The Moment Everything Changed

From quitting our jobs to chasing sunshine - and finding something else entirely along the way.

How it all started

We were just about to leave Berlin.

Leaving our safe jobs. Giving up a lovely apartment. Selling most of our stuff. We were so ready for this new chapter - one with sunshine, fewer belongings and a lot more uncertainty. I wanted to embrace all of it. First Bali, then Melbourne.

But something else had already begun too. It was just a tiny lump at first. Barely noticeable. But I felt it. And it grew. Pretty fast, I thought.

A week before our flight, I went to my gynaecologist, probably more to calm my thoughts than anything else. She felt the lump and said:

'It’s probably nothing. Cancer doesn’t hurt.”

I remember holding on to that sentence like a lifeline. And somehow, what she said did not fully calm be down. Still, I flew to Bali. With the fear in my luggage.

In Lombok, in the open water, I had a surf accident, right onto my chest (of course). The pain was sharp. Not just from the wave, but from what I was already carrying inside. I got an ultrasound. They told me I needed a biopsy. But I couldn’t do it there. I wanted answers in Australia - a place I was about to call home.

The call that changed everything

Once we arrived a couple days later, everything happened fast. Another ultrasound. Another doctor. A biopsy.

And then: That call. We were sitting in a restaurant in Melbourne, waiting for a friend. My phone rang. I answered. It was my doctor. He didn’t need many words.

His voice gave it away. “We found malignant cells.” The world tilted. I don’t remember much after that, just my partner’s arms around me and the air disappearing. I cried and kept saying:

' No no no no. This is not real. Not now. Not me.'

I called my sister. Knowing she was close to me meant everything is this moment, after all those years of being apart. But I did not want these circumstances for us. I wanted to be close to her, as her older sister, being there for her - healthy. Now she had to be here for me. That's not what I wanted. She and her partner picked us up. The second their car stopped, she jumped out and ran toward me with tears in her eyes. We met in the middle of the street and collapsed into each other’s arms. Now we all stood there, on the sidewalk. Me, my partner, my sister, her boyfriend. Four grown adults, frozen in time, crying together on the side of a loud road. No words. Just shock. And disbelief. We had no idea what was coming - only that nothing would ever be the same again. And in that moment, I couldn’t yet understand that this might also hold something good.

Cancer at 36

The weeks that followed were a blur. MRIs. CTs. Ultrasounds. Blood tests. More biopsies. Doctors. Hospitals. That strange phase between diagnosis and treatment - it’s a brutal place to be. I don’t think I’ve ever been in such a dark place. It felt like staring death in the eye.

I had just turned 36. And now I was hearing a diagnosis I never thought would apply to me. Not now, not ever: Triple-negative breast cancer. Stage 3. Aggressive. Fast-growing and a 90% growth rate. No hormone receptors. Which meant: chemo. And fast. Then surgery.

I had just moved across continents. I didn’t even have a GP (Hausarzt) yet and suddenly I had an oncologist. Was this for real?

Chemo started within a couple of weeks at St. Vincent's in Melbourne, which turned out to be an incredible hospital. Everything moved quickly, efficiently - and the team, all women, were clear, structured, deeply human. It honestly felt like a completely different world compared to Germany.

For the first time, I felt truly seen. Cared for, as a person, not a number. And somewhere in that chaos, I slowly began to trust medicine again. Not because I was ever fully against conventional treatments - I would have never chosen not to do chemo (even though it f*cken scared me). In my case, it’s what’s saving my life.

But like many of us, I’d seen enough on Instagram, heard enough from “wellness experts,” and been let down by doctors in the past to feel skeptical. Still, I knew: This wasn’t the time to try alternatives or second-guess every step. I had to trust the evidence. I had to trust this team.

Where I am now

It’s been months. I’m still in active treatment.

Writing all this, makes me tear up. Remembering those first moments: the shock, the distance, the fear. Compared to where I am now… Fourteen chemo rounds behind me. Only two more to go. Surgery so close. It’s hard to believe how far I’ve come.

There’s light at the end of the tunnel. The lump started melting away within the first few weeks. And yet - the journey isn’t over. Not really. I’m still processing. The fear. The anger. The absurdity. And the powerful truth that I still have so much to live for.

There’s grief, yes. But also clarity, about what matters. And what never really did.

I don’t have a five-year plan anymore.

But I do have today.

And sometimes, that’s more than enough.

For you. For me. For us.

Cancer didn’t break me. But it did break something open.

Maybe I’m softer now. Slower. More real? I want that for myself.

And I want to talk about all of it - the fear, the pain, the lessons, the laughter in the middle of chaos.

If you’re standing in that same terrifying in-between, the moment when life splits into “before” and “after”:

I see you.

I’m with you.

And you’re not alone.

This space is for you.

For the fear, the pain, the questions. But also for the glimmers of hope and the quiet strength that lives somewhere inside all of it.

To my family and friends 💖

Maybe you’re reading this from afar, trying to feel close, trying to understand or just wanting to be updated. I know it’s freaking weird and sometimes hard to be so far away while all this is happening. But please know: I carry you with me. Your support, your love. It’s here, always, even across oceans.

This blog is my way of letting you in. Of bringing you a little closer to me. Of saying what I often can’t in a message or a call.

I love you all. More than words will ever be able to express.