Two years ago, I found a lump in my breast. I was moisturising, enjoying one of those blissful moments of self-care where it is just you, your skin and a tub of shea butter, coconut oil, almond oil blend when the discovery sent a chill down my spine.
"I’m only 21," I thought to myself. "It cannot possibly be anything serious."
In the weeks that followed, the lump grew larger and became harder to ignore. I thought about it every morning when I showered, when I rolled onto my front to sleep or when some inconsiderate buffoon elbowed past me in an attempt to get onto the tube before the doors closed.
So I did what all educated, independent young women did, I ran to my mum for advice. And in her wisdom, she encouraged me to do what I should have done from the outset, book an appointment to see my GP.
9 in 10 breast lumps are not cancer, but of course, this is all I could think about in the days that led up to my appointment.