This much I know

Adele Roberts, DJ, 45

Silence doesn’t sit well with me. I’m the eldest of six children, so my early years were chaotic; the house was filled with music, laughter and chat.

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 Stockport, felt safe, but away from home there’d be abuse.

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.

A private school scholarship changed my life. I saw how others lived. We could never have afforded it – even my uniform was paid for by a bursary.

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 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 and in my prime when I got my diagnosis.

Being told I was cancer-free was the most beautiful moment. A year’s worth of pain and fear rushed out my body. Cancer made me a better person. I’ve traded my brattiness for gratitude.

Lesbian representation in the media 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.

Prince William used to text me. Will and Kate came to Radio 1 to wish me luck before I ran the London marathon. He told me 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 me until I met my girlfriend, Kate, and it now feels like the easiest thing in the world.

My stoma is called Audrey. Naming it helps you bond. Mine looked like the plant from Little Shop of Horrors: Audrey II. I’m determined to be loud and proud about her – so many people are made to feel ashamed of theirs.