Believing in Yourself Is Scary. Do It Anyway.

What surviving breast cancer in my twenties has taught me about bravery.

At the infusion centre, loading up on chemotherapy.

In 2018, my husband Bret and I planned to spend Christmas in Hong Kong with his family, but my unexpected diagnosis of breast cancer at age twenty-nine derailed our plans. In the months that followed, I worked my way through multiple rounds of chemotherapy, losing my hair and my life as I knew it. Later, I would lose my breasts and, after beginning hormone therapy, my period, too.

Six months into treatment came the greatest and most shocking loss: my childhood best friend, Emily, died of breast cancer.

I was consumed with grief. And I struggled to understand why I had survived. As far as I could see, there was no good reason for it. In fact, I was pretty sure mine and Emily’s fates were the wrong way around.

I’ve spent the last five years attempting to forgive myself for being the one who survived.

Looking out over Deep Water Bay, Hong Kong.

This July, recently finished with cancer treatment, Bret and I finally made it to Hong Kong. Though it was my first time visiting, Bret spent his formative childhood years there, and we aligned our trip with that of his parents, Trevor and Vivian.

One night, the four of us were lounging around in mine and Bret’s hotel room, sharing a bottle of red wine and some seriously questionable gin and tonics.

The view from our hotel room. Aberdeen Harbour, Fujifilm Instax.

Bret and I found ourselves asking them what it was like when they first immigrated to Hong Kong in 1993, two young kids in tow. Having moved to LA from England ten years ago, Bret and I know a little about the immigrant experience, but their relocation seemed a horse of a different colour. There was a language barrier to contend with, as Trevor started a new job and Bret and his brother enrolled at an international school.

Trevor told us about his work as an architect and how he managed to build a client list from scratch. Viv told us about her work as a foreign correspondent and TV presenter. At our insistence, they regaled us with tales about the pivotal moments in their new lives: the time Trevor walked into his boss’s office and asked for a raise, offering his guarantee that he’d bring in more work. Viv had recognised a gap in the Australian news coverage of the Hong Kong handover, so she took a chance on renting her own studio space, not yet sure how she’d go on to pay for it.

As someone who often doubts her own worth, I was taken aback by their confidence.

“How did you believe in yourself so much?” I asked.

Viv and Trevor echoed the same message: it was less a matter of self-belief and more a matter of necessity.

These success stories were really stories of bravery. Stories about the times they took a chance, hoping it would pay off and lead to better lives for them and their sons. I imagine that for every one of their successes, there’ve been dozens of failures, too.

Perhaps this all sounds staggeringly obvious to you, but I confess, I haven’t always found this to be the case. I’m all too guilty of hearing about other people’s successes and forgetting that they’ve likely also struggled with doubts.

It was my cancer diagnosis—and Emily’s death—which challenged me to be brave. Faced with the prospect of my own mortality, I became painfully aware of how dissatisfied I was with my life, of how far I’d strayed from the creative pursuits which were once so integral to my identity. I didn’t want to be working in a soul-crushing music industry job. I longed to once again be a person with something to offer—something to say.

I have a sticker on my water bottle that reads, “Doing it afraid is just as brave.”

Now, I wonder if the quote is wrong.

Shouldn’t it be, “Doing it afraid is what makes it brave?”

Surely, without the presence of doubt, there’s no need for bravery. Bravery is taking a leap, knowing full well you may fall flat on your face.

And so it is I find myself in the first chapter of my own story of bravery: starting this newsletter/blog/Substack. (Thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who’s subscribed!)

I could easily sit in my little writing room, squirrelling away words forever. Historically, I’ve not put much stock in the value of my writing, believing my voice to be unimportant or of no interest to the world.

And I’m still riddled with doubts.

Am I a hack?

Am I deeply boring?

Am I just a bordering-on-eloquent worrywart?

But despite these doubts—despite myself—I write. Writing has helped me grow in confidence, not only as a writer but also as a human. Writing has healed me. Each sentence is a step forward, a promise to myself that I’m worthy.

After everything I’ve survived, it would be an awful shame to let doubt get in the way of my bravery.

My water bottle and its personal mantra.