It’s funny how the things we once thought were everything can seem trivial as life unfolds. My 20-year-old self believed success was the ultimate goal—climbing the career ladder, landing promotions, earning raises, driving a sleek car, owning a perfect home. That version of me lived for checklists, accolades, and the approval of others. Now, writing as a 40-year-old who has traveled a path I could never have imagined, I’ve learned that what truly matters is love. Love for myself, for my children, my family, for the people and passions that give life meaning, and for this precious world we all call home.
I was 33 when my life took a turn that reshaped everything I thought I knew. That year, I was diagnosed with an aggressive stage 3 breast cancer—a diagnosis that set off a chain of events beyond my wildest imagination, ultimately leading me to a place of peace, gratitude, and deep understanding. It was August 2013 when I first heard the words no one ever wants to hear: “I’m sorry Kreena, you have breast cancer.” I had noticed a subtle inversion of my nipple and, after weeks of ignoring it, finally went to my GP. Referral to a breast clinic, scans, mammograms, biopsies, and countless pokes and prods followed, until those devastating words changed my life forever.
I was young, healthy, and careful—eating well, exercising, never smoking, drinking sparingly. So when the diagnosis hit, my first reaction was pure rage. How could this happen to me? Life felt suddenly cruel and unfair. Then the treatment plan was laid out: a mastectomy, chemotherapy, and radiotherapy. I initially wondered if I could navigate this privately, if I could fight my battle silently. I’m an Indian woman, the daughter of immigrant parents, raised to meet expectations—excel academically, choose the “right” partner, build a successful career that promised stability. I had checked all the boxes, made everyone proud. But how could I now admit that I wasn’t invincible, that life as I knew it was about to collapse? That my five-year plan would need to be torn up and rewritten from scratch?
In my community, cancer still carries stigma. Some whisper that it’s a punishment for past deeds. Even among those who accept it as disease, pity and sorrow lurk around every corner. I wanted to avoid all of it—the sympathetic stares, the endless explanations, the judgment, the feeling of letting everyone down. I wanted to fight this quietly, get through treatment, and return to life as usual: career, routine, ticking boxes. But soon, it became clear this battle wouldn’t fit neatly into my plan. This was not a temporary setback; it was a complete upheaval of everything I had known.
The first months of treatment were isolating. Only a handful of loved ones were involved in my care. I struggled to embrace chemotherapy, despite my consultant’s advice. I smiled for the world, but at night, tears streamed down my face as I questioned why this was happening to me. The anxiety, the fear, the sheer physical toll of chemo felt unbearable.
It was then I found my tribe. Online communities of young women with breast cancer became my lifeline. Though we had never met in person, we understood each other completely. We shared fears, frustrations, pain, and uncertainty about life and death. There was no need for masks or pretense—here, it was safe to be wholly vulnerable, to let the raw truth of this disease be known.
During this period, a member of my care team approached me about participating in a campaign for a charity supporting people with the visible effects of cancer. I hesitated. I had barely shared my diagnosis with anyone, let alone go public. But something whispered that it was time to break the silence, to give this illness purpose. Over the following months, I lost all my hair, eyelashes, eyebrows, and much of my physical identity. Yet, through this campaign with Look Good Feel Better, I found courage, a platform, and a sense of wholeness again—a turning point that ultimately led me to write this story today.
My active oncology treatment ended on June 20, 2014. I was bald, missing a breast, in medical menopause, scarred from radiotherapy, and physically and mentally broken. The world felt foreign, and finding a place for myself after all I had endured was an immense challenge. Time became my healer. I reassessed my priorities, rebuilt my life around self-love, resilience, and the future I wanted, one step at a time.
Two weeks before chemotherapy began, I underwent an urgent IVF process. It was surreal to create the potential for new life while fearing for my own. We successfully created twelve embryos, frozen for the future—a lifeline of hope. By summer 2016, after recovering from treatment and major reconstructive surgery, my husband and I took a holiday to Vancouver. Within hours of arrival, I began feeling unwell, and soon found myself gasping for air, dizzy, and struggling to breathe.
After being rushed to Vancouver General Hospital, I slipped in and out of consciousness. Machines beeped relentlessly; doctors probed for answers. I was told to prepare for the worst. Acute heart failure had set in—my heart functioning at just 6%, lungs filled with fluid. Alone and frightened, I wrote letters to loved ones, bracing for the end. And yet, amidst the fear, a voice within me whispered: do not give up. I clung to that hope. Gradually, I survived ICU, recovered from the hospital, and began the painstaking journey back to life—relearning how to walk, breathe, and live with a heart that had nearly failed.
During this time, my path to parenthood continued. We found a surrogate, thawed our embryos, and in 2018 welcomed our daughter, Amaala. She arrived as a miracle, filling our hearts and home with hope, love, and joy. Soon, we decided to grow our family further through known egg donation. After meeting our South African donor in Cyprus, creating embryos, and navigating surrogacy, our second pregnancy brought us triplets—a set of identical twins and a singleton—born prematurely during the pandemic at just 30 weeks. NICU was overwhelming, yet I promised to be the mother they deserved, devoted to their every need.
As of summer 2021, our family is complete. Amaala, our vibrant three-year-old, leads her three sons, our “kings,” who are thriving and full of life. My heart is full. My home is overflowing with love. Life has taken me through unimaginable lows and delivered heights I could never have dreamed of. And through it all, I’ve learned this: hold on. Pain ends. Love endures. Life is fragile, beautiful, and worth every heartbeat.
