HAVING BEEN A journalist for nearly two decades, I’ve developed something of an immunity to breaking difficult news stories, but reporting on the Princess of Wales’s recent cancer diagnosis floored me. I’m not ashamed to say that when I heard the news, just moments before going on air, I shed a tear. Here was a young woman, fit and in her prime, facing every mother’s worst nightmare. My empathy for what Princess Catherine and her family were going through ran deep, because almost a year to the day before her announcement, I was diagnosed with cancer.

Like the princess, I was in my 40s and a busy mom juggling home life, young children, and a demanding career. I was also super fit, ate a healthy, balanced diet, and didn’t drink much alcohol. But on Valentine’s Day 2023, I was diagnosed with cholangiocarcinoma, a relatively rare but aggressive form of liver cancer, also known as bile duct cancer. The day I took that call was the day my life changed forever.

I had gone to my GP just before Christmas 2022 after suffering from mild heart palpitations and indigestion. I’d put the mild symptoms down to stress, as it had been a busy year. I’d written two books, cohosted Dynasty, the Vanity Fair podcast, and reported on the late Queen Elizabeth’s funeral. Following the checkup, my blood work came back normal, and my GP thought I might be on the brink of a burnout and advised me to take some time off work. Because of my heart palpitations and a sense that something was not right, I pushed for a scan, and my doctor agreed to send me to a cardiologist to rule out any underlying heart conditions. A CT and an electrocardiogram both came back normal. However, during a further scan of my aorta, the radiologist discovered a suspicious lesion on my liver. A further MRI revealed a tumor the size of my palm.

Commentating on the KING’S CORONATION and achieving that personal goal felt incredible—it allowed me to FEEL LIKE ME rather than like a CANCER PATIENT.

The two-week wait for the results was horrific. I felt sick to my stomach and could barely eat, a million thoughts whirring around my head. Being told I had cancer was my worst nightmare. How could I be ill when I felt so well? Was it curable? Would I need chemo? How was I going to tell my children—Matilda, then 11, and George, just 6? They were still so young, and I was too. I promised myself that I would be there to see them grow up. At the Royal Free Hospital in London the next day, I met with Dora Pissanou, one of the country’s leading liver surgeons, who specializes in cholangiocarcinoma. I’d been advised not to google the condition because every case is unique. But of course I had, and what I’d read terrified me. The five-year survival rate for cholangiocarcinoma that hasn’t spread outside of the bile ducts ranges from 18 percent to 23 percent. That rate drops to between 2 and 3 percent for cancer that has spread beyond the bile ducts.

It’s called “the silent killer” because the symptoms are vague and often dismissed as irritable bowel syndrome. Other symptoms such as itching, weight loss, chest pain, and jaundice often only present when the tumor is advanced. While there are some treatments for certain gene mutations, the only cure is surgery. Mercifully, my tumor was operable, and a PET scan showed the cancer had not spread.

I remember my surgeon looking me in the eye and telling me this would be a fight, but that I was going to be her champion, and from that moment on, we became a team. In the days leading up to my surgery, I prepped my children’s favorite meals and froze them, organized playdates, and frantically wrote the final chapter of my latest book, The New Royals. I sent it to my editor just before I was admitted to the hospital. The night before I went in for surgery, I hugged my son and daughter extra tight and promised them I would be home soon. I decided not to tell them I had cancer at that point; it was just too much for them to take on.

On February 24, 2023, I underwent an 11-hour surgery. Pissanou removed 50 percent of my liver (it is the only organ that can regenerate), as well as 18 lymph nodes and my gallbladder. I had been warned that my recovery would be lengthy, and the 12 nights I spent in the hospital—again, similar to the Princess of Wales—were some of the toughest of my life. I missed Matilda and George so much that it hurt more than the incision that ran down my torso. They came to visit me in the hospital once all my tubes were out.

When I was discharged, just days before my 46th birthday, I was almost 30 pounds lighter and very frail, but each day I got stronger. Years of fitness had stood me in good stead and within a matter of weeks, I was walking to pick my children up from school. Before the operation, Pissanou had said she would do her best to get me fit enough to cover the coronation of King Charles III on May 6, and that became a goal to work toward.

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Like the princess, I was required to go through a course of preventative chemotherapy, which I started in April and completed six months later. I was prescribed capecitabine, a tablet form of chemotherapy, which I tolerated well. I was lucky not to lose my hair or suffer from extreme sickness. Commentating on the king’s coronation and achieving that personal goal felt incredible—it allowed me to feel like me rather than like a cancer patient. I had told virtually no one in my professional sphere what I was going through. I wanted to keep my diagnosis private while I came to terms with it and healed both physically and emotionally.

I never imagined that just months later, within a year of my own diagnosis, I would be reporting on the king battling cancer, and then the princess. It felt surreal, but I also knew I was able to look down the camera and tell audiences that cancer is not always a death sentence.

When the princess was subjected to a frenzy of cruel speculation about her health, I felt so angry on her behalf. She was forced to reveal her cancer diagnosis to the world and also to her young children because of the out-of-control gossip on social media. Like so many, I was deeply moved by her courageous decision to go public.

Covering Trooping the Colour last summer and seeing the princess back on duty was a moment that really resonated; I found it hard to broadcast without getting choked up. It was wonderful to see her looking so well and doing what she loves.

It’s also been touching to see both the king and the princess raising awareness and visiting cancer centers around the country. In doing so, they not only offer support to people fighting cancer, they send out a very positive—and much needed—message about surviving a disease that affects one in two of us.

February 20 marked International Cholangiocarcinoma Day, and that month I spoke at a reception at the House of Commons to raise awareness about liver cancer on behalf of the Alan Morement Memorial Fund, the only cholangiocarcinoma charity in the UK. I’m also running a half marathon in London in May for Maggie’s, the cancer support charity for which Queen Camilla is a patron. I want to raise awareness about the work of charities like the AMMF and the Cholangiocarcinoma Foundation in the US, which are campaigning for earlier detection of bile duct cancer and to improve the quality of life for those living with cholangiocarcinoma. And I want to keep doing my job—both reporting on the royals, and their return to good health, and my most important role, that of mom.