'I thought I was being a hypochondriac, then my doctor said two words that made my heart sink.'

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The first sign that something was wrong seemed so small — a few unexplained bruises, some bleeding in my mouth, the occasional bloody nose. As a medical student, we're told that we will become hypochondriacs. So, I brushed the symptoms off and told myself I was overreacting.

But the bleeding got worse, even eating popcorn would cut the inside of my cheeks and make me bleed. When a rash of tiny spots under my skin appeared on my legs, I saw my GP and was sent straight to the emergency department.

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A few hours later, a doctor told me there was "something funny" about my blood results. My heart sank. I knew enough to know that "something funny" wasn't good news.

When the haematologist arrived, she explained that all my blood cell counts were dangerously low. At that stage, I assumed I had leukaemia. I called my partner, Craig, and told him to come down because I was expecting bad news. The word "cancer" echoed in my mind.

The next day, I had a bone marrow biopsy. When the results came back, they told me it wasn't leukaemia — it was Aplastic Anaemia, a rare Bone Marrow Failure Syndrome I'd never even heard of. I remember feeling relieved at first.

"At least it's not cancer," I thought. But that relief didn't last long. The doctor gently told me that this diagnosis was just as serious.

I was admitted immediately. I needed urgent blood and platelet transfusions to stay alive, and because my immune system had collapsed, I had to be protected from infection.

Within 24 hours, I went from being a medical student on track to start my first job as a doctor — to a patient tethered to a drip and stripped of my independence.

The loss of autonomy broke me, and because it was during COVID, visitors weren't allowed. I was in isolation — quite literally, in a bubble. It was so hard not being able to see my Mum and Craig in person.

I'll never forget one nurse who wrapped her arms around me when she saw me crying. That moment of human connection through layers of masks and shields meant everything.

Being a medical student didn't make it easier. I understood too much, and yet not enough. I'd never heard of Aplastic Anaemia before. There was so little information, even among the doctors. When I tried to look it up online, I found terrifying statistics about survival rates.

Image: Supplied.

Mum threw herself into research and found Maddie Riewoldt's Vision, an organisation that provides support to patients with Bone Marrow Failure Syndromes and funds medical research.

Mum had their Tele-Support Nurse call me in hospital and it made a real difference to talk to someone who actually understood what we were going through. She became a real support anchor for all of us.

I found it incredibly difficult to process that there was no standard treatment pathway or predictable prognosis.

My haematologist recommended immunosuppressant therapy as the first-line treatment but explained that I might also need a bone marrow transplant — a procedure that could affect my fertility. At 28 years old, the future I thought I'd built for myself was dissolving from under me. I had always assumed I could have a family when I was ready.

I went through multiple rounds of IVF to freeze embryos. Those cycles were emotionally brutal. When the first round didn't produce any embryos, I realised just how deeply I wanted to be a mum. Suddenly it all felt so fragile, everything was being taken away from me.

But even once we had success and embryos safely stored, pregnancy itself posed huge risks. There was so little research that no one could tell me what the odds were — of relapse, of complications, of survival. The uncertainty was suffocating.

When I began immunosuppressant therapy, the treatment was gruelling, and there was still a chance I might need a bone marrow transplant. It was physically and emotionally draining, but in the end, I was one of the lucky ones — my condition gradually started to improve.

Many others facing the same diagnosis aren't so fortunate.  When I was finally in remission, Craig and I knew that waiting for the "perfect time" to start a family no longer made sense. Life had taught us that perfect timing doesn't exist — now was the time.

My medical team gave me the best guidance they could, but the truth was, no one really knew what might happen. The Maddie's Vision Tele-Support Nurse helped me unpack what the doctors said and gave me space to process my fears. She helped us make the most informed decision possible with the information available.

In the end, Craig and I decided to take the leap. We didn't want to grow old wondering, "What if?" After everything we'd already been through, we knew we were strong enough to face whatever came next. And the risk of not trying was too high for us.

To our surprise, I fell pregnant quite easily. I'd prepared myself for another long uphill battle after what my body had been through. It felt like a miracle.

My pregnancy was closely monitored, and with each check-up that showed stable blood counts, I felt a little more at ease. When our beautiful baby girl, Gracie, was born healthy and strong, I was so grateful we'd had the courage to give our future a chance.

Image: Supplied.

Surviving Aplastic Anaemia has changed me. As a doctor, I now see my patients differently. Medical school teaches us how to treat disease, but not always how to care for the person living through it.

Behind every diagnosis is someone who's lost a part of their old life — their sense of control, their plans, their certainty about the future. They're scared, grieving, and trying to find the strength to keep going. I've learnt that compassion and small acts of kindness can make unbearable days survivable.

Even though I was in remission, I still had to deal with a lot of anxiety. I sanitised constantly, avoided crowds, and hesitated to travel or stay in new places. But motherhood has changed that. When Gracie started crawling, putting everything in her mouth and exploring the world with fearless curiosity, I realised how little control we truly have — and somehow, it has softened me and set me free.

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As a doctor, I never expected to face a diagnosis with no clear treatment pathway, no defined prognosis, and so few answers. That uncertainty is something no patient should have to face alone. Because Bone Marrow Failure Syndromes are rare, research has lagged and funding is limited.

Every stage of my journey was filled with unknowns — but with more research, it doesn't have to be that way for others.

That's why the work of Maddie Riewoldt's Vision means so much to me; they have contributed more than $9.7 million to research in a field where I believe even the smallest discoveries make a difference.

Their Tele-Support Service, Peer Support Program, and education sessions have given me and my family access to knowledge, support, and hope. When I was diagnosed, I couldn't find clear, accurate information anywhere. Maddie's Vision is changing that.

Today, I take each day as it comes. I don't plan ten years ahead anymore — I've learnt that now is always the perfect time. If you're facing your own health battle and feeling scared, uncertain, or overwhelmed, focus on the small things that bring you comfort and joy. Take one day at a time, and reach out for support — you don't have to face it alone.

This November, you can support Australians living with Bone Marrow Failure Syndromes by getting behind Maddie's Month. Head to your local Coles store and purchase Flavorite's specially marked packs of Mini Tomatoes, Mini Capsicums, and Vine Ripened Cherry Tomatoes. Flavorite are generously donating 15c from every pack sold up to $100,000 to Maddie Riewoldt's Vision.

Feature image: Supplied.