Silence doesn’t sit well with me. I’m the eldest of six children, so my early years were chaotic. Every day was an adventure; the house was filled with music, laughter and chat. If I’m home alone now, I always have the telly on.
Racism was everywhere when I was a kid. Mum’s parents were from Barbados, Dad was white English: mixed relationships weren’t common in the late-70s. Home, in Southport, felt safe, but away from home there’d be abuse. For a while we lived in Skem [Skelmersdale] – I heard the N-word every day.
Mum and Dad are grafters. She was always helping people on the estate and he worked on building sites from dawn to dusk to provide. I used to feel guilty, working in the media. DJ-ing is wonderful, but it’s pressing buttons. I couldn’t shake the idea that I should work harder for the wonderful life I have.
A private school scholarship changed my life. I saw how others lived, was offered opportunities and learned what’s possible. We could never have afforded it – even my uniform was paid for by a bursary. I was never treated differently there, though I’m not sure anyone quite understood where I was from.
Stubbornness is my worst habit. I don’t back down. Slowly, I’m learning to admit I’m wrong once the moment is over, but in the heat of it I still can’t.
Getting my BBC pass felt like a real moment. Mum and Dad finally accepted that being a DJ wasn’t a phase I’d grow out of. That I wasn’t going back to finish uni. That day, I knew they were proud.
My GP told me I was too young for cancer. She sent me for tests anyway, which saved my life. I was 42, fit and in my prime when I got my diagnosis. While I waited to hear how serious it was, I made a promise: if I survived, I’d tell the tale. Reading other people’s stories comforted me while I was struggling. Sharing my own is the least I could do.
Being told I was cancer-free was the most beautiful moment. A year’s worth of worry, pain and fear rushed out my body. Cancer made me a better person. I’ve stopped worrying about the silly things. I appreciate the privilege of being healthy. I’ve traded my brattiness for gratitude.
Lesbian representation in the media still has a way to go. Often, inclusivity means a gay man – we need more space for the rest of the LGBTQ+ letters.
I regret not spending enough time with Mum. She passed away earlier this year. I left Radio 1 to be with her, and we had an amazing summer together. For years, I sacrificed that for my career. I shouldn’t have.
Prince William used to text me regularly. Will and Kate came to Radio 1 to wish me luck before I ran the London marathon. He told me when he worked on the air ambulances, he used to listen to me on the early breakfast show, and would sometimes message in with a fake name asking for a shout-out.
There’s a Lauryn Hill lyric: “It could all be so simple, but you’d rather make it hard.” That was my approach to past relationships. Then I met my girlfriend, Kate, and realised you just know when it’s supposed to be – it now feels like the easiest thing in the world. Lots of “Yes dears” also help.
My stoma is called Audrey. Naming it helps you bond and get used to it. Mine looked like the plant from Little Shop of Horrors: Audrey II. She keeps me alive – and that’s beautiful. I’m determined to be loud and proud about her – so many people are made to feel ashamed of theirs.
Personal Best by Adele Roberts is published by Hodder Catalyst and is out now
• This article was amended on 5 May 2024. An earlier version said that Adele Roberts was from Stockport when she is from Southport.
