I'm learning to sit with grief rather than resist it
At 36, former Matildas player Sally Shipard faced one of the most intimate ultimatums life can offer: her body or her dream of carrying a child. Choosing survival over the future she had quietly assumed was hers, she entered surgical menopause and began the longer, less visible work of grieving a life that will not unfold as imagined. Hers is a story not of defeat but of the particular courage required to keep building when the blueprint has been taken away.
- A cancer diagnosis in 2020 escalated from 'borderline' to life-threatening within months, forcing Sally into an irreversible surgical decision at the very moment she and her partner had begun IVF.
- The grief does not follow a schedule — it ambushes her on quiet Sundays, in the presence of families, in the gap between the life she planned and the one she is living.
- Rather than rushing toward solutions, Sally is deliberately sitting with the loss, supported by therapy, her partner April, and the unexpected anchor of learning to surf as a frightened adult beginner.
- She remains open to adoption, fostering, or other forms of family — but refuses to let urgency override the honest, unhurried work of mourning what cannot be recovered.
Sally Shipard had never fixed a timeline to motherhood — it was simply part of the future she assumed, the way certain things feel inevitable until they aren't. When she met her partner April, the plan took shape: Sally would carry a child through IVF, since April had never wanted to be pregnant. They had already begun that process when a routine check in 2020 found a growth on her right ovary. Doctors called it borderline. Then a GP noticed her tumor markers were dangerously elevated, and everything changed.
The biopsy confirmed mucinous adenocarcinoma, already spread to the lining of her abdomen. Frightening, yes — but also, strangely, clarifying after months of uncertainty. The surgical calculus was unambiguous: leave the uterus in place and the cancer would almost certainly return. Remove it and live. At 36, Sally chose to live, and entered surgical menopause.
Physical recovery came more naturally to her — she had spent a career as an athlete, her body accustomed to demands. What she could not train for was the grief, which arrived on its own schedule and has never fully left. Sundays are the hardest, when routine falls away and families come into view. She feels awe for parents. She also feels envy. She is not trying to outrun the feeling or replace it with a plan.
Therapy has helped her learn to live alongside the loss rather than resolve it. So has the ocean — she and April took up surfing at 37, both of them beginners, both of them afraid, finding something quietly renewing in starting from nothing together. Her family has been careful to make her feel cherished by their children. April has been present through every stage.
Sally does not know yet whether she and April will pursue adoption, fostering, or some other shape of family. She is open to it, but unhurried. She suspects the sharpest edge of this grief will soften with time, as the years when carrying a child would have been possible anyway recede. What she is building now is a life that works — unconventional, honest, and still becoming.
Sally Shipard was 36 when a surgeon laid out the choice that would reshape her life. The rare ovarian cancer spreading through her abdomen left no middle ground: keep the uterus and risk death, or remove it and live. The former Matildas player, now known by her married name Sally Davis, walked into that room clear about what she needed to do, even as the weight of it settled on her shoulders.
She had always imagined herself pregnant. Not on any particular timeline—just as a fact of her future, the way you imagine yourself at a certain age without really thinking about it. When she met her partner April, the path forward seemed to clarify. April had never wanted to carry a child, so the plan was straightforward: Sally would be the one to get pregnant through IVF. They had started the process. Then, in 2020, a routine physical found an unusual growth on her right ovary. Borderline cancer, the doctors said. She had regular check-ups after that. Nothing alarming. But a GP checking her mental health noticed something the others had missed—her tumor markers were dangerously high. After that, everything accelerated.
The biopsy revealed mucinous adenocarcinoma, a cancer of the glandular tissue that had already spread to the peritoneum, the membrane lining her abdomen. Devastating. Scary. Disorienting. But also, strangely, a relief. After months of uncertainty, at least now there was an answer. And with it came the reckoning: if she left her uterus in place, the cancer would almost certainly return. She might die. So at 36, she chose to have it removed and entered surgical menopause.
The physical recovery felt manageable. She was an athlete; her body had always responded to challenge. What she wasn't prepared for was the grief—how it could ambush her without warning, even now, years later. Sundays are the hardest. During the week, work and routine keep her occupied. But weekends arrive, and she watches families together, and the loss hits differently each time. She feels awe for people who parent. She also feels envy. She doesn't want to rush past the grief to find a solution. She's still sitting with the reality of a body that will never carry her own child.
Therapy has been essential—not to fix the grief, but to learn how to live alongside it. So has the ocean. At 37, terrified of sharks and surfboards alike, she and April took up surfing. Starting something completely new together, as adults, as beginners, has been quietly transformative. Her siblings have been thoughtful, making sure their children make her feel special when she's around them. April has been there through every stage, advocating for her in hospitals, holding her through the waves.
Sally doesn't know if she and April will pursue other paths to parenthood—adoption, fostering, other ways of building family. She's open to it, but not rushing. She suspects that as she gets older, past the age when carrying a child would have been possible anyway, the particular sting of this loss might soften. She expects to carry some version of this grief forever. But she's learning to build a life that works for them, unconventional as it is, and to trust that time and intention can make it whole.
Citações Notáveis
It's just always been in my vision for myself to carry a baby and create a family… but I was very clear in that room with the surgeon that I wanted the latter option.— Sally Shipard
The grief of losing the chance to have a baby is something I expect to carry forever. But I'm becoming more comfortable with the unconventional life I'm building with my partner, April.— Sally Shipard
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
When you say Sundays are the hardest, what's actually happening in that moment?
It's the contrast, I think. The week has structure and distraction. But Sunday arrives and you see families everywhere—at the beach, at cafes—and you're suddenly aware of what you don't have. It's not constant. It's waves. You can be fine and then something small triggers it.
Did you ever consider not having the surgery? Even for a moment?
No. April and I talk about being sensitive to the word 'choice' because it wasn't really a choice. It was life or the possibility of carrying a child. That's not a choice. That's a door closing. I was clear about it in that room with the surgeon.
What does therapy actually do for you in this situation? It can't change what happened.
It doesn't change anything. But it teaches you how to sit with grief instead of fighting it. I spent a lot of time resisting what happened, and that made it worse. Therapy helped me stop resisting.
You mention surfing as transformative. Why surfing specifically?
Because it's something April and I do together, and it's completely new. We're both scared and learning at the same time. There's something about being a beginner at 37, about choosing to be vulnerable in a new way, that shifts something. It's not about replacing what I lost. It's about building something else.
Do you think you'll pursue parenthood through other means?
I'm open to it. But I'm not rushing. I need to let this grief settle first. Maybe when I'm older and my body has moved past the age when I could have carried a child anyway, it'll feel different. I'm trusting that time will help, even if it doesn't erase anything.
What would you want people to understand about this kind of loss?
That it's not simple. It's not something you process and move on from. It's something you learn to carry. And that's okay. The unconventional life we're building with April—it's not a consolation prize. It's just different. And different can be good.