Living on Borrowed Time

Epilogue

I’d never felt so relaxed as I did stretched out across the beautiful French beach. It wasn’t just the hot sun or the gorgeous location, it was me. I was better now. I was whole once more, and that felt amazing.

As I travelled, I started to write—almost instinctually at first, simply for something to do when I was riding on public transport, getting from place-to-place. I wrote down absolutely everything from the diagnosis, to the almost-death, to completely f*****g up my second chance at life. It was more therapeutic than anything else. Even more so than seeing the best parts of the world—although that backdrop certainly helped.

Now I knew who I was supposed to be.

It took nine months of seeing the sights to figure it all out, but I was getting there, and that was worth something.

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