There were moments when I didn’t know if I’d live long enough to see my children grow up. It's a gift I never take for granted.

Can you tell us about your experience of being diagnosed with blood cancer when you were pregnant?

I always hoped I’d have a family one day, but I never imagined the journey would look the way it did. When you’re young, you picture the usual milestones — pregnancy, birth, watching your children grow — not hospitals, biopsies, and conversations about survival.

I was around 23–24 weeks pregnant when I first became unwell. It felt like the flu, but I just wasn’t getting better. I went to my GP, who said it was a chest infection and prescribed antibiotics. I carried on going to work, even though it was becoming harder every day. I was exhausted, my chest felt tight, and I was struggling to breathe. At my second scan appointment, the sonographer asked me to lie on my side so they could check the baby, but lying down made my breathing even worse. They couldn’t get the measurements they needed and asked me to rebook the scan. My symptoms kept getting worse, so I went back to the GP, who again said it was a chest infection and gave me stronger antibiotics. 

Eventually, I reached a point where I could barely breathe. My partner Paul was so worried that he took me to A&E. Within hours, I was bluelighted to Barts Hospital in London. I was barely conscious and had no idea what was happening. When I came round the next day, the doctors told me the devastating news: I had blood cancer — Acute Myeloid Leukaemia (AML). I didn’t know what to think. I knew very little about leukaemia and couldn’t believe this was happening. I kept asking myself what I had done to deserve this. My partner Paul and my brother were told what was going on, what the next steps were, and what my future might look like. I was trying to process everything, but none of it felt real. I remember asking the doctors, “What does this mean for me? I’m pregnant.” They told me I had been just 12 hours away from death. 

Back in 2008, AML in pregnancy was extremely rare — it still is — and there were hardly any case studies. The team had already contacted specialists in America for advice. Because there was so little research, I was advised that it would be safest to have a termination, as they couldn’t predict how the intense chemotherapy would affect the baby. They also warned that chemotherapy could leave me infertile.

I spoke to Paul about what to do, but deep down, I think I already knew my decision. I felt that if we continued the pregnancy, we had nothing to lose. So we did. 

Being diagnosed while pregnant was like having the ground disappear beneath me. It was terrifying, surreal, and completely disorientating. I had to make decisions no parent should ever face — balancing my own survival with the safety of my unborn child. There’s no handbook for that. You just move through it minute by minute, holding onto whatever hope you can find. The medical teams were incredible, but emotionally, it was a storm. I remember feeling both fiercely protective and utterly powerless at the same time.

I had regular checks with the obstetrician, and I began very intensive chemotherapy. I was, and still am, considered high risk, meaning I needed a stem cell transplant to survive. But as an Indian British woman, there were no suitable donors on the register. The haematology team searched worldwide, but no match was ever found. I went through four rounds of extremely intense chemotherapy, which eventually put me into remission. After the fourth round, I had an appointment with the obstetrician to check on the baby. The scan was taking a long time, and then another doctor was called in. That’s when everything changed. They told Paul he needed to go and get nappies and clothes because they had to take me to theatre for an emergency c-section — the baby was struggling.

Our daughter, Saffron, was born at 35 weeks, weighing 4lb 2oz, with no immune system. We stayed in isolation for several weeks while she was cared for. Everything happened so fast — one moment I was pregnant, and the next our tiny little girl was here. Despite everything I went through during the pregnancy, Saffron is healthy and turns 18 this year. Who would have imagined it? 

How did it feel knowing that you had to hope there was a matching donor on the register, to give you another chance of life?

It’s impossible to explain what it feels like to know your life depends on a stranger. You suddenly become aware of how fragile everything is — your future, your family’s future, all the moments you might never get to see.

Waiting to hear whether a donor existed was one of the hardest parts. It was a constant mix of hope, fear, and gratitude for people I had never met — people who sign up to help someone they will never know. 

I managed to survive the first time with chemotherapy alone. Then, just before reaching the five-year remission mark, I became pregnant again. I had regular monitoring and a planned C-section, and my second daughter, Mya, was born at 39 weeks — healthy, strong, and weighing 8lb 4oz. But around 12 weeks later, I relapsed. The cancer was back. This was the hardest period of my life. This time I knew exactly what was coming: months of isolation, endless blood tests, more chemotherapy — all while leaving behind a nearly four-year-old with special educational needs and a newborn baby. 

My doctors told me that chemotherapy alone wouldn’t save me this time. I urgently needed a stem cell donor. Even after all those years, there was still no match. I was devastated. All I could think was that I wouldn’t see my girls grow up. It didn’t feel like if I was going to die — it felt like when. 

When the news finally came that a match had been found, it felt as though someone had handed me back the possibility of a future with my family. It wasn’t just a medical match — it was a lifeline, a second chance, a doorway back to the life I was desperate to stay part of. 

What does it mean to you to be a mum to your daughters, given all you’ve been through? 

It means everything — truly everything. There were moments when I didn’t know if I’d live long enough to see my first child grow up, let alone be blessed with a second. So every ordinary moment now — the school runs, the cuddles, the chaos, the noise — feels like a gift I never take for granted. Motherhood isn’t something I just have; it’s something I fought for with every part of me. 

Being a mum after everything I’ve been through feels like stepping back into life in full colour. My children are a daily reminder of why I kept going, what my donor gave me, and what my body somehow survived. They are my proof that hope can win, even when the odds say otherwise. 

But it’s more than gratitude — it’s purpose. It’s knowing that I get to shape two lives I once feared I’d never meet. It’s watching them grow into themselves and realising that I’m here to witness it. It’s the quiet moments too: the bedtime chats, the laughter in the kitchen, the way they reach for my hand without thinking. Those moments feel sacred. 

Being their mum means I get to live the life I nearly lost. It means legacy, love, and a future I once thought I wouldn’t have. It means everything — in ways I could never fully put into words. 

What's your favourite thing about being a mum?

The small moments. The ones you can’t photograph or plan — the unexpected hugs, the funny things they say, the way they curl up beside you at the end of a long day. Life is challenging, but those moments soften the edges and remind me what really matters. 

It’s the everyday magic — watching them grow into themselves, hearing their laughter fill the house, feeling their trust in the way they come to you with their stories, their worries, their excitement. It’s being their safe place, their constant, the person they know will always show up. 

My favourite thing about being a mum is making memories with them — the big ones we celebrate and the tiny ones that happen quietly but stay with you forever. The kind of memories I once feared I’d never get to make. 

After everything I’ve survived, motherhood feels like a miracle I get to live inside every single day. It’s the privilege of being here, present, alive, and part of their world. That’s what means the most. 

Is there anything you’d like to say to other mums going through a stem cell transplant? 

You are stronger than you feel right now. I learned that the hard way. Going through cancer showed me a strength I never knew I had — a strength I didn’t ask for, didn’t want, and didn’t believe existed in me. Don’t get me wrong, there were days I said, “I can’t do this anymore.” Days I wanted to stop treatment because the fear, the pain, and the exhaustion felt too heavy to carry. But somehow, somewhere, something in me refused to give up. The thought of my girls — their faces, their futures — made me fight even when I felt broken. 

Life is challenging in ways most people will never understand, and you’re carrying a weight that no mother should ever have to carry. But you’re still here. You’re still trying. That alone is extraordinary. 

Lean on people. Accept help. Let yourself rest without guilt. I couldn’t have made it through without my husband, Paul. He stood by me through every terrifying moment, every tear, every setback. Having someone who refuses to let go of your hand — even when you feel like letting go yourself — matters more than words can say. 

And alongside him was my brother — a quiet, unwavering force who held us up in ways most people will never know. He put his own life on pause, stepping away from university without a second thought, because he could see that Paul needed someone, too. He became the person who steadied my husband when the weight of watching me suffer became too heavy for one man to carry alone. He carried burdens he never asked for, sat through nights that felt endless, and filled the spaces where fear tried to take over. 

Hold onto the truth that this chapter is not your whole story. There is life on the other side of treatment — messy, beautiful, ordinary life — and you deserve to reach it. And if you can, keep even the smallest flame of hope alive. Some days it will feel tiny, but tiny is enough. Tiny can still light the way. 

Most of all, know this: you are not alone. Other mums have walked this road, survived it, and are quietly standing with you. Your strength is real, even on the days you can’t feel it.