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I know that look on Princess Kate’s face. Almost three years ago, I was her. 

Sitting in front of a camera, alone and vulnerable after weeks of frenzied speculation, the Princess of Wales revealed in a video released Friday what has kept her out of the public eye: cancer.

I'm not a princess, of course. Not in the public eye. I'm a web editor for the Detroit Free Press, and I live a quiet life. But in the rarest, rawest way, as I watched her struggle to smile on my TV screen, I feel like I know what she's going through.

Because I also have cancer.

Princess Kate has cancer.The royal family created a scandal by bungling the story.

Prior to Friday's announcement, I was among those wondering what was going on with the woman married to the future king of England. I traded text messages with friends over the likelihood of Prince William's divorce scandal. I scrolled TikTok, captivated by the tinfoil conspiracies. I dissected the TMZ video of them shopping in Windsor, wondering if it was really her. 

Learning of her cancer diagnosis was like throwing a bucket of cold water on it all.

A trauma cancer patients understand

As I heard the words, my heart dropped, and I was back in the moment my own diagnosis was revealed. May 4, 2021, a day that started out like any other.

I was 37 years old. Much like the 42-year-old princess, my cancer was discovered during a medical procedure, a routine laparoscopic surgery, intended to drain an ovarian cyst. I was at my doctor's office for what I thought was a routine check-in after surgery.

Instead, I learned that my doctor had found a tumor, and I heard my life-changing diagnosis: colon cancer. Within days, I learned it was stage 4. It had already spread to my liver and ovaries. Chemo would start immediately – and last indefinitely.  

In so many ways, the wall-to-wall coverage of Kate's shocking diagnosis – Kensington Palace has not disclosed what kind of cancer she is facing – is triggering. As a patient myself, and particularly, as a mom.

Your friends and family members who have cancer may be feeling the same way. You might want to check on them. It’s hard to see others be hit by the same devastating disease and know what they’re about to go through in a way that others just can’t. 

The loss of innocence, normalcy and the future that we once imagined – it’s a trauma that cancer patients understand.

Telling your child is the worst part

For me, those first days, weeks and even months after diagnosis were a blur. But I do remember the feelings of guilt for my daughter. The thoughts racing through my mind that she might have to live without me. But on the outside, trying to appear strong. 

It was three days before I could muster the courage to tell my daughter, with my husband by my side, in the quiet living room of our home. She was 6. 

We told her that mommy was sick, that I would need something called chemotherapy. It might make mommy feel yucky. She cried.

Quality of life matters:Do I have to get chemo to treat my cancer? That answer is changing as treatments evolve.

Since then, we have promised her – and held true to that promise – that we would answer any questions she might have, and that we would be honest with her.

As a mother, that could be the hardest part. Kate said in the video that it had taken time to tell Prince George, 10, Princess Charlotte, 8, and Prince Louis, 5. Did she have to share the news three times? Did she adjust her words for each of them, to accommodate their ages and levels of understanding? 

A future defined by courage

When you have cancer, you can’t make promises, or possibly know how tough your battle will be.

I’m nearing my three-year cancerversary, and coming up on my 48th dose of chemotherapy. I’ve undergone several operations, from major abdominal surgery to minimally invasive ablations, and prayed with vigor awaiting the results of multiple CT, PET scans and MRIs, always hoping for the news that somehow we got it all – that for me, the fight is over.

To imagine anyone else enduring this is heartbreaking and unfathomable. 

As she navigates the turbulent waters of treatment, Kate will undoubtedly face uncertainties of the future with grace and dignity, just as she has faced the challenges of royal life.

But beyond the palace walls, there’s a larger truth we can’t forget: Cancer doesn’t discriminate. It’s hard, and it’s every day – if you’re lucky – whether you’re a princess or a web editor from Macomb County. 

So as the public rallies round her – and hopefully, the frenzy subsides – I hope we can focus on hope for a future free from cancer, where stories like Kate’s and mine aren’t defined by diagnosis, but by courage, resilience and an unyielding spirit to overcome.

Elissa Robinson is a web editor at the Detroit Free Press, where this column originally appeared.