Being diagnosed with cancer was a moment that reshaped my entire life long before I could understand what was happening to me. My treatment consisted of three years of intensive chemotherapy, with daily blood tests, infusions and other painful treatments, which aren’t performed anymore.
These treatments saved my life, but I still have the scars they left. Chemotherapy not only took away my energy, but it took away my hair and the childhood softeners that everyone else around me still had. While other children had their first school photo taken with full heads of hair, mine were of me with half or very short hair, a reminder of a fight I never chose.
Body image and me
That experience shaped my relationship with my appearance for years afterwards. For a long time, I couldn’t bring myself to cut my hair, even when I wanted to try something new, because any change felt like a return to vulnerability. I felt like I lost all control over how I looked and was so aware of this at such a young age. My port scar, still visible on my side today, became another symbol of what I’d been through. It isn’t something I hide, but it is something I’ve had to learn to accept. An imprint of survival that also carries complicated emotions.
There were short-term impacts, like feeling different from other children, and long-term ones, like struggling with confidence and feeling as though cancer had marked me in ways that would never fully fade. Even now, at 19, I still feel the aftershocks, ongoing hospital visits, chronic side effects and the fear of needles that never truly went away. But despite everything cancer might have taken, it never took away my smile. Every photo of me during treatment shows a little girl who kept smiling even when her hair was gone and her body felt beaten. That resilience came from my family, especially my parents, who refused to let my reflection become a source of shame.
Katie during treatment
My world became so small because of my weak immune system, so there were no crowded places, birthday parties or any normal childhood moments, and yet my family made sure I never felt less than whole. Their support led to the creation of 'Team Katie', a group of runners who began taking part in the London Marathon the year I was diagnosed, raising money to push for better research and gentler treatments for children like me.
Over time, Team Katie became a symbol of strength and belonging, reminding me that my appearance didn’t define me, my story did. And this April, I finally joined them. Running the London Marathon at 18 was one of the most emotional and empowering experiences of my life. As someone who once felt fragile and marked by illness, crossing that finish line felt like reclaiming ownership of my body after everything it had been through. Every mile was a reminder that the little girl who once lost her hair and confidence had grown into someone capable of extraordinary things.
My message to others
Life now looks very different from the years spent in hospital. I’m stronger, more determined and learning every day to love the body that carried me through so much. If I could give a message to young children facing treatment it would be this: your reflection might look different, but it's not weaker, and it's not less beautiful. Your scars, your hair regrowth, your changes, they’re all signs of survival, not things to hide. Be kind to yourself, allow yourself to grow at your own pace, and remember that your worth is never defined by how you look during or after treatment. You’re so much more than that, and the life waiting for you is bigger than anything cancer could ever take away.
From Contact magazine issue 110 | Spring 2026
