Mirror, signal, breathe, manoeuvre.

Yup. I’d made it to 24 years old without learning to drive.

For some, that might not sound all that unusual. But in Northern Ireland – where it’s still entirely possible to see a horse and trap rattling down the dual carriageway – it can raise a few eyebrows.

The truth is, Northern Ireland has always been a few steps behind the rest of the UK when it comes to the public transport system. Actually, if I’m being honest, it’s a few steps behind the UK in quite a lot of things!

But when it comes to getting around the Emerald Isle? Trainlines are scarce and buses poor – therefore, the easiest way to get anywhere is by car.

This meant, at 17, I was one of the few who still hadn’t passed their theory test, let alone signed up for lessons. But honestly? I wasn’t too bothered. Not because I didn’t want to learn – I was envious of my friends who’d passed before I’d even turned 17 – but because I had too much else going on.

I was always anxious. Always stressed. And school did nothing to help.

I was desperate to get to university, to move to Scotland and be closer to Ben. But I wasn’t a top student; if anything, I was average at best, which meant working twice as hard to keep up.

As a result, my A-level years were consumed by nights of revision, and most of my money went towards study guides (the rest, of course, on trips to Scotland!).

Then, when exams ended, I figured I’d just wait and see where I’d end up first, before thinking about driving. And once the results came in and my place at University was confirmed, I knew a car was the last thing I needed.

So, fast forward to the end of 2018, and there I am: back in Northern Ireland, immune system too weak for public transport, and in desperate need of a distraction.

Enter: driving lessons. Courtesy of my dad.

Now, I love my dad. And my dad loves me.

But here’s the thing: we can both be…short-tempered with each other. Usually over very minor, very silly little things. So learning to drive with him in the passenger seat was an immense test of patience for us both.

Practice sessions went something like this:

Dad, abruptly raising his voice (not shouting, raising) with instructions.

Me, calmly raising mine (definitely not shouting) to let him know I had it under control.

Ben sat in the back, eyes glued to his phone, pretending he wasn’t there as he waited his turn.

Mum, stationed behind Dad, working her way towards being named referee of the year.

A few months earlier, I’d been Daddy’s little princess – frail, sick, and fragile. Now… not so much.

It was clear to me that he thought I was a road hazard – likely to crash his car every time another vehicle appeared on the horizon, but, as we Irish like to say, it was all grand!

In a strange way, as much as he was doing my head in, and vice versa, it felt good. Like we’d found our old rhythm again.

Thankfully, though, I also had a qualified instructor to balance things out – far calmer, far less dramatic.

And week by week, Ben and I would compare notes (he had the same instructor), swapping triumphs and near-misses, and then testing them out with my dad, until eventually, the test date arrived.

I told no one except Ben.

If my dad had known, he’d have dragged me out for a last-minute “practice run” and I’m fairly sure we’d have stopped speaking altogether.

But on February 27, 2019, I passed.

I'd officially moved from an L-plate driver to an R-plate.

And with a shiny new car already waiting in the driveway (yes, I bought it before the test – confidence or madness, you decide), the road ahead suddenly felt wide open.

March was almost here, marking one year since my diagnosis. But this year, I wouldn't be facing it with fear. This time, I'd be going into March stronger, healthier, and with hope.