Bear with me…. this starts with a pair of knee-high boots and somehow ends with me joining a choir.
Early in my recovery journey, I was sitting at the back of a room when a thought hit me.
I don’t even know what colour I like.
I felt empty. Without even noticing it, I’d completely lost who I was.
There was a woman who helped me through those early days. She was kind, confident and so comfortable in her own skin. She always looked well, and she had this pair of knee-high boots that clicked across the floor whenever she walked.
So naturally… I bought knee-high boots.
Looking back now, I laugh so hard at the lengths I went to find myself.
At the time though, it made perfect sense. I’d often heard the saying, “Bring the body and the head will follow.” Somewhere along the way, I twisted that into believing that if I dressed like her, maybe the head would follow.
I wore those boots more than I care to admit and every single time it felt like I was in the wrong body, forcing myself to enjoy them because I wanted so badly to become the person I thought I should be.
Spoiler alert… I’m definitely not a knee-high boot kind of girl.
The beautiful thing is, nobody laughed. Nobody rolled their eyes or told me I was getting it wrong. They just gave me the space to figure it out for myself.
On reflection, I think that’s one of the greatest gifts recovery gave me. Not becoming someone new, but becoming myself, piece by piece.
Life moved on. Relationships, becoming a mum, buying a house, work… life. Gradually, I stopped making myself a priority. Not because I wanted to, but because life has a habit of pulling us in every direction.
After a particularly difficult patch, I got some coaching myself because I wanted to feel a bit more like me again.
It meant asking myself those questions again.
What do I enjoy?
This time they weren’t alien questions anymore. I just hadn’t asked myself in a while.
What do I do just for me?
The answer kept coming back to me.
A choir.
For two years I’d think, I’d love to join a choir, and then I’d think of every reason why I couldn’t.
Until one day…
I sent the email.
Then they replied.
That’s when I realised I’d actually have to turn up.
On the night of the first rehearsal, I went into a complete frenzy trying to think of every excuse not to go. What shocked me wasn’t the fear… it was how quickly I started being hard on myself.
You’re a grown woman. You’re confident. What on earth is wrong with you? Why did you even sign up?
I got there early, as always, and sat in the car. I could feel myself getting hotter by the minute, sitting there for what felt like forever. Every excuse imaginable was running through my head.
Eventually I climbed out, in my favourite pink Adidas Gazelles, took a deep breath and walked towards the door.
The room was full.
Where am I going to sit?
Then I caught the eye of someone.
She smiled.
She tapped the chair beside her.
Almost as if she knew.
I’ve loved it ever since.
At the start of my recovery journey, I was fighting for my life. These days, I’m sending emails to join a choir. It might seem like a small thing, but to me it represents something much bigger. Recovery gave me a life where ordinary things matter again.
Recovery doesn’t stop when the crisis ends. It just starts showing up in ordinary moments.
When I look back now, I don’t think joining the choir was really about singing.
It was about remembering that I’m still allowed to grow. Still allowed to try new things. Still allowed to make myself a priority.
Hope and new beginnings have never arrived in one big life-changing moment. They’ve always arrived quietly.
A pair of boots that were never really me.
An email that nearly wasn’t sent.
A chair being tapped.
I’m under no illusion that life won’t get busy again.
It will.
My hope is simply that I’ll recognise it sooner, choose me a little quicker, and keep making space for the things that make me feel like… me.
Because that’s where hope lives for me now.
Not in big life-changing moments.
But in quietly choosing myself, again and again.
And every time I do…
New beginnings seem to find me.
