'I was given one year to live... one year ago. Today I'm planning something different.'

It started with a lingering pain under my left ribs. A persistent ache that stayed with me for weeks, hinting that something was seriously wrong.

At first, we thought it was my gallbladder, so I was booked in for surgery, and the pain lessened slightly; it became a dull ache afterwards.

And so, I ignored it, thinking I was just recovering.

My doctors suspected something was amiss though, and so, they kept investigating. Something just didn't seem right, and well, their instincts were correct.

They conducted a pancreatic biopsy and on 6 September 2024, my doctor looked up from my test results and softly said the words, "You have pancreatic cancer."

I was just 48-years-old, sharing a happy, active life with my husband and two teenage daughters.

The world stood still.

If you're going to get cancer, the pancreatic kind is not the one you want.

It's called "Australia's toughest cancer" for good reason — it's usually found late, it has very few treatment options and five-year survival rates are heartbreakingly low at 13 per cent.

In 2024, I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Image: Supplied.

At first, I thought I was one of the very few lucky ones. I had a successful Whipple surgery — basically they whipped out the head of the pancreas, my gallbladder, part of the bile duct, and some of my small intestine — and my doctors told me the next six months of gruelling chemo was "preventative."

That didn't make it easier.

I barely survived as the days blurred together from crushing fatigue and unrelenting nausea, but I told myself it was the price I had to pay for a longer, healthier life.

Finally, the last infusion ended. I triumphantly rang the bell that symbolised the end of my treatment and celebrated with my family and friends.

We all allowed ourselves to believe I'd made it through.

Danielle Ozolins is the proud mum of two teenage girls. Image: Supplied.

Two weeks later, back in my doctor's office, my world crashed again.

While I was being operated on, enduring the chemo and praying to beat cancer, it had been quietly on the move, insidiously sneaking into my lungs.

In that moment, my diagnosis changed from "recovering" to "terminal."

The timeframe was brutal. I was given nine to 12 months.

My only option was a clinical trial.

My chances were slim, but after six weeks of waiting and a round of preventative chemotherapy to keep the tumour at bay, I was accepted into one of the very few available places.

I'd been given a chance.

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The brutal reality of pancreatic cancer.

Being on a trial makes me one of the lucky ones, as pancreatic cancer trials are very rare, fiercely competitive and have limited spots available.

Getting on one is a lifeline, but it also means someone else missed out. That reality is as heavy as it is humbling.

The truth is, I would not be here without research into pancreatic cancer and access to clinical trials. This trial is giving me a fighting chance to stay around longer than the next few months. Without it, I wouldn't have much of an option. The trial gives me hope.

I'm now approaching week four on the trial, and I'm feeling better every day. I feel more positive, and I'm slowly getting some quality of life back.

The trial I'm on is targeted for my specific tumour. That makes it both frightening and hopeful. Terrifying because it is uncharted territory, optimistic because it is designed for patients like me.

Danielle Ozolins's only option was a clinical trial. Image: Supplied.

It began with full days at the clinic; ECGs, constant bloods, and hours of monitoring. Weekly visits will become fortnightly, and eventually monthly, the longer I stay on.

But to remain in the program, I need regular scans and positive results. Scanxiety is very real. The uncertainty never truly disappears, but life does go on.

My daughters, one at university and the other in Year 11, try to keep their lives as normal as possible. My husband Greg holds our family steady. And our community, our village, has carried us in ways I will never forget.

Meals appeared at our door when we could not cook. Friends took time off work to drive me to appointments. People walked with me when the weight of it all felt too much.

I have learnt something important; that people want to help — they just need to be shown how.

Accepting that help does not make me weaker, it gives me strength. It turns an isolating illness into a shared fight.

The importance of hope.

Cancer takes so much. It has stolen my energy, my plans, and my sense of certainty.

But it has not taken my hope.

For me, hope is planning a trip to Europe for Christmas. Talking about my 50th birthday later this year and knowing we will celebrate. Hope looks like fundraising, walking, and speaking up so that more people know about this disease.

Pancreatic cancer does not wait. It takes 75 Australians from their families each and every week. That is a lot of loss.

Every extra dollar for research means more trials, and more trials mean more families get more time together.

Danielle Ozolins says cancer hasn't taken away her hope. Image: Supplied.

This month marks Remember September, which is PanKind's (Pancreatic Research Australia) biggest fundraiser for pancreatic cancer research. You can "Move It" and walk 75 kilometres over the month, or, "Give Up" a vice of your choosing, like caffeine or sugar.

Every step we take, every dollar raised, brings us closer to better outcomes for those of us with pancreatic cancer.

When you are living with this disease, you realise quickly that time is everything. And research is what buys time.

A year ago, I was preparing for the worst. Today, I'm daring to plan for the future.

That is not luck. That is research, community, and the stubborn belief that even in the darkest moments, there is light to be found.

If my story does anything, I hope it is this; to remind you that hope matters, and that by standing together, we can turn hope into action.

But the reality is research is expensive, so to make a change, we need to raise money as a community.

My biggest hope is that you will help.

Learn more about Remember September here.

Feature image: Supplied.