For the last six years, after completing treatment for Stage 3 breast cancer ( a diagnosis I had in 2019) , life had been unfolding in its ordinary, beautiful way.
We are a family of five living in Mumbai- my husband, Prateek; our 9-year-old son, Paarth; our 1-year-old toy poodle, Phulki; and my in-laws.
There has been family, work, growth, responsibility, and all the small, seemingly ordinary moments that make up a life.
Professionally, cancer introduced me to the world of coaching. Today, I work as a Leadership and Wellbeing Coach with one of the Big 4s, working with high-potential leaders.
Personally, I felt I was finally about to hit another milestone i.e. turning 40. However, crossing this decade from my thirties and entering the forties still feels like an uphill task.
Nothing suggested that everything was about to change again.
The first sign
The first sign was not pain. It was my voice.
It began to change so gradually that I tried not to think too much about it. It did not feel like a sore throat. It just sounded different. Strange enough to notice, but not alarming enough to imagine what it might mean.
On 15th August 2026, Independence Day, immediately after returning from a work trip, I went for an ENT examination.
The examination showed paralysis of my left vocal cord.
My eyes welled up.
For the last one year, I had already been living with paralysis in my left hand, which had rendered my fingers almost motionless. Another nerve, this time one responsible for a vital function, being affected by paralysis didn’t feel like God’s justice.
A CT scan followed.
The report showed multiple bone lytic lesions along my backbone, extending from my neck to my lower back. They appeared metastatic in nature. The cancer cells were now slowly progressing up towards my throat and pressing on the nerves along the way.
For me, this was confirmation:
Cancer is back.
But another thought immediately followed.
Isn’t a relapse supposed to be in the breast? Why is it in my backbone?
And suddenly, the pain I had been living with for the last year started making sense.
The days when I felt completely zapped of energy. The exhaustion I had struggled to explain. The things my body had been trying to tell me.
There was now an explanation.
This time, it felt more brutal and aggressive than a lump confined to one of the breasts.
It scared me.
I reached home with the reports. The moment my mother-in-law opened the door, I could not hold back my fears. It all came out with tears.
My first thought was:
“Last time, I could bear it all and survive. But this time, I am not so sure.”
How serious was it?
An immediate meeting with an oncosurgeon followed.
The look on his face was telling. It was almost as if he was asking me,
How are you still standing?
If the report was accurate, my backbone was extremely brittle because of the cancer. I needed to be very careful about how I walked and moved.
I was advised to immediately wear a cervical collar.
He said it was difficult to say exactly what we were dealing with, or how serious it was, until a PET scan was done.
So, it was ordered for early the next morning.
It was a test I dreaded.
During my previous treatment, I had discovered that I was allergic to the contrast dye used for the scan. But there was no escape.
A radioactive tracer is injected first. Then the contrast dye is administered, and you are asked to sit with it for a few hours so that the cancer cells can be seen clearly when you enter the scanner.
I went through it. The rashes and itching followed and stayed for a week.
The report came the next day, followed by another meeting with the onco surgeon.
Stage 4 cancer in my vertebral column was confirmed.
Doctor said, but there is also a good news. “It had not spread to any vital internal organs. It had metastasised, but it is still localised to the backbone. It was treatable. Now, it depended on how my body responded”
Treatable.
It was not just a word. It was hope.
And I decided to cling to that hope, no matter how testing the days ahead might get.

The questions that stayed with me
The five days that led us to this point were a whirlwind of emotions- shock, anger, disappointment, hopelessness, anxiety, uncertainty, and a lot of unanswered questions.
But as I reflect on that week, there are a few questions that stayed with me.
1. How do I move on?
The diagnosis was unsettling.
Nothing prepares you for this diagnosis. Not even a relapse.
There is a lot I could have done differently to reach the diagnosis earlier.
There is a lot the doctors could perhaps have done differently over the last year, since my body first started showing symptoms.
I could spend a lifetime trying to rewrite the past.
But what I am slowly coming to realise is that peace is not in holding on to the past, but in letting go of the need for it to have been different.
This is where I am. This is my reality.
The sooner I accept that, the sooner I can move ahead.
Acceptance brings peace. And peace brings the strength and courage to endure the journey ahead.
2. What truly matters?
A diagnosis like this puts you face-to-face with death and, almost in the same breath, gives you extraordinary clarity about life. About what matters. About what doesn’t.
What scared me most about dying was not death itself. It was what my absence would mean for my son and my husband.
The thought of not being there for them made me feel helpless and afraid.
Strangely, it also gave me clarity. There can be many Shreshthas for the world.
But for my family, there is only one.
Come what may, spending time with my family will be my first and only priority. Unconditionally.
3. What mindset do I want to walk in with this time?
Seven years ago, when cancer first hit me, it changed me forever. But it was also shaped by some of the choices I made along the journey. By the mindset I walked in with.
Here I am again, asking myself the same question.
I don’t want to enter this journey by counting only my struggles, even though there are many. To start with, for this blog itself, typing with one hand is a struggle. Not being able to use speech-to-text because my voice is gone due to the vocal cord paralysis is another.
But even in the middle of all these challenges, I still have the power to choose.
I can choose my attitude towards what lies ahead. That does not mean denying the struggles or pretending they are easy. It means acknowledging them without allowing them to become the only story I tell myself.
I want to walk this journey with surrender.
And I want to walk through this with compassion for myself, for my body, for the people caring for me, and for everyone making this journey alongside me.
I choose to surrender myself to the unknown that lies ahead. Not as giving up. But as letting go of the illusion that I can control everything.
I am learning that I don’t need to know what happens next.
I just need to be here.
Here. Now.

















