When Ballito business owner and mom Pippa Simpson was diagnosed with breast cancer at just 34 years old, her world felt overwhelming. She had two little boys to raise, grief still fresh from losing her aunt to the same disease, and a battle she never imagined fighting. Now, post-treatment, Pippa shares how cancer reshaped her outlook – deepening her gratitude, softening her pace and teaching her to embrace life with more presence.
When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I felt powerless, as if life had been taken out of my hands. A tough one to fathom for a type A personality. The scale of it all felt overwhelming. I was a mum to a 15-month-old and a three-and-a-half-year-old, and I had just lost my aunt to cancer the year before.
But I listened to my intuition. Even after being given the “all clear” on an ultrasound, something in me (and my dad) knew to ask for further testing. That instinct, that small inner voice, changed everything.
After my diagnosis, the only way I could find a sense of control, a way to feel empowered again, was by taking a 360° approach to healing.
That meant tending not just to my body, but also to my mind and spirit. I turned to books on trauma, like Gabor Maté’s The Myth of Normal. I explored kinesiology and TRE therapy. I worked with a holistic doctor, embraced homeopathy and supplements, and shifted to an organic diet. At the same time, I leaned into my spirituality – salty ocean swims, slow walks in nature, horse rides, massages, meditation and church gatherings at Linc – anything that anchored me back to my core: the farm-free, small-town child.
I also leaned on my village of family, friends and cancer thrivers. They carried me when I couldn’t carry myself and reminded me that healing is never meant to be a solitary – or mess-free – journey. My sister Jess arranged handwritten notes from close friends and family, so I carried their words of love alongside my favourite snacks and a green juice into every chemo session. My parents even moved down the road for the duration of my treatment. Their quiet presence, daily check-ins, and constant care anchored me through the hardest months.
And then, there were my greatest gifts, my sons Gray and Fynn. Their constant hugs, kisses, and cuddles became my medicine. Playing with them carried me to colourful and calm faraway places, distracting me from the hardship of the now. On chemo days, their goofy “gooooo mama” dance gave me laughter and light when I needed it most.
There were moments of humour too – like my husband Stu’s “Sandra wig walk,” a silly strut that made us all laugh when laughter was longed for. And the night Stu, my sister, and I shaved my hair off – leaving a stegosaurus mohawk. I was keen to name my wig Elsa, but Gray wasn’t sold. He quickly renamed it T-Rex hair, and somehow that made it all feel a little less scary, a little more ours. True boy-mum moments.
And I chose a medical team who believed in my bright future and who spoke hope instead of doom. They made me feel like anything was possible.
My friends call me a yes girl. I’m always up for adventure – a skinny dip, a bodyboard, a dance class, an Artist’s Way
course. I’ll embrace life fully, drop my ego (and often my dignity), and step out of my comfort zone. That spirit became part of how I approached healing, too – saying yes to new practices, new ways of thinking and new ways of being.
I was fortunate enough to receive some of the best medical care in the world – my treatment team ranked in the top ten globally. Alongside that, I had the resources to explore alternative healing methods and modalities that complemented my treatment. I know this isn’t something everyone has access to, and I carry deep gratitude for the privilege of being able to walk that path.
Cancer has changed how I live.
Losing everything society associates with beauty, being stripped down to my core – it shifted my perspective. Make-up-free days don’t feel as intimidating anymore.
The trauma still lingers. I had to say goodbye to the former, younger, carefree me, and now I’m slowly learning to love the new me, who carries a degree of fear. I am also learning to build trust in my body again. In those first fragile months post-treatment, every sore throat, every back ache sent my inner voice screaming cancer. But slowly, as the years have passed, I’m beginning to believe once again in the strength and resilience of my body.
I’ve become more intentional and protective of my time, choosing to surround myself with people who inspire me, who lift me, who share in curiosity and joy. I’ve learned to be more empathetic, more present, and more self-loving through small rituals like bodywork, breathwork, creativity, movement and writing.
And it has deepened my gratitude for the simple beauty of a flaming sunrise, for the boys’ belly laughs, for the call from our resident nightjar, for a moment of real connection, for just being here.
If there’s one thing I wish, it’s that people could learn these lessons without having to walk through cancer, chemo (renamed Unicorn Juice) and radiation (renamed the Sun-Bed). But if my journey can remind others to live more fully, more gently, and more intentionally… and if I can give those diagnosed with breast cancer an abundance of hope – then some light has come from the dark.
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