Much as I loved my time off with my second baby, I knew, in January 2020, that I was ready to go back to work. It was also something I needed to do financially.

As a self-employed freelance writer – and therefore only in receipt of statutory maternity pay of just under £140 a week – I’d always planned to return to journalism at the start of 2020, once my son had reached seven months. In preparation for this, I’d found him a place in a very caring and nurturing nursery just a short walk from our house in Battersea, south-west London. At the time, my daughter was four, and happily ensconced in Reception year at a local school that she loved.

In the first few weeks of January, I took on new work commissions, and began settling back into the rigours of balancing an almost full-time job in journalism with the needs of two high-octane little ones. (Fortunately, I was doing this with the help of my very hands-on husband, albeit around the demands of his pretty intense investment job).

But what I couldn’t have planned for is the fact that, just a matter of weeks later, the four of us would be facing the fears and unknowns of entering the first Covid lockdown. I remember the date so very clearly, as this all happened on March 21, 2020 (the day after my 41^st birthday). As the prospect of lockdown grew more real, my husband and I spent hours talking things through. But while we thrashed out a whole range of scenarios, we both ultimately agreed that it made sense for me to put the majority of my work on hold so that I could look after the children – meaning he, the higher earner, could go on working from home as much as possible. At that moment, this felt like a hefty blow to my hopes of getting back into my career, and yet at the same time, it also seemed a very small sacrifice to make in the midst of a global pandemic.

And then, as if attempting to home-school a four-year-old – while trying to look after a 10-month-old baby – weren’t enough to contend with, just a few weeks later, on April 16, I got diagnosed with breast cancer. Grade-three triple negative breast cancer, to be precise. (I ended up getting this news after going for a scan having found a lump on my left breast while sitting in the bath with my daughter at the end of an exhausting lockdown day). This bombshell within the Covid bombshell was the nightmare that no-one wants. But that exact nightmare was my reality back in 2020 – and one that didn’t go away when I woke up.

What followed was undoubtedly the toughest summer of my life. I was lucky to get a treatment plan in place very quickly, and began chemotherapy in central London on May 1. It didn’t take long for my husband and I to realise that we were going to need some serious extra help with childcare to get through the next few months. However, due to the added complications of Covid – and the various restrictions in place – we weren’t able to call on grandparents or other family members as we normally would have done. Instead, we decided to put the feelers out for a nanny. But this, too, was no mean feat given we needed to find someone willing to essentially ‘bubble’ with us for as long as required.

Long story short, we were extremely fortunate to find a very special individual who could start almost straight away. And that nanny became something of a life-saver for our family in 2020, helping us survive one week to the next in the midst of all the madness.

While I tolerated chemotherapy reasonably well, I was in bed for long periods, and often found myself in a ‘chemo fog’ that lasted for days. I lost my hair, and then my nails – and became a shadow of the person I’d once been. I couldn’t be ‘present’ for my children. I felt wretched. And I was petrified.

So, for a sizeable chunk of the first 18 months of my son’s life – and for a decent stint of my daughter’s fourth year – I simply couldn’t be the mother I wanted to be. Yes, when I wasn’t at chemotherapy, I was there for the cuddles, and the stories and the cake-baking and the lego-making – or at least as much as much as my body would allow. But for much of that summer, I was in a spaced-out chemo-induced daze, often horrendously nauseous or crippled with tiredness. Or both.

I so vividly recall lying in bed during July and August and hearing my nanny playing in the paddling pool in our back garden with my children. And I remember wishing with every bone in my body that it could be me splashing around with them. Yet there I was, feeling very sorry for myself, and simply unable to drag my exhausted body out of bed.

Time passed (extremely slowly), but at the end of chemotherapy, my consultants were very pleased with how things had gone. Nonetheless, I still had more treatment to go. I underwent surgery in September 2020. For me, this was a ‘therapeutic mammoplasty,’ an operation which is more involved than a lumpectomy, but not as major as a mastectomy. (Essentially, it involves surgeons removing the tumour, but trying to save as much of the breast as possible).

Several weeks later, in the middle of October, I went through two intense weeks of daily radiotherapy. By this time, I was starting to work again, the children were back at school and nursery, and we, as a family, were beginning to return to something that was a tiny bit more normal. But while I was slowly starting to emerge from the chemo haze, the cumulative tiredness from the months of treatment were plaguing me unlike anything I’d ever known. Parenting can be hard at the best of times; parenting when you’ve got very little to give is extremely hard.

Later that year, I got to hear my consultant utter those precious words: ‘no evidence of disease.’ But while there may have been a profound sense of relief that the tumour was gone, I knew my journey was far from over. (Something which remains true today, almost five years on, as there’s never really such a thing as an ‘all-clear’ as far as cancer is concerned.)

As I started to get better ‘physically’ from the demands of treatment, I was able to begin to become the mum I wanted to be once again. I could run around and keep up with my children a little more easily, my hair was starting to grow back; I began to smile and laugh a little more.

But in the months that followed, my mental health really began to suffer. Looking back, I think this had a hell of a lot to do with the reality of what I’d been through in the summer of 2020 starting to actually sink in. I got very low and found myself constantly trying to do all I could to escape from my own head. While people may think cancer gets ‘cured’ like other conditions, the reality is, it’s a whole lot more complex than that.

Once again, in 2021 and some of 2022, I found that there were times when I was distant from my children. I wasn’t able to cope with my own brain and emotions – let alone anyone else’s. I just didn’t know what to do or where to turn.

Thankfully, I was extremely lucky to have a rock of a husband who just kept going – and who gave our children as much stability as he could while I was faltering. And, with the help of friends and family, I started weekly therapy, which gave me the chance to voice my feelings and my fears with someone I could trust.

Since then, I’ve put together a more extensive kind of ‘toolbox’ of coping mechanisms, including yoga, meditation, cold water swims – and a new-found love for weight-lifting. All these things help me keep my fears and vulnerabilities under control, at least to some degree. This, in turn, frees up some headspace, allowing me to focus on looking after – and loving my children – in a way that’s not been possible for me on many occasions over the past few years.

Life has also changed hugely in the last 12 months after making the decision, with my husband, in early 2023, to move to north Devon. After much soul-searching and debate, we both agreed that we were going to take the plunge and escape the rat-race of London – with the hope of giving all four of us the chance to reset a bit. (As a freelancer, I’m in the fortunate position of being able to work anywhere, and my husband has, happily, found a CEO role based locally that he absolutely loves).

So, a year on – after having spent nine months renting a holiday cottage while we looked to sell our London home and find a new home down here – we now live in a barn conversion in the middle of nowhere, with trees to climb and fields to run in. We also have a puppy.

We, as a family, spend a lot more time outdoors – chilling on a beach, walking the dog along the coast, swimming in the sea – or simply hanging out in our garden. I even took two months off work this summer so I could be present with my children. (Once again, I realise I’m in a very privileged position to be able to do this).

But it has unquestionably been one of the best summers of my life, as l have spent precious time with my two (now not-so-little) babies who turned eight and five this year. We have gone back to the simpler things. We have played a lot, laughed a lot. And had a summer filled with cuddles.

As I write this in September 2024, I am very aware that in just a few months’ time, I will reach my five-year anniversary since diagnosis. While some women opt to celebrate this much talked of milestone with a glass of champagne, I have chosen to mark it in my own way. (With breast cancer, doctors say the risk seems to go back down around five years after stopping treatment, although the increased risk does not go away completely).

To mark this five-year anniversary, I’m in the midst of doing a big fundraising push for a host of cancer charities. I kicked things off with the Race for Life 10km run in June this year, in aid of Cancer Research. And then, more recently, at the end of August, I took part in a 14-mile ‘Mighty Hike’ along the Cornish coast. I did this along with five girls who have been my support team since the start; the friends who have stood beside me every step of the way.

Since launching in 2015, the Mighty Hikes, sponsored by Santander, have raised more than £45 million for people living with cancer. And I like to think I’ve played my own small part in all that, having raised almost £3,000 for Macmillan Cancer Support.

Esther Shaw is fundraising for Macmillan Cancer Support (justgiving.com)

Next up for me is a topless swim in north Devon at the iconic ‘Tunnels Beach’ in Ilfracombe, in November. This, I feel, is a brilliant way to promote body positivity, and help power up cancer care for people at North Devon District Hospital.

Beyond that, I wait to see what the new year brings, but hope to take part in one or two more sponsored events in early 2025.

And then, on April 16, next year, I will go and sit on a beach with my husband and children. I’ll watch the waves lap against the shore. And I’ll hug them all hard. Very, very hard.