Silver linings.

Although a lot of what I’ve shared in recent stories feels quite heavy, the truth is, it wasn’t all bad.

I guess that’s life for you. Full of small moments and unexpected silver linings that somehow sit alongside everything else. And although, as I write this, I’m at a point where “everything happens for a reason” feels a bit of a cop out, I can’t say there isn’t some truth in it.

For instance, if it hadn’t been for cancer, I would never have returned home, and if I hadn’t returned home, I wouldn’t have had the time I did with my granny before she died in September 2020.

At the time, it just felt like ordinary life. Now it feels like something much bigger than that, like a blessing in disguise.

Yes, we were living in the middle of COVID, when everything felt restricted and uncertain, but that summer gave us something else: sunshine, and long, warm days that made it easier to be outside together, even if it had to be at a distance.

And although we didn’t do anything extraordinary, just socially distanced afternoons filled with conversation and the joy of being around each other in whatever way we could, those are the moments I’ll carry with me, the ones that don’t feel like much at the time, but end up meaning everything later.

Another silver lining was the time I suddenly had. 

Too much of it, in some ways.

Moving back to Scotland with Ben made sense. We both knew that. His teaching qualification was specific to the Scottish system, and he deserved the chance to actually do the job he’d worked so hard for.

But for me, things were less clear. I wasn’t working, and I knew I wouldn’t be for a while, and sitting still like that, after everything, wasn’t easy.

I also wanted to be sure we’d both be happy with wherever we chose to relocate, because as much as I loved Glasgow’s southside, it held memories I wasn’t ready to face yet. And if I’m honest, I hadn’t planned on coming back so soon. I thought I’d have at least another year or two in Northern Ireland before any of this happened.

Therefore, if we were going to move back, it had to be somewhere that felt right. And for me, that was Stirling.

Stirling held some of my happiest memories. It was where I felt like I really found myself, where I proved that I wasn’t just the version of me I’d been at school, and that I could do more, be more, and push myself further than I ever thought I could.

I took risks there, tried new things, built a life that felt like mine, even when I missed home. And I left feeling proud of myself, even if things didn’t fall perfectly into place afterwards.

But somewhere between diagnosis, treatment, and everything that followed, I felt like I’d lost that version of myself, or at least, I couldn’t quite reach her anymore.

So when Ben agreed to move to Stirling, and I found myself with all this time to “recover”, I made a decision: I was going to go back to uni.

Even writing that now, it still sounds a bit mad. My mind wasn’t what it used to be, and my concentration even less so, so everything took more effort than it should have.

Of course, my mum had suggested I start smaller. Maybe a course at the local college, something like baking or flower arranging, just to keep busy and give myself something to focus on.

I instead chose to do a Masters. 

Which, for some people, probably sounds like the opposite of easing yourself back in, but for me, it was exactly what I needed.

And while it didn’t fix everything that felt broken – not that I ever thought it would – it gave me something solid to focus on, something that felt like me before everything changed.

And slowly, without really noticing it at first, parts of me started to come back.

The girl who’d always found comfort in academia. The one who felt most like herself when writing stories and essays. The soul who could sit by the university loch and feel, even just for a moment, like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

In the years that followed, other moments of magic showed up too. Not all at once and not always in big ways, but enough to count.

One of these came at the start of 2023, when I was invited to join Young Lives vs Cancer as part of their Voice Board.

Alongside 12 other young people and parents, I had the chance to help shape the support system for young people living with cancer across the UK.

For two years, we shared our experiences, spoke up about what mattered, and tried to make things better for those going through it now, and those who one day will.

And while it’s hard to explain what that really meant, I think it comes down to this:

There’s a line in one of my favourite shows, This Is Us, about taking the sourest lemon life has to offer and turning it into something resembling lemonade. 

And while it might sound like a poignant twist on an old cliché, that’s exactly what it was for me: an opportunity to take the hand life dealt me, whether I liked it or not, and try to do something with it. Not just getting through it, but using it where I could, and turning it into something that mattered.

It hasn’t been neat, and it hasn’t always made sense, but somewhere in all of it, I found moments that mattered, pieces of myself that came back, and a way to make it count in the only way I knew how.

And maybe that’s what those silver linings really are. Not big, life-changing moments, but small pieces that, over time, begin to settle into place and help you make sense of everything else in a way you never quite could before.