Are You Anchored in Change?

Week 27, 2025 — I didn’t choose this path, but I’ve grown strong here.

Some dreams fade. Others reshape us. I honour both.

ℱ𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈... 🫶💌☕

This week, something caught me off guard — a memory, a feeling, a thread from the past I hadn’t pulled on in a long time.

I’d like to share it with you because maybe you have a version of yourself tucked away somewhere too. A version that you never speak out loud about.

For those who don’t know, I’ve spent 25 years working in the helping professions — nursing, trauma support, and psychosocial care. Alongside being a somatic practitioner, I’m currently doing a 9-5 that’s completely different from what I trained in.

But there’s a chapter I almost never talk about, even with family…

Many moons ago, I made the decision to join the Royal Air Force.

At that time I was passionate about emergency medicine and wound care, with my heart set on becoming an aeromedical nurse.

I passed my fitness test, then waited to start my basic training.

They wanted to get me through the process as quickly as possible, aiming for deployment as a flight lieutenant.

And then I got a phone call (but not the one I was waiting for), which changed everything.

I was medically discharged.

My file had been sitting in a tray for months, and no one had raised concerns — until they went to process my details for basic training and noticed I was on lifelong medication.

They said they couldn’t guarantee I’d always have access to my meds if things went sideways in a combat zone.

Logically, I understood. But emotionally? It hit me like a freight train.

I was devastated.

I didn’t know what to do next.

That dream, that future I’d imagined, suddenly evaporated.

Sometimes, we don’t realise we’re grieving an unlived life

until we catch ourselves looking for it

in someone else’s.

(Pause here. Let that settle.)

Years have since gone by.

I got married.

Raised kids.

Worked across different roles.

I grew stronger, but I never fully let go of that what-if.

Recently, I watched an old documentary about the Medical Emergency Response Teams (MERT) in a Chinook helicopter, rushing to save lives…

Something inside me stirred.

Then I remembered the officer’s words as he discharged me:

We keep your data on file, with the view to being contacted, if there’s ever a major war or emergency here in the UK. But the chances of those kind of events happening is very low and even if you were contacted, you probably wouldn’t be recalled because of your long-term condition.

Well, that condition unexpectedly went into remission in 2017.

And now, with the way the world currently is, who knows?

I’m not sure how long they keep that data for, but what I do know is this: I’m not the same person who walked into that office all those years ago.

I’m older. Softer. Rounder (three dress sizes larger, to be exact).

I don’t like running until I can taste blood anymore… I’d much rather take a leisurely stroll.

I can’t do as many sit-ups or hold a plank like I used to be able to do (maybe a full minute on a good day).

But I’m wiser.

More aware of what my body and nervous system need.

I’ve learned that pushing too hard doesn’t always make me stronger.

We don't always outgrow our old selves.

Sometimes we simply lay them gently down.

(Take a moment to really feel that.)

I used to think I’d jump at the chance to serve if recalled.

Now? I don’t know.

I have people I love and care for who weren’t in my life then.

My kids, especially — 15 and 24 now.

Being a parent changes everything.

I worry less about myself and more about how they’d feel.

But, on the other hand, I’d do anything to protect them.

I also think about my husband, who’s ex-Army, and how these possibilities ripple through our shared nervous systems. For me, the deepest truth is that the present is all we ever truly have.

It’s strange how time shapes us, how priorities shift.

How the fierce young me saw things one way, and the woman I am now sees them completely differently.

If you carry an old version of yourself (a dream, a loss, a what-if) please know you’re not alone.

That part of you deserves gentle acknowledgement, not dismissal.

If you feel called, I invite you to gently journal:

What old version of me am I ready to honour

— not erase?

Even a sentence or two can help.

If reading this stirred something in your body, I invite you to try this:

• Place a hand on your heart and one on your belly.

• Breathe in slowly through your nose.

• Let your breath fall out like a soft sigh.

• Whisper to yourself:
  “I honour what was, and I soften into what is.”

• Repeat a couple more times.

No need to fix anything, just be here with yourself.

Before I sign off for this week, I’d also like to leave you with this visualisation:

Imagine standing before your younger self

— not to scold, not to mourn, but to thank them.

For their hope.

For their courage.

For believing they could be more.

And now, telling them:

You became someone even you would be proud of.

(Let that image breathe in your mind.)

This week, may you meet yourself with grace.

May you honour what was.

And may you feel safe in what still is.

𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒢𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓉𝓊𝒹𝑒,
🙏 𝒟𝒶𝓃𝒶 𝓍𝑜