#throwback to two years ago.
I’m on the couch. Pyjamas. TV on. Dog curled up beside me — Giddy, who barely left my side throughout the whole sorry bowel cancer saga.
It was three months after bowel cancer surgery and a month after surgery to remove the stoma — basically an opening in my stomach to let the poo out while my bowel healed. Not exactly dinner party conversation, but very much my reality.
I remember feeling… okay.
Not amazing. Not broken. Just cautiously optimistic. I was starting to believe I might return to “normal.”
Whatever THAT means.
If I’m honest, life now falls short of the “normal” Michael of two years ago was shooting for. The lasting consequences of having much of my rectum removed — layered on top of an oesophagectomy 18 years ago — sideline me more often than I’d like. My body has its own agenda and it doesn’t always consult my calendar.
There are days when the simplest things require strategy. Planning. Contingencies.
And yet.
I regularly sit across from medical practitioners who stare at me in disbelief when I tell them I rollerblade with friends. Go hiking. Take the dog for runs. Occasionally ride my bike. The news that I’m making a comeback to ski racing leaves some of them completely dumbfounded.
“How do you manage all that?” one asked.
It’s a fair question.
From the outside, it might look heroic. Or brave. Or slightly unhinged.
But here’s the truth: I don’t feel like I have a choice.
Challenging myself physically forces me to solve problems. It forces adaptation. It forces creativity. When your body doesn’t behave predictably, you become an engineer of your own life. You test. You refine. You fail. You adjust.
Every ride teaches me something about fuel and timing. Every hike sharpens my awareness of limits and thresholds. Every rollerblade session is a masterclass in balance — literally and metaphorically.
And those lessons spill over.
The same problem-solving mindset that gets me through a ski training session applies to my day-to-day life but also to my business, to boardrooms, leadership teams and conference stages. When things don’t go to plan — and they rarely do — you focus on what you can control. You stay curious. You keep moving.
Regular exercise almost certainly reduces my risk of a fourth cancer diagnosis. That’s motivation enough. But the mental health component? That’s the real gold.
Setting and achieving goals builds momentum. It rebuilds identity. After surgery, it’s easy to shrink. To become the patient. The diagnosis. The statistic.
Movement reminds me I’m more than that.
I’m not chasing podiums (although let’s be honest, I wouldn’t say no). I’m chasing capability. Agency. Joy.
Because here’s what serious illness teaches you: time is not theoretical. It’s visceral. It’s counted in appointments and scans and “let’s just keep an eye on that.” You either wait for certainty — which never really comes — or you get busy living.
Is pushing myself physically heroic? No.
Brave? Not particularly.
Crazy? Occasionally.
But mostly, it’s essential. Life-affirming. Therapeutic. And, believe it or not, fun.
The couch in that photo two years ago wasn’t a place of defeat. It was a checkpoint. A pause between chapters. Recovery isn’t the opposite of ambition — sometimes it’s the foundation of it.
Today, I still have limitations. I still have setbacks. I still have days when the plan goes out the window.
But I also have ski boots by the door. Rollerblades that have a lot of kilometres in them. Friends who say, “Same time next week?” And a body that, despite everything, keeps showing up.
If there’s one thing cancer has reinforced, it’s this: resilience isn’t loud. It’s built in the quiet decisions no one sees. The early alarms. The awkward conversations. The uncomfortable sessions. The choice to try again.
Two years ago, I was on the couch in my PJs, post-surgery, wondering what “normal” might look like. Turns out, it looks a lot like this: Giddy curled up beside me on the couch while I plan my next challenge.