Kylie’s story

In early December 2024, I was diagnosed with lower rectal cancer. For years, my GI symptoms were brushed off by my longstanding GP, and I didn’t push hard enough for answers.

I had IBS-like symptoms for years, and more recently, had the most irritating incessant itching in my bottom I could not shake, and was told it was all in my head!

A hospital presentation in August following extreme pain and blood and mucus in my stool was put down to diverticular disease, but no further investigations done.

It wasn’t until I saw a new GP after noticing blood in my stool for a second time that things finally moved forward. That decision set off a whirlwind of tests and, eventually, my diagnosis.

On January 16th, I underwent an ultra-low anterior resection, losing part of my bowel, my tumour, and gaining an ileostomy, to remove what doctors called a ‘very curable’ cancer.

The pathology came back as Stage 3B, and it was confirmed that with several lymph nodes impacted, I’d be on my way to chemotherapy in no time.

Coming home was a relief, but I hadn’t anticipated the overwhelming support from family, friends and colleagues. From hospital gifts and soup drop-offs to messages and calls, the love and encouragement have been incredible.

Special thanks to my amazing husband James, mum Coral and my two beautiful boys, 2 and 6 years of age, who have kept me afloat and been my unwavering cheerleaders.

Adjusting to life with a stoma has been a wild ride — physically and emotionally. The road ahead includes ten more rounds of chemo (two down so far!) and future surgery to reconnect my insides, but I’ve already come so far.

I am thankful that thus far, my chemo journey has not been too difficult, with only minor side effects like fatigue, light nausea, and some serious brain fog. People keep calling me strong, but the truth is, you find strength when there’s no other option. You simply play the hand you’re dealt. I’m taking things one step at a time.

I’ve negotiated with my workplace a roster which will hopefully see me work as much as possible – which is so important for my mental health whilst I go through this journey.

I am so incredibly thankful to my new GP, as well as the colorectal surgeons who have looked after me through this journey. They have been the most incredible professionals, and humans, and I am so very grateful!

Here’s to healing, hope, and kicking cancer’s butt.

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My one piece of advice:

If there’s one thing I want others to take from this, it’s this: don’t ignore your body. If you notice any of the possible signs, see a doctor. And if you’re not getting the answers you need – see a different Doctor! You’re never too young, or too female for this ‘old mans’ disease.

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2026 Update

Twelve months ago, my world became very small and very medical. I shared my story with Bowel Cancer Australia for the Kick Ass Women campaign, and I was in a very different place -hospital corridors, surgery and treatment dates, recovery timelines, and learning how to live in a body that suddenly felt unreliable. I had bowel cancer, an ileostomy, and a future that no longer came with certainty.

What followed wasn’t a neat recovery story. It was eleven rounds of chemotherapy. Allergic reactions that meant plans changed on the fly. Gallstones in the middle of it all. Lasting peripheral neuropathy and awful cold sensitivity. Adhesive allergies complicating ileostomy life. A rare and super painful skin condition developing ulcers around my ieloestomy. It was a lot.

Then came one big surgery to reverse my ileostomy, remove my gallbladder, and repair a hernia — all at once. My surgeon was brilliant.

And just when I thought I was turning a corner, I developed pulmonary embolisms after surgery.

This is the part people don’t always see. The constant monitoring of your body. the mental load of deciding what’s ‘normal recovery’ and what needs urgent attention. The way you keep being a parent, a partner, a daughter, aunty, employee – and in my case a manager – all while trying to hold things together – while your body is doing something entirely different. The self-advocacy it takes to be taken seriously when you say, something isn’t right.

This is work. Invisible. Unpaid. And carried by women every day. And honestly? Terrifying.

Women are often called ‘strong’ in illness, but strength usually shows up when there’s no other option. You adapt. You cope. You manage appointments, side effects, and quietly be terrified, day in and out, while trying not to let cancer take up more space than it already has. And – here I am, twelve months on, with no evidence of disease. That sentence is a huge relief. But it doesn’t erase what it took to get here or offer any guarantees for the future.

Along the way, I’ve been incredibly inspired by other women on this same path – those in treatment, those living beyond it, and those who are no longer with us. Their honesty and refusal to be silent have shaped how I see survivorship. Because surviving bowel cancer doesn’t mean you’re done. It means you carry forward what you’ve learned.

I’m now wanting to use my voice to advocate for earlier detection, better awareness, and stronger support for people affected by bowel cancer. This year, I’ll attend Call on Canberra to stand alongside others advocating for bowel cancer sufferers, survivors, and thrivers.

This International Women’s Day, I want to acknowledge the work women do just to stay alive – the way our symptoms are minimised, our pain downplayed, and bowel cancer dismissed as something that happens to ‘older people,’ until it doesn’t.

Survival isn’t tidy. Healing isn’t linear. And ‘being fine’ is sometimes the most dangerous thing we tell ourselves.

If this encourages even one woman to book the appointment, push for the referral, or trust her instincts sooner, it’s worth it.

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My one piece of advice:
Surviving bowel cancer isn’t bravery — it’s work. And women deserve to be believed sooner.