I enjoy everything you post on your vlog. THANK YOU.
Laurie from France