Last Christmas, my Camden home was a tinsel explosion, an all-white colour scheme of twinkling lights and paper snowflakes adorning every window. As I sat around the table with my husband, Jeremy, and our daughters, Chloe, then 12, and Daphne, eight, the air around us seemed to shimmer with a magical glow. It was the glow of being alive, because I am so lucky to still be here.
Looking back, 2022 was set to be the best year of my life. I had a career I loved as global head of communications at an investment management firm, and that August I'd achieved a lifelong dream of climbing Kilimanjaro with Jeremy. For seven hours, we ascended in total darkness in temperatures of -20 degrees. I remember picturing the shame I felt when I was 12 and school bullies spat in my hair. I was so unsure of myself then.
Yet standing on top of that mountain, my jaw frozen in a massive smile, I was euphoric.
'Look at me now,' I wanted to shout. 'I'm as strong as I will ever be.' I felt invincible.
A month later, everything changed. It was a weekday evening and I was on the Tube in London on my way home from work. Recovering from COVID-19 and feeling exhausted, I closed my eyes. When I woke up, I'd missed my stop - I was at the end of the line in High Barnet. Rain pounded down as I stepped out onto the wet platform.
Realising that the same train was going back to Camden, I turned round to get back on.
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