Anne Usher

My start line.

As a Paralympic gold medallist & an 8-time world champion I have spent my life pushing limits. Overcoming obstacles. Winning. I live clean, eat well, train hard. No smoking. Rarely drink. Fit, strong, focused. No known risk factors for breast cancer—except for the uncontrollable (my age and being female).

There was no lump. Just a slight change in the contour of my breast if I raised my arm. Mammogram? Clear. Ultrasound? Not. The diagnosis of breast cancer came cruelly on Christmas Eve.

I was too busy for cancer. But also, too healthy. I had done everything right—how dare my body let me down like this. This should not be happening to me.

In waiting rooms, I felt like an outsider. They made assumptions about me which did not fit. They saw a 57-year-old woman with breast cancer. I saw an athlete, a current world champion.

Then came the noise in my head. Endless questions. Endless fear. The numbers offered some kind of comfort: Only 3% chance of dying in 10 years. Five years of medication to lower the risk of it coming back.

But no one could stop the relentless churning of how I would live those gifted years. Would I feel like me? Would I trust my body? Would I be able to return to my sport?

First, they said lumpectomy. Then, a second opinion and further tests discovered more cancer.

The word mastectomy hit me like a brick. I had never been strongly attached to my breasts—until I faced losing one. Suddenly, I realised how much they mattered. But to survive, I had to let go.

And still—I could not cry. It felt like this was happening to someone else.

The words that finally cut through were: “The risk of recurrence increases if you choose to keep your nipple.” But I did want to have this choice! I wanted to choose my old life. My old body. My start line.

From diagnosis to surgery was 68 days. That became my focus. I could not stop the cancer, but I could choose how I arrived on the operating table. Strong. Ready. Just like preparing for any other race day.

I trained. I lifted weights. I visualised…. I breathed. I drew on everything I’d learned through elite sport. Resilience. Recovery. Reframing. I knew how to handle nerves. I knew how to show up.

But this wasn’t a race. There’d be no medal at the end. Just survival. Just healing. Just learning how to become a new version of strong. And maybe, one day, I’ll make it back to a start line.