This is a highly unusual travel blog post, but bear with me….

Today, Peter and I made our way up into the lush Dandenong Ranges, landing in the charming little village of Kallista. Only half an hour from Berwick, Kallista offers a taste of country life — peaceful, green, and rich with character and charm. My Finnish readers might get a quiet laugh from the name: Kallista literally translates to “expensive” in Finnish… and well, let’s just say the local real estate lives up to it!

The welcoming Kallista Deli Café drew us in with its homely charm and the promise of something warm and comforting. What began as a simple outing soon turned into something far more meaningful. As Peter sipped his extra-hot cappuccino and I cradled my sticky chai, we had no idea a quiet, powerful story was about to unfold — one that found its way deep into our hearts in this little village in the hills.

So let me begin by telling you why this touched me so deeply.

My father was a writer and a storyteller — just like I am.
I say was, though he is still with us, now nearing 90. But Alzheimer’s has gently closed the door on his writing days. The man who once filled page after page with memory and meaning can no longer recall what he once captured so beautifully.

But oh, how powerfully he told his life story when it was his season to write.

Every one of the 574 pages he typed — letter by letter, word by word, on his faithful typewriter — holds fragments of a life lived with deep awareness. Though he wrote much more over the years, this was his autobiography. He began with his very first memory: Helsinki, 1939. He was just four years old when the air raid sirens wailed and the city trembled under the bombs. From there, he wove the tapestry of his life — from the shadows of a childhood in war-torn Finland to the hopes of a new beginning — a journey that began in hush of a troubled time and found its way to Australia four decades later.

His words are more than a memoir; they are a legacy.

What follows is one such passage — my father’s own words, recalling the events of 1967 and 1968:

“In the late autumn of 1967, our family was faced with a difficult and frightening ordeal. My mother-in-law began experiencing mysterious medical episodes, often in the middle of the night. She would suddenly have convulsions, sometimes so severe that we had to call an ambulance. After several hospital visits and a thorough medical examination, the cause was finally discovered — a brain tumour. It had been there all along, pressing quietly against her brain — but as the pressure grew, so did the disruptions, until the seizures began. Surgery was the only option; without it, she had little time left. The seizures took such a toll on her that she said death felt like a kinder option than continuing to endure them”.

My beloved grandmother underwent a high-risk, highly specialised, and emotionally significant procedure — especially notable given the context of a smaller country like Finland in 1968. The fact that it was done successfully speaks volumes about the surgeon’s skill and the medical facility’s capabilities — and because of that, I was given precious time with one of the most significant people to ever touch my life.

I got to truly know my grandmother, and I remain deeply thankful for the priceless gift the neurosurgery team gave — not only to her, but also to me, by giving me the chance to have her back in my life.

Little did I know that, decades later, in 2021, my own life would change in similar ways — in an instant. I was diagnosed with a spinal tumour — an overwhelming discovery that led to urgent surgery later that same year. Alongside it, two brain tumours were also found. Then, just last year, my mother underwent surgery for a spinal tumour of her own.

Three women.
Three generations.
One after another, we’ve faced the weight of spinal and brain tumours — and each of us has also walked the difficult road of cancer.

We carry one another’s stories — hers, ours, and those still unfolding — in our bones and in our scars. And somehow, by grace, we have kept moving forward.

Yet as I sat in the cosy warmth of Kallista Deli Café, these kinds of thoughts weren’t at the forefront of my mind. Peter and I were simply soaking in a magnificent autumn day — the sky a brilliant blue, the air crisp but kind, and my hands wrapped around a comforting cup of spiced chai.

Kallista Deli Café quietly captured our affection. There’s something about it that feels less like a café and more like stepping into your grandmother’s kitchen — welcoming, familiar, and filled with gentle warmth. The atmosphere was deeply comforting, a place where you could unwind and let the world outside fade away.

But something caught my eye in a corner of the café — it looked like they were hosting a raffle. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that the raffle was happening on the last day of the month, with the proceeds going to brain cancer research. Needless to say, I bought some tickets.

I’m well aware that May is Brain Tumour Awareness Month, and I’ve shared posts about “Go Gray in May” on my Instagram and Facebook pages, but like many, I often find myself unsure of how to contribute in a more meaningful way beyond raising awareness.

Curious, I decided to ask the friendly staff for more details about the initiative. What I learned moved me deeply and made me realise that our visit to Kallista Deli Café today was no coincidence.

Baking for Brain Cancer is a heartfelt initiative that takes something as simple and comforting as baked goods and turns it into a powerful way to support brain cancer research. Throughout May, cafes and bakeries across Australia take part by selling sweet treats and running raffles — raising both funds and awareness for a cause that deserves far more attention.

The initiative began when Tonie, who is a wife and a mother, was diagnosed with brain cancer just a year ago. One evening, she sat down with her family over dinner to find a way they could make a difference. That conversation sparked something beautiful — and Baking for Brain Cancer was born. Tonie’s family is the driving force behind this entire campaign.

What touched me most about Tonie’s journey was the strength of her family and the way they’ve turned something so personal into a beacon of hope for others. Brain tumour and cancer research is certainly an area that needs far more support and funding.

And yet, the day still had more surprises in store. When I found out which bakery it was, I was genuinely surprised. Out of all the places in Australia where this initiative could have begun, it started right here, in my Berwick. And as it turns out, Peter and I have even lived within walking distance of Phil’s Pies and Pastries — the very bakery at the heart of it all. Realising the connection made this whole experience feel unexpectedly personal — like the threads of community, memory, and purpose had gently come together.

I’ve visited Phil’s many times over the years — first with my children, and later with my grandchildren. I moved to Berwick over 32 years ago — it’s where I raised my family, where my roots have grown deep.

Phil’s is a beloved local bakery known for its pies, chocolate éclairs, vanilla slices, lemon tarts, sausage rolls, custard tarts, apple cakes, and cupcakes — and for its warm, community feel.

Living with a brain tumour — or multiple tumours — is a daunting, often lonely journey, not just for those diagnosed, but for their families too. And when the diagnosis is a highly aggressive form of brain cancer, like in Tonie’s case, the weight of it all can feel unimaginable.

Yet, in the midst of that storm, Tonie shared something that moved me deeply: how her faith has been her anchor through it all. She spoke of experiencing a deep inner peace, one that has come from placing her trust in God — a peace that doesn’t make sense on paper, but is so clearly real in her life. Her words brought tears to my eyes.

Almost instantly, a familiar song came to mind — one I’ve often quietly sung to myself in difficult times:

“The anchor holds, Though the ship is battered, The anchor holds, Though the sails are torn, I have fallen on my knees, As I faced the raging seas, The anchor holds, In spite of the storm..”

In Tonie’s story, I see faith not as an escape from hardship, but as strength within it — and I am reminded once again of the power of hope in the face of life’s fiercest trials.

As I looked around the cosy warmth of Kallista Deli Café — the chatter, the clinking of cups, the scent of spiced chai lingering in the air — it struck me how life’s deepest truths often find us in the quietest moments.

There, nestled in the gentle hum of a small-town café, was a reminder that even in the face of something as overwhelming as brain cancer, beauty, courage, and connection still rise. Tonie’s story walked in quietly that day, but it stayed with me in the loudest way. I left not just with a full belly and a full heart, but with a renewed belief that love and faith, like anchors, can hold — even in life’s fiercest storms.

So now, can I ask something of you? Please take a moment to look up Baking For Brain Cancer. Find a participating bakery near you — and when you do, buy a cupcake, a pie, or a sweet treat on Saturday, the 31st of May.

With every bite, you’ll be helping fund vital research and standing in quiet solidarity with those walking the hardest roads. It might feel like a small act, but it carries the weight of something much bigger: hope. And if this moved you, I’d love it if you shared this post with others.