The glow up no-one talks about
When life hands you morphine instead of margaritas and you realise presence, not perfection, is the real flex.
By Louise Parker
Not long ago, I was planning my blogging comeback. I pictured something easy, maybe a review of Suffolk’s best flat white, or a slightly chaotic list of tips for radio hopefuls. Instead, I’m writing this from a hospital bed, flat on my back, catheter in, stitches straight down my stomach, trying not to cry because I dropped my headphones and can’t bend to reach them.
This isn’t what I planned. But then again, none of it was.
It started subtly. A nagging ache in my left side that became a shooting, searing pain that would wake me in the middle of the night. I’ve always had a high pain threshold; trauma has that effect, so I brushed it off. “Probably just a UTI,” I told myself. I drank a few gallons of cranberry juice and kept going.
But deep down, I knew something wasn’t right. And when I finally called 111, they ordered an urgent ultrasound scan. That scan led to a second opinion, a third referral, then a cold, clinical update on my hospital portal:
“Cancer of the left ovary.”
I stared at it for what felt like hours, as if by blinking hard enough, I could edit the page. I didn’t cry. I didn’t spiral. I got angry. Furious. Deliriously so. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.
If you’ve followed me for a while, you’ll know my story hasn’t been soft. Let’s just say I’ve been to hell and back all whilst designing a new life in the ashes. A fresh start. New county. New home. A partner. And the job I’ve dreamed about since I was a kid, all now finally in my hands.
I pressed pause on my podcast. I stepped down from presenting on an international radio station, a gig that had been a dream at one point, all so I could protect my energy and focus on my health while chasing what truly lit me up. That decision wasn’t easy for someone like me, someone who had built her identity on “doing it all” but the fatigue had become absolutely impossible to ignore.
So I simplified. I said no. I prioritised stillness. And then, in the quiet? This. It felt like the universe had waited until I let my guard down to deliver the ultimate blow.
The tumour was the size of a grapefruit. The surgery was a full laparotomy, which is a major abdominal procedure that takes weeks to recover from. I came out bruised, puffy, exhausted, barely able to sit up, let alone walk.
I lost track of the days. I drifted in and out of morphine-induced sleep. My body was alien to me, all bloated, stitched, tethered to machines. I couldn’t pee without help. I couldn’t shower without support. It even hurt beyond words to laugh.
But somewhere in that chaos, something shifted. The world got quiet. And I started to notice things I’d never properly seen. Like the feel of cool water on my lips after being nil by mouth. The joy of slipping into soft pyjamas after days in a surgical gown. My partner stroking my hair when I was crying in pain. A nurse bringing me an eye mask and earplugs without even having to ask. The first time I walked by myself, still trembling, to the bathroom.
These moments won’t make the grid. But they cracked me open in the best way.
I had intended to write this post about the little things. And yes, I could wax lyrical about how good it feels to be upright in your own clothes and making your own way to the bathroom. But actually, it’s not about the little things. It’s about everything. The stuff you overlook when you’re well. The everyday miracles were too busy, or too self-critical, to savour.
Because when you’re in a hospital bed with beeping machines and eye-watering coffee, you don’t fantasise about finally hitting inbox zero. You dream about walking barefoot on the sand. About swimming under the sun. About spicy mango margaritas and saltwater in your hair and laughter that doesn’t make your stomach double you over in pain.
So here’s what I’ve learned, in no particular order and with absolutely no apology:
I’m done waiting. Done postponing joy. Done saving my air miles for the “right time” because that right time might never come. I was planning to use them for internal flights when I finally move to Australia in a few years. But now? I’m going to Greece. I need sun, salt and grilled octopus. I need to feel alive, now.
Because life isn’t about big milestones, it’s about presence. And presence doesn’t require perfection; it requires surrender.
I’ve also learned that the Dalai Lama quotes people slap on Instagram, the typical “Live as if you’ll die tomorrow” aren’t just cute captions. They’re blueprints for being.
When you’re sick, nothing matters more than your health. Not your job title. Not your salary. Not even your best outfit. The body you live in becomes sacred ground, and the sooner we stop punishing it for not looking a certain way, the sooner we start listening when it whispers, “I’m not okay.”
And love?
I finally understand what that means, too.
Not the fireworks. Not the filtered selfies. Real, soul-deep, inconvenient, raw love. The kind that holds your catheter bag and still calls you beautiful. That brushes your hair when you can’t lift your arms. That stays when things get messy, and I mean actually messy. I’ve spent years battling the belief that I wasn’t lovable unless I was the “perfect girl.”
But this man? This quiet, kind, joyful, ridiculous man I’ve somehow been lucky enough to love and be loved by, he saw me at my most vulnerable. Bald spots. Surgery scars. Tears. And he loved me anyway.
And finally, finally, I believed him.
A note on Ovarian Cancer
Because here’s the thing, this could happen to anyone.
Ovarian cancer is hard to catch early. Its symptoms are subtle: bloating, feeling full quickly, peeing more than usual and persistent abdominal pain. For a long time, you might dismiss it as “hormonal” or “digestive” or just part of being a woman in a world that tells us to endure pain quietly.
But if you’re experiencing symptoms that aren’t your normal, pay attention. Be your own advocate. Book the scan. Ask for the referral. Keep pushing until someone listens.
I’m grateful I did.
You can find more information, support, and resources from Ovacome: www.ovacome.org.uk
So what now? I don’t have all the answers. But I know this: I’m going to live the hell out of my one wild, precious life. I’m going to work hard but not at the cost of my body. I’m going to rest, travel, eat, laugh, love, cry, create and everything in between.
Because I’ve been given a second chance and I’m not wasting it chasing the version of me I thought I had to be.
I’m becoming who I actually am.
If this resonated, share it. Quote it. Copy and paste it into your group chat. And if you’re reading this from a hospital bed, or a bed of your own doubt, know this: you’re not broken. You’re not behind. You’re in the middle of your becoming.
Louise x
Going into hospital for something similar? Here’s my favourite essentials…
(Top to Bottom, Left to Right): Over-Arm Hospital Bed Bag, Peppermint Tea, Silk Eye Mask, High-Waisted Cotton Underwear, 3-in-1 Ear Plugs and U-Shape Support Pillow
