The sky was a deep, angry grey as rain hammered down. We were somewhere mid-Atlantic, thousands of miles from land.
My knuckles were white on the oars as I rowed, clinging to the last shred of control as the storm raged around our small boat. In front of me, I heard my crewmate Jo say something but her words were swept away by the wind.
The storm abated as quickly as it had descended, and as the ocean calmed, from behind me, I heard my second crewmate, Lebby, ask if I was OK. I grinned back, adrenaline surging. ‘It was fun!’.
I’d wondered how I’d react to storms. It turns out, I thrived on them.
That moment, battered by the elements and yet more alive than ever, captured everything The Mothership was about.
We were four, working, mid-life mums – my sister, Pippa, was the fourth on our team – determined to row 3,000 miles across the Atlantic as part of the Talisker Whisky Atlantic Challenge, not just to test our limits, but to show our combined 11 children that no dream is too big, and that courage isn’t the absence of fear but the resolve to push through.
Training had been an endurance event in itself. With three young children and a demanding job, my life was already a juggling act.
But six days a week I’d rise before dawn to protect that sacred time for myself and my goal. I did a mixture of rowing machine sessions, strength and conditioning and pilates or yoga, mainly out of the make-shift gym in our garage.
In December 2022, the day finally came to say goodbye at the start line in La Gomera, Canary Islands. I’d expected to feel nervous.
Instead, I felt sad but excited and calm – my quiet confidence forged by nearly two years of relentless preparation.
The next 40 days of boat life was a simple routine of eat, sleep, row, repeat. We rowed in pairs for two hours on, two hours off, 24 hours per day.
In off-shifts, sleep was a priority, in small cabins at either end of the boat that were just about long enough to lie down in, as well as personal ‘admin’ – from basic personal hygiene to eating to refuel.
The ocean was a tapestry of extremes: the awe of dolphins racing alongside us and the raw fear when something threatened to derail our plans.
On Christmas Eve day, our water maker broke. We spent two long, anxious hours tinkering with it before it spluttered into life, only for our steering to fail when large waves knocked us off course.
In the dead of night, with the wind raging and waves crashing, we didn’t know if we’d be able to complete the race. Fortunately, in the calmer light of day, we fixed the problem and carried on.
We bonded deeply and laughed – a lot. We hosted ‘Mothership Awards’, which saw me take the dubious title of ‘Mum most likely to need an inconvenient poo on night shift’.
Around halfway, I had started noticing stomach cramps and needed frequent trips to our makeshift bucket toilet. We laughed it off, blaming the dehydrated ration packs and sheer volume of food required for our physical exertion.
Arriving at the finish line in Antigua was pure euphoria. We finished 13th out of a fleet of 37 boats, beating many of the men’s and the mixed crews. The cheers, the horns and the sight of the crowds on the dock was overwhelming.
My children scrambled onto my lap, my dad’s hug was fierce with pride and relief. I’d lost 10kg and picked up a few aches, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I felt invincible.
Back home, however, the stomach cramps worsened and I was alarmed to see blood in my stools, so I made an appointment to see my GP. Three weeks and several tests later, during a colonoscopy meant to ‘rule out’ cancer, I heard the words no one wants to hear: ‘You have bowel cancer’.
I was stunned. I had just rowed an ocean, how could I be seriously ill? Looking back, I wonder if being so fit helped my body to cope with the disease.
The news was a freight train through my life. My first thoughts were for my family. My children were just four, seven and nine at the time, and my dad was already battling terminal cancer.
My parents were devastated but calm and supportive and we broke the news gradually to our children. They took it in their stride but they hated seeing my PICC line – a catheter for administering medications – crying out ‘Put it away, Mummy!’ if it became visible.
Later, Mum told me how upset Dad was – he knew too well the journey I was about to go on.
Soon after my diagnosis, I had surgery to remove part of my bowel, but when cancer cells were found in my lymph nodes two weeks later, I faced six rounds of chemotherapy.
Each round drained me and left me nauseous for a few days before I gradually regained my strength for the next one. My rowing experience had honed my physical and mental resilience, and I leaned on it.
Exercise became my anchor, walking and running, finding comfort and positivity in moving my body in nature. It helped me recover physically and mentally,
I had my final chemo session almost exactly a year after the row, which felt surreal. I was grateful, but also adrift, no longer protected by the routine of active treatment. I don’t think this is unusual.
Read Felicity’s book
Felicity’s book, Stronger Than the Storm, is available here.
I threw myself back into a more varied fitness regime, determined to feel like ‘me’ again – but cancer was a catalyst for change.
I left my corporate role and pursued a new path as a motivational speaker and now, author. In the autumn of 2024, I started writing my book, Stronger than the Storm, which I hope inspires others to believe in themselves and keep going, no matter what life throws up.
Now three years into a five-year surveillance period, I’m still clear of cancer. I celebrated in May 2025 by trekking to Everest Base Camp to run the world’s highest marathon, The Tenzing Hillary Everest Marathon.
I wanted to prove to myself that I’ve not just survived but come back stronger. We’re all capable of far more than we think but too often, we let self-doubt or society’s limits hold us back.
My message, especially to young girls and my own children, is this: don’t let fear or other people’s expectations define you. You are stronger than you know, and you can weather any storm.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
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