It started with the snow.

It started with the snow. 

At least, that’s when the first sign that something wasn’t quite right made itself known.

It was late February 2018, and the UK had just been hit by the Beast from the East. And while I’ll certainly always remember this time for its ridiculously dramatic name, it isn’t the snow that fills my memories when I look back on it. Instead, it is two very different, and altogether quite ordinary moments. 

The first was a selfie.

That morning, wrapped in my favourite brown winter coat and the cosiest scarf I could find, I trudged to work through the fresh snow as it fell in heavy flurries on Glasgow’s Southside. 

I’ve always loved the snow: sitting by the window mesmerised as it falls from the heavy clouds above; the way it completely transforms the landscape, making even the most unpleasant parts of it so clean and pure. For me, the snow has always had a magic to it; a feeling of perfect stillness and joy.

Of course, that all changed the first time I ever had to drive in it, but that's beside the point!

There I was, making my way to work, and in absolutely no rush to get there. So, what better way to stall than by doing what any 23-year-old would – stop to capture myself in this magical winter wonderland for a few likes on Instagram! 

I know, I know… the vanity of it! But to be honest, I’d always found that the snow had a way of making my pale skin glow, the copper hues of my ginger hair radiate, and the green of my eyes pop. In other words, it had a certain knack for making me feel beautiful. A rather rare experience for me.

However, what I didn’t know at that moment was that my body was already on the verge of collapse. That in just four weeks, everything would change.

Now, when I look at that picture, I don’t see the excitement or the fleeting confidence that warmed my heart on that cold February morning. Instead, I see someone wholly unaware of what lay ahead. 

How long before this moment had my body turned against me?