It’s a year since I was diagnosed with breast cancer. On that day, I was in shock, even though I knew what was coming – the deeply distressing tests I’d been put through the week before had suddenly brought me up against the fact that this might be more serious than I had let myself believe.

I was lucky: it was a small lump, it hadn’t spread, and it was eminently treatable, as people kept telling me. As I shared the news, I almost felt I had to comfort some people, who were able to tap into their upset and sadness more readily than I was.

I couldn’t deal with it. It took months of just managing to put one foot in front of the other. It’s nothing to do with bravery or strength – the kind of things people praise you for, saying they don’t know how they would cope. It’s a basic survival instinct to get through stuff the only way we know how.

I wanted to be in control, to know each step as it was going to happen. Get the lump out, have radiotherapy, treatment over by Christmas, back to work in the new year. Bish bash bosh. But I’m not in control of my body – the cancer should have shown me that. My breast wound refused to heal to order. It literally opened up and laid bare the bloody, messy reality of recovery.

What I did have was time – to recover, to contemplate, to heal. I needed that. In our busy lives, we rarely have that luxury. I could be with myself, feel my pain, but also realise that I needed to take care of myself. Being a single mother of a seven-year-old boy, no one was around to do that for me on a daily basis. This was a huge revelation.

I have been paying more attention to what I need – putting myself at the centre of my life, not shrinking away to its edges.

There was no sense that I had to make huge life changes. I’m happy in my job, and I have taken steps to ensure my son and I are secure in our home. It’s a series of smaller shifts.

Getting into online dating in my 40s after the split with my son’s father and the cancer felt daunting at first, but also absolutely the right time to do it. It’s been a chance to experiment and have some fun, be bold and care less about what others think. And I’ve gone into it without any great expectations. If I meet someone I really like, great. But I’m in no hurry. I’m putting less pressure on myself to get things right first time. I’m learning to let go.

Having therapy throughout this period has been an invaluable support. I’m dealing with stuff from my childhood and finding my voice, speaking up in situations where previously I’d be happy to let others take the floor. I’m more accepting of myself. I know I’m never going to be a massive extrovert, and wouldn’t want to be. But I’m realising that being quiet and “calm” are not insults and have some value in this frenetic world.

I’ve tried out groups looking at anger and sexuality. I might do an improvisation course to free myself further from my inhibitions. And I’ve renegotiated the time my son spends with his dad, to carve out time for myself.

It’s not always easy. I’m sometimes exhausted and find myself at the end of my tether when my son won’t listen to me, which is fairly often. But life has opened up. It is full of new possibilities that I want to explore.

I read a book, Rise, by the TV journalist Sian Williams, that I found very inspiring. It’s about her experience of recovering from breast cancer and a double mastectomy, coupled with her research, from a master’s degree, into resilience and how people deal with trauma. She distilled a prescription for how to live with greater happiness into three main tenets. Be grateful, be mindful, be kind. These have stayed with me. They seem like good things to live by.

I’m really thankful to all my brilliant friends, family and supportive colleagues. And the doctors and nurses and therapists who cut out the cancer, and eased my path to recovery.

I’m grateful to be well, to have my energy and joie de vivre back. I’m still taking medication that will hopefully prevent the cancer from recurring. But none of us knows what is around the corner. One in eight women will get breast cancer in their lifetime. I’ve heard many stories from people I know and those I have met since my diagnosis, many of whom have not been as lucky as me. But all are dealing with it and meeting it in their own ways – and I extend compassion and love to them.

I’m feeling more positive, open and well than I have for a very long time. Sharing a bit of my story is my small way of raising awareness that means more than sharing a heart on a Facebook wall, for instance.

So, check your breasts. And if you notice anything unusual, make an appointment. Don’t think, as I did, that you’d be wasting someone’s time, or that it’s “probably nothing”. It may well be nothing – but it could be something, and you owe it to yourself to find out.