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In 2021, during my final year at university, I was diagnosed with chronic myeloid leukaemia (CML) — a rare, lifelong blood cancer that typically affects adults over 60. I was only 21. Fewer than 750 people are diagnosed with CML each year in the UK. I’m now 25 and have been living with this diagnosis for the past three and a half years. It turned my world upside down overnight.
I hadn’t experienced anything that screamed “cancer.” But for years, I’d been going to the GP with symptoms that didn’t quite make sense. I was constantly tired, catching infections more often than normal, and then came a strange numbness and tingling in my hands and legs. Spinal scans and MRIs came back normal. It was frustrating — I knew something wasn’t right.
One particularly bizarre symptom was bleeding gums. The dentist thought it might be gum disease, which was odd for my age. They treated me but later admitted they couldn’t explain it — my gums were otherwise healthy. I’d only learn later that bleeding gums, although uncommon, can be a symptom of leukaemia.
Around the same time, I was being referred to the haematology team at Ninewells Hospital in Dundee for haemochromatosis (iron overload). During a routine check-up, my GP spotted irregularities in my bloodwork. After four repeat tests, I was referred to a haematologist, who wanted to do a bone marrow biopsy to be sure.
I had the biopsy in Dundee and returned to Edinburgh, where I was studying Marketing Management. A week later — during exam season — I got the call telling me I had Chronic Myeloid Leukaemia (CML) and that I needed to begin treatment immediately.
There was no time to be scared. My mind switched into survival mode. I’d been diagnosed in the chronic phase, so I could begin treatment at home — a daily oral targeted therapy.
The Hardship Fund from Leukaemia Care helped me cover essential costs like travelling to and from hospital appointments, especially while I was at university and travelling back to Dundee for my care. It was a huge help at a time when everything felt up in the air.
The treatment hit hard. I was vomiting daily; experienced severe bone pain; needed crutches and developed rashes, migraines, hair loss, extreme fatigue, and anaemia. Not long after starting, I had heart palpitations and was rushed to A&E — a terrifying experience that added to the uncertainty.
I had to move home to St Andrews just to cope with daily life. But, despite everything, I was determined to finish my degree. After a month, I returned to Edinburgh and lived in survival mode for the next six months. I couldn’t do any of the things I used to enjoy — netball, gym, socialising, even part-time work. One night, trying to feel normal, I went to the theatre with friends, only to be hit by intense nausea mid-performance. I ran out with a sick bucket — humiliated and exhausted.
But I kept going, and somehow, through hard work and determination, and with support, I graduated with a First-Class Honours degree and an 85% mark in my final dissertation, one of the top marks of my year, written in honour of my dad who passed away in 2016. I was so proud. It wasn’t just a qualification — it was a symbol of everything I had fought through.
Six months into treatment, I achieved a deep molecular response. It’s not remission in the traditional sense, but it means the cancer is undetectable at a certain level — and the treatment is working.
That brought relief, but it didn’t mean the end.
Three and a half years on, I’m still on treatment. While some side effects have eased, I still live with chronic fatigue, bone pain, headaches, and skin issues. The fatigue is the most debilitating. It forced me to give up on so much including my unconditional place on a graduate-entry law programme at the University of Edinburgh — something I worked incredibly hard for. That decision broke my heart.
I now work part-time, remotely. It’s isolating and difficult at times. Most people my age are out travelling, building their careers, and starting exciting new chapters — while I often feel like I’m just trying to stay afloat. So much of my life feels like waiting. Waiting for results. Waiting to see if the fatigue will improve. Waiting to feel well enough to plan for the future. Every day is a careful balancing act.
One of the hardest parts is how invisible it all is. Because I look “well,” people assume I’m cured. But CML is chronic. The treatment is lifelong. It’s not something you get over — it’s something I live with every single day.
That said, there is a glimmer of hope. I’m now a hopeful candidate for trying to go treatment-free. To be eligible, you must sustain a deep molecular response over time, and everything must be carefully assessed. There’s a 60% chance of relapse within the first six months — but if you get past that point, the relapse rate drops significantly. Withdrawal symptoms are common, but I still want to try. For me, stopping treatment isn’t just about the meds — it’s about trying to get my life back.
One of the most powerful things that’s helped me keep going has been attending cancer support residentials for young people. Flynne’s Barn in the Lake District and the Ellen MacArthur Cancer Trust have both given me something truly special. I’ve connected with other young people aged 18–25 who also have cancer — and it’s been amazing to finally feel seen and understood in a way only those living it can provide. We laugh, we talk, we cry, and we have real conversations about life. It’s a space free of judgment, filled with empathy and adventure. I’ve made friends and memories for life. The people I’ve met have been truly incredible — they inspire me every single day to keep going and to share my story. I can’t thank the people behind these charities enough for what they do. I hope to return as a volunteer in future to help support others the way I’ve been supported.
I’ve also found comfort and connection in online spaces like the Chronic Myeloid Leukaemia (UK) and (Worldwide) Facebook support groups. When I was first diagnosed, I was scared and overwhelmed. But the kindness and knowledge from others with CML helped me through. I still ask questions — about side effects, worries, and good news — and now I try to support others in return.
I also found Leukaemia Care’s information booklets incredibly useful and comforting. When I was first diagnosed, I read the CML booklet and picked up helpful tips on managing things like nausea — especially around food — and fatigue. Just knowing I had something to turn to whenever I needed guidance made a real difference.
The Spot Leukaemia campaign is something I’m really passionate about. Early detection is so important. I was lucky to be diagnosed in the chronic phase, but had I not listened to my body — or had my GPs and consultants not gone the extra mile with testing and that crucial bone marrow biopsy — my prognosis could have been much worse. It’s vital to be aware of the signs of leukaemia: unexplained fatigue, easy bruising, bleeding gums, persistent infections, bone pain, headaches, and tingling or numbness in arms and legs. If you’re worried, don’t wait — speak to your GP or a healthcare professional. It can make all the difference.
I want to say a huge thank you to the haematology ward 34 at Ninewells Hospital in Dundee, my consultants, my specialist nurse, the Maggie’s Centre, and everyone involved in my care.
And to my friends and family — thank you for sticking by me through the highs and lows. They have also supported me in raising over £2,000 to support the cancer charities closest to my heart who make such a difference and huge impact in young people’s living with cancer lives.
Cancer has changed me. It’s shown me that life is a gift, and it’s the small things that matter most — fresh air, laughter, connection. There are still so many beautiful things in life to look forward to, even through the hard times. That’s what makes it all worth it.