No place like home.

Dorothy was right, you know. There really is no place like home.

And for me, Northern Ireland between the months of October and December is my favourite place to be. 

Maybe it’s the changing of the leaves; the quiet shift in temperature; the smell of peat turf drifting from chimneys. Or perhaps it’s the pitter-patter of rain against window panes, the howling wind on a dark night while you’re curled on the sofa in the cosy socks and a dressing gown, nursing a marshmallow-topped hot chocolate. 

And once winter truly arrives, there’s always the chance of snow – falling in its flurries over the fields, leaving everything crisp, clean, and utterly breathtaking.

What can I say? There really is no place like home.

And for those first few months, it was my haven.

Days curled under blankets with endless cups of tea; afternoons wandering the streets in a cosy jumper and scarf; evenings watching Adam play football while Ben whispered in my ear what was actually happening on the pitch.

I was struggling – emotionally, physically – but after months of hospital wards, this slower rhythm was a welcome change.

By October, Ben and I had moved into our own little flat. He’d finished his PGDE placement and made the move to Northern Ireland. And though the previous months had tested our relationship, we were slowly finding our rhythm again – just at a gentler pace.

I wanted so desperately to move on. To start again. To get back to who I was.

But no matter how hard I tried, cancer was always there. Even when it wasn’t claiming space in the back of my mind, I was searching for it on my skin or in unexpected aches in my body.

I’d learned far too much about blood, the body, and the tell-tale signs of leukaemia during my time on the ward. So now, I knew exactly what to look for – and that knowledge felt like both a blessing and a curse.

The biggest culprit for my spiralling fear was petechiae: tiny pinprick spots that can appear on the skin when platelets are low – the little cells that clot your blood.

Ordinarily, these mischievous markings would show up like a rash – multiple little dots clustered together. But my brain didn’t care about that. If I spotted even one or two rogue specks, the sirens in my head went off, and panic mode was fully activated.

Of course, I kept trying to reassure myself.

Telling myself: You’re fine. You’re cured. It’s over. Move on.

But the fear wouldn’t let go.

During those first months of treatment, tests had confirmed I wasn’t high-risk. In fact, all signs pointed the other way. Which meant no further interventions. No stem cell transplant. Nothing.

So why couldn’t I breathe? Why couldn’t I let myself enjoy my freedom, after so many months of confinement? I was at war with myself – fighting for peace and progress while still locked in a battle with trauma and fear.

I wanted so badly to return to the version of me I’d always known. The me that belonged to this time of year. To this place.

Back home. Away from Glasgow. Away from the shadow of the Queen Elizabeth.

I needed a distraction. Something to anchor me. To keep my mind busy. 

So... I decided it was high time I learned to drive.