6 weeks ago I left life as I had known it. I packed up my bags, borrowed my cousin’s car and drove down to live in a tent in North Devon. Call me mad. Call me brave. Call me whatever you like. I knew, as soon as left, that it was the best decision I could have made.  And that is really all that mattered.

Life down here is so different to anything I have ever experienced. There is no concept of time. It rains on demand. The sea, on busy days, is filled with ants, all in your way, all gloriously enjoying themselves in the waves that everyone is desperate to catch. The wind changes direction every twenty minutes. The seagulls are your alarm clock. Nobody knows what day it is. Everyone knows when it is low tide.

I used to describe myself as a ‘type’ of person. Someone who liked (and needed) routine. Someone who required security, of someone or something. Someone who had no idea how to handle stress or anxiety. Someone who would easily focus on the worries rather than the wonders.

I have surprised myself since living down here. Despite leaving a few times for meetings, family commitments and celebrations and just a general get-out-of-Croyde-cabin-fever, I had become the person I believe I have always wanted to be.

In eight days time, I am having major surgery to help my back. It is something I booked earlier this year and it is only recently I have found myself worrying, not sleeping, crying, hesitating… I have found myself becoming less ‘go-getter’ and more ‘best-not’. I find old traces of me trickling back in. It is normal to be nervous I suppose. But I just remind myself that it will all be worth it.

I am surrounded by the most amazing, most supportive, most light-hearted, wonderfully weird and energised people. This is where I have wanted to be. This is where I am.
And, in case I ever forget, this is where I can always come back to remind myself.