February 10, 2026. I've rented a small chalet in a forest. Outside, it's quiet. Inside, I finally have the courage to write.

I've been carrying this story for months — in my head, in my private journal, in the conversations I've had with doctors and strangers and the people I love. Today, I'm writing it for you.

Writing has always made things better. So let me start from the beginning.

Before leaving for Canada, my gynaecologist told me I needed a mammary ultrasound. I have a mass in my left breast that was operated on when I was sixteen, so regular scans are part of my life.

I didn't do it. I was leaving the country, I was busy, I told myself I'd do it later. And then I forgot about it entirely.

Five years later, living in Canada, I went to see my gynaecologist in Paris during a visit home to renew my contraceptive pill. She recommended I book a mammary ultrasound.

I did book it this time. The sonographer saw me, and asked me to come back in six months which will be in December 2024.

That summer, Marc and I were on holiday for a month. A friend's wedding. A road trip through the south of France. It was, in some ways, our belated honeymoon — we'd married in October 2023 and never properly celebrated. Life felt full and good and easy.

December felt far away.

By December, we were back in Canada. Flights to France in December are expensive, and I love spending Christmas with Marc's family who live in Canada too — the one time of the year we were all together.

So I pushed the scan again. I told myself I'd do it in April, when I was flying back for a friend's wedding — the one I was a bridesmaid for.

I wasn't worried. I genuinely wasn't worried.

Marc and I moved back to France in late April 2025. We packed up everything — our flat, our life, our two cats — and crossed the Atlantic. I had a professional opportunity waiting, a chance to work again with colleagues I'd loved. We'd been planning to start a family, and I wanted to raise our children close to my parents, my sisters, and their daughters.

The timing felt perfect. More than perfect. I was so happy to be coming home.

We moved in temporarily with my sister Noémie while we looked for our own place. She had enough rooms. Good wifi. It was enough.

I was working a lot and had very little time for myself. But in July, I finally went for my mammary ultrasound — with the same sonographer who had seen me the year before.

He paused during the scan.

He told me I needed a biopsy. Almost immediately, he added that I shouldn't worry, that it was probably just a routine check. I didn't really understand what was happening. I was 32. My mother had had her first breast cancer in her mid-forties. I told myself this was just a precaution. I actually wasn’t worried until the sonographer told me not to be worried. I could feel something was off.

I waited in the waiting room to collect my images. When I went to the desk, the receptionist booked me in for the biopsy. I told her I wasn't available that day — it was the day I was supposed to go to Paris for work, then have dinner with friends I hadn't seen in a long time.

She said I didn't have a choice. The doctor had moved appointments around to prioritise me. After that slot, the sonographer was going on holiday.

That's when I understood it might be serious.

I accepted. I messaged my friends to reschedule our dinner.

On the drive home, I cried a little. When I walked through the door, Marc asked how the appointment had gone. I answered with a thumbs down. I told him I needed to do a biopsy.

That night, I told my sister Noémie. And when I saw my mother — even though I hadn't planned to tell her straight away — the words came out before I could stop them. I needed to let the information out of my mouth. I needed her.