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It’s been exactly a full week since we left Lincolnshire. I hadn’t realised how heavy the place had felt. 

I guess when you end up somewhere you never knew and never wished to, no matter how hard you try to settle and make your place there, it never feels like home.  

No matter how much I meditated, journaled or networked, the more time we spent there, it never felt right. I speak of gut feelings a lot, yet I wrestled with mine on this one for a long time.

When you lose the autonomy of your life, the easiest way to adapt is to focus on what you can change. And so we have been doing just that, biding our time, slowly recovering, day by day growing, yet craving more. I wanted to leave many times, yet felt bound by love and Rob’s pace. I knew I had to sit tight until the time was right.

A big part of not settling, was being lonely. Solitude is sacred and necessary, given the trauma we dealt with. The space and time to heal; to reflect on who we were. To deal with the devastating blows, inch by inch.

Yet there is a fine line between loneliness and chosen solitude. Something as a carer and someone being cared for, we haven’t spoken enough about is being lonely.  

Our world has been and still can be at times, very isolating.  Keeping routine, keeping Rob steady and supporting his fluctuating needs doesn’t lend itself to a whim of spontaneity. Nor does our pace of life.

As with our ever evolving and fluctuating world with brain injury, we couldn’t simply just pop down the pub, go for late night dinner parties or dance til the early hours.  The kind of situations where those deep and meaningful relationships and friendships are formed.  We were on the periphery, sometimes I would go it alone.  Attend an event or go along to one of the nicer bars and just have a drink, but it never led to being to truly connected.  My mind was always wondering how Rob was faring as I had left him a few hours and knowing I was out in the world, one he very much was not part of any more, it never felt quite right. Every bit of me ached for him to be with me.

If we did socialise in groups together, it was limited to where had disabled access and facilities. Not many places. Nor at times that suit neurological fatigue. Or simply wouldn’t get invited.

A major factor, was not having friends nearby who truly loved us, had history with us. Knew us from before.  Don’t misunderstand me, we met some wonderful dear souls, who helped,  took us under their wing and held our hands along the way during our time there.  But nothing beats friends who’ve known you forever. The ones who will drive 3hours to bring you a batch of freshly baked scones and some soup.  Or bring their whole family across country, just to see you for a cuddle.

The pregnancy, such a blessing, was indeed a catalyst. The last year, we’ve muddled along as best we can, yet it was finally time. As we rang in the new year, knowing we would have a baby soon, we decided to make a move. For life on our terms. Allow ourselves to think about the future.

And after months of searching, nothing being accessible or being let down by landlords rejecting our offers, we found a bungalow. Asking friends to view for us, trusting their judgement and our feelings from viewing the videos and pics they sent, we took a giant leap of faith!

We’ve moved to a town we knew we liked, has a vibrant community spirit and most importantly, folk who we have history with. 

I write this, surrounded by boxes left to unpack, content. A Somerset resident. The leap, so far has been oh so refreshing.

Exciting, exhausting, exhilarating.

The leap was needed. The right people, the right place; the right energies feel like home.

Once upon a time I used to jump off cliffs, waterfalls and boats into the sea.  Now it’s all about leaping, full of faith and hope; jumping, feet first into life.  

What in life are you waiting for? Are you ready to make your leap? x