Being at Headley Court in the summer of 2010, shortly before the anniversary of my blast, was like going back to my first days of early training. It was a chance for me to mentally and physically immerse myself in a place I knew and loved. Even when it was tough, I relished every second of it. I knew it was the beginning of me getting my life back. Equally important was the fact I became one of the lads again. It was just like old times and although I was a novelty, as the only girl, it was great to be part of a gang again.
Even though Captain Kate Philp had been there before to recuperate with her injuries, she was an officer. As I was just a normal soldier I had the same status as most of the lads, which in my mind meant I belonged. The other guys there at the same time as me were so supportive. Finally, I felt I had people to communicate with who truly knew what I was feeling. When I was in the gym they’d push me to work hard to keep up with them. During all my physio sessions, if they did an hour of weights then I’d do an hour, too. There was no way I was going to let anyone, male or female, get the better of me! The effect it had on me was brilliant and for the first time in years I felt like I was in control of my own body, not the other way around, and I was fast making progress.
Headley Court is run day-to-day very much like the Army. They take a roll call every morning at 8.30am after breakfast and you have to be there, no excuses. Initially, I had six months rehabilitation on a rotation of three weeks on and three weeks off, with weekends at home. Inside, there’s a fully functioning hospital; I was put in a room there for the first six months but because I was coming and going I didn’t have a chance to add any homely touches, although I always put a photo of Milly next to my bed. I was supplied with a wheelchair and I was taught to use it. Around Headley Court, everywhere had been adapted for wheelchair users – wider doors, big bathrooms and lift buttons you could reach easily. When I first arrived I was already used to seeing people with single amputations and even double amputees, so I didn’t bat an eyelid even though there were quite a few of them. I was shocked at first, though, when a young man walked in who was a triple amputee. But I couldn’t help but be inspired by him as he strolled into the room as it made me determined – if he could do it, I could too. You saw all sorts of injuries at Headley Court, so after being there that first time there wasn’t anything that could shock me. Rather I was in awe of the men’s determination to achieve and recover despite often devastating injuries.
While I was desperate to get walking on my prosthetic, first I had to master my wheelchair as I couldn’t go out until the occupational therapist was confident I could manage alone, but the rehab was so intensive that at first I was too exhausted to go out anyway. Once they were happy I was competent, I was downgraded to standard living accommodation: a room adapted for wheelchair users with an en suite shower. There was a single bed with a view out over the grounds. Decorated in standard military magnolia, it was no-frills and functional. I didn’t even unpack my suitcase when I was there – I spent all the time I could concentrating on my rehab.
The food was amazing at Headley Court. It was tailored to help those who had gained weight after they’d become sedentary due to injury: there was a salad bar, fresh sandwiches made to order and low-calorie hot food. In addition to the healthy options there were chips and comfort food for the diehards. Compared to standard Army fare, it was amazing!
Every day, everyone has to head to the gym, no matter what their disability. Anyone from a triple amputee to someone with a brain injury must push themselves to the limit. It didn’t matter what was wrong with you, you just had to get on with it, doing things like weights to music, which was led by an instructor at the front of the gym. If you’re a triple amputee and you can’t pick up the weights they are using, you are just given another set – there is absolutely no exception made for you whatsoever. While it may sound harsh, it is that lack of compromise that gets people motivated. That attitude was one of the main things that kept me going in there and which has kept me going since. Quite simply, you don’t have time to moan or dwell on what’s happened to you; you just have to crack on and deal with it.
Obviously, while my condition was serious, there were other people in there who were far worse off than me. Seeing them do well in physical exercise made me think, ‘Well, if they can do it, I can do it, too.’
You do an hour’s exercise in the morning then you are allocated a personal instructor, with whom you do one-to-one physical training for the rest of the day. That involves something low-key like stretching to something much more strenuous such as wheelchair boxing – one of only a few contact sports you can do from a chair.
One day I was sick but I still took part in a boxing class. Everyone took a ‘no excuses’ attitude. Regularly I did about five hours of physical activity a day, only stopping for lunch in-between. Despite still being in my wheelchair I lost nearly a stone in ten days due to the sheer physical exertion. I examined my face and arms every day to see if I was losing weight as I could literally feel it dropping off me. It was hard work physically but it was worth it. My whole focus was to get fit and then get fitted with my prosthetic leg. As I’d committed to the London Marathon and told Milly I was doing it, there was no way I was letting her down and not taking part.
Even though there were times I felt I couldn’t go on and every muscle in my body ached, I stuck with it. I felt I was starting to take control of my body again and this in turn was helping to focus my mind. My mood swings were starting to go and my outlook on everything was changing. Instead of being a novelty, sleeping well at night became the norm – I was so physically exhausted. My confidence grew massively and when I went home for a few days’ rest I couldn’t wait to tell Jamie and Milly what I’d achieved. It was a fantastic feeling and, mentally, I was transforming: the old me was coming back.
The medics at Headley Court try and get you on a prosthetic limb as quickly as possible. Your first leg is a leg in name only as it’s more of a metal pole with a foot on the end. After just one week I had my first fitting at the prosthetics clinic. Barely able to sleep for excitement the night before, as I went down I thought: ‘This is it, I’m going to get my leg and walk straight away!’ In retrospect that was terribly naive. The brutal reality was that when the prosthetic was strapped around my stump and I was eased between the two parallel bars you are meant to walk between, I just fell to the ground – I was too fat to use my prosthetic. I just burst into tears and cried and cried. It seemed I was trapped in a vicious cycle – unable to exercise as I struggled to put weight on my new titanium leg – but without exercise unable to lose the weight.
Worse still was that after I’d had my leg amputated my body had gone into shock and all my hair had begun to fall out. It had started when I had a shower just a few weeks after coming out of the coma. Relaxing, letting the water wash over me, I began to shampoo my hair. When I started to lather it up a massive clump of my hair came out. I just screamed. It was lying there at the bottom of the cubicle. As the water rained down on me I stood there, crying.
‘Oh, my God, can anyone throw anything else at me?’ I thought. It was devastating. In fact, it was worse than losing my leg. It felt like my femininity was going. I was fat, I only had one leg and now I was going bald. The next three weeks were horrendous as each day I noticed more of my hair was falling out in clumps in the shower. It felt like every time I washed it more fell out.
Initially, I went to the doctor and said: ‘My hair is falling out.’ But as it’s so thick it wasn’t immediately apparent.
He said: ‘It happens for lots of reasons like stress. Have you got any bald patches?’
I said: ‘No,’ as I didn’t at that point.
‘That rules out alopecia, then,’ he replied. He seemed to think I was losing a few strands like women sometimes do at the end of pregnancy, not the sheer volume that was dropping out of my head. It came out in clumps from my hairbrush and out in the shower – huge amounts, balls of it. So I put a zip-lock freezer bag next to my bed to collect the tufts that kept dropping out. I wanted to show him the evidence of what was happening so he would understand this was anything but a few strands.
But I never needed to show him. By the time I went back to the doctor, it was clear all of my hair was going as I was left with only baby fluff on my head and a few long tufts. It looked like mange. I was pretty much inconsolable at that time and I feared it would never come back. He diagnosed me with telogen effluvium, a temporary form of hair loss brought on by surgery, major physical trauma or stress – so I ticked every box. I could barely bring myself to look in the mirror; it was devastating.
The nurses were brilliant; they told me from the start they were sure this was only a temporary thing and it was just my body’s reaction to shock. I had a brilliant welfare officer at Headley Court, who had battled cancer, so she understood the impact it had on me straight away and she made enquiries about wigs. The charity Help for Heroes stepped in and paid for me to have human hair wigs until it grew back, which enabled me to face the world. I’d get up in the morning before putting on my wig and check my head. If I saw a few tufts of stubble I’d say, ‘Oh, it’s definitely grown a little bit – I’ve got a little bit more bum fluff!’
With the charity’s help I was able to choose a blonde wig. I got the wig fitted while I was on leave from Headley Court and when I came back all the guys were like, ‘Wow, Hannah, you’re blonde! I’m loving the new hair.’
I had to tell them not to be so daft – I was wearing a bloody wig! They wouldn’t have known, though, until I told them but they were all brilliant about it and no one said anything negative. The medical staff were great as well and as I couldn’t wear wigs to do physio, the nurses would try and plait the few chunks of hair I did have to make me look better. No one ever made me feel self-conscious. I think everyone felt really sorry for me after everything I’d been through as this was like a final kick in the teeth. Going bald was one of the few times in my life where I actually cried properly in front of people as I was just so gutted that it was happening to me.
I remember Nikki came round and I wailed: ‘What else can be thrown at me? What the hell else do I have to go through?’ She just hugged me and said that it was going to be all right and this was a small setback on my road to recovery.
Her kindness made me cry even more and I shouted: ‘I’m the fattest, now the baldest one-legged woman out there! What on earth is coming next?’
The only thing that stopped me going completely off the rails about it all was the fact that my hair started growing back pretty much straight away, albeit in random tufts. Once I knew it wasn’t going to last forever I even let Milly watch me put my wig on when she walked into my room. I didn’t try to hide it. I just said: ‘Mummy’s hair is going to grow back and look, it’s started already,’ and I let her touch my stubble.
As soon as it got long enough I had hair extensions put in: first, blonde and then bright red. I found an amazing hairdresser near Headley Court, who would either come in or visit my house and sort everything out for me. After my hair grew back, I became much more conscious of it and I still am, in fact. I was so grateful to feel feminine again and it gave me a whole new understanding of what it means to lose that part of you, especially for a woman.
While dealing with my loss of hair I started to acknowledge the fact that despite still being nineteen stone, I needed to find a way to walk properly so I could fulfil my marathon dream. I had by that time managed to walk a few faltering steps between two metal parallel bars at the prosthetics department. It was agony on my new man-made limb but I felt despite my weight it was a start. The physio kept telling me not to do too much but once I get tunnel vision about something, there’s no stopping me.
With massive exertion, after about four weeks of rehab at Headley Court I actually managed to walk down the corridor for the first time. Jamie had brought Milly in to pick me up, as it was the weekend. I slipped on the prosthetic and despite it being uncomfortable, I thought: ‘I am damn well going to wear it!’ Milly and Jamie stood waiting at the end of the corridor about 20 metres away, and for the first time I walked down to meet them.
I shouted: ‘Hey, can’t you notice anything? I’ve just walked down the corridor to meet you – I’ve started to walk again!’
Milly started screaming with excitement and Jamie hugged me and shouted: ‘Oh, my God!’ We were just so happy. It was an incredible moment. That was the first time Jamie had seen me walking properly in years. I don’t think Milly had any memory of me walking before the blast – she was too young.
That weekend I went home with them and I just wouldn’t take the leg off at all except when it was time to sleep. I was so desperate to learn to walk and so delighted to be upright for the first time in years. I was supposed to use crutches but I was so eager to get back to normal that I didn’t bother with them. After I got my first prosthetic I rarely used my wheelchair again. Ironically, I’d been issued a custom-made wheelchair as I was finally disabled enough to need one. You are allowed to choose whatever you want so I chose luminous pink with a black trim. The company didn’t do pink without you having to pay an extra cost, which Headley Court told me they wouldn’t cover. The next best thing was black, although I felt a bit disappointed. Then, I got a phone call from the manufacturer, who said they’d decided not to charge me. So they made me this bright hot pink wheelchair, which now lives in my basement. While I do have to keep it in case I ever need to use it, I vowed never to get in it and to date I rarely have.
I had only been at Headley Court for a matter of months when I decided to spend some of my Army compensation money for my injuries on something just for me. After my initial payment in 2007 for my injuries, I received a second compensation payment in 2010 following the amputation of my leg and a diagnosis of phantom limb pain, which will trouble me for life and which can be a side effect of blast injuries. As part of my compensation I received an inflation-proof Army pension for which I’m incredibly grateful to the Army. The reality is that with my injuries I wouldn’t be able to hold down a ‘normal’ job as I can’t stand on my feet all day. Or if I got a skin infection in my stump, I’d have to take weeks off work, as I’d be off my leg. This payout meant I’d not face financial hardship in the future and while I’d still need to work, I could take a job that I’m physically able to do.
I rang Nikki and said to her: ‘I’ve decided it’s time for that holiday we talked about’. I spoke to Jamie and said: ‘I’d love to have a girly holiday’ and, as always, he completely supported me. I told him I want to treat myself and Jamie had said: ‘If you can get yourself up and walking then you deserve it.’ The hair extensions made me a bit less insecure so the time was right to take a Thelma and Louise style trip. I booked Paradise Island in the Bahamas, including a limo to pick us up from the airport with champagne – it was the most expensive holiday I’ve ever been on. It was unbelievable and I’d never experienced anything like it or seen people literally dripping with wealth like they were there – famous American Football stars, swimwear models dripping in Cartier diamonds – and us!
The team at Headley Court made me a special swimming leg and so, just a matter of months from when I’d learned to walk I was on a British Airways flight to the sun. My military ID card was in my passport and as soon as they saw it they upgraded us to First Class. The BA hostess at the end of the flight gave us a carrier bag full of mini vodkas and said: ‘Girls, this is such an expensive holiday I’ve given you this – use the money you save to go and do an activity on us.’ British Airways was so amazing they actually thanked us for our service over the tannoy on the flight and the passengers were clapping. They could not have been kinder to us. Nikki and I kept looking at each other saying: ‘Wow, flying with BA is amazing!’ Going with Nikki was brilliant. We spent days by the pool and I even managed to walk across sand – which is no mean feat as a newby amputee because it’s so uneven. Nikki gave me the confidence to take off my leg as we sunbathed by the pool – and after initially being unable to relax, in case people were horrified, I quickly realized no one seemed particularly interested in me.
After a few days I was having a relaxing snooze, with my prosthetic propped up against my sun lounger, when I was awoken by the sound of a walkie talkie: ‘Houston,’ a little boy whispered urgently, ‘we have a problem! Urgent assistance required.’ I opened my eyes drowsily to see three cheeky little boys gasping at my prosthetic leg, in a mixture of fascination and horror. ‘Hello!’ I said. ‘Do you want to see my robot leg?’ and soon they were all fascinated and talking about it. Funnily enough, that gave me a bit of confidence, as I was so cripplingly insecure. But, of course, nothing ever goes to plan and later that night as we walked across the hotel reception, my amazing robot leg just snapped, sending me sprawling across the floor. ‘Oh my God, Nikki, what am I going to do?’ I said, thinking, I was thousands of miles from Headley and god only knows what I was going to do for the rest of the holiday with no leg.
‘Wait there,’ she said ‘It’s OK, it’s fine.’ And she literally pulled my spare leg out of her bag. ‘I thought I’d better pack a spare just in case,’ she laughed. Now that is a sign of a true friend – packing a spare leg secretly in her suitcase! The only downside was that my spare leg didn’t quite fit as well, so air would get trapped and force its way out, making loud farting noises each time I took a step. So it was slightly awkward in that every time I walked around I made somewhat undignified noises. In the end I made light of it and I’d say: ‘I’m sorry you must have heard me coming, excuse me, but my leg is farting.’ And, thank goodness, the rest of the holiday was blessedly uneventful.
Shortly after returning from the Bahamas with Nikki, a wonderful opportunity came along. I was invited to take part in the Amputee Games, an event organised by Battleback, a charitable sports rehabilitation programme. So I signed up, just like everyone else. But before taking part I had a crisis of confidence: I thought everyone would be staring at the fat girl and I had to force myself to go. I did no formal training and just turned up at Stoke Mandeville sports ground, thinking I’d try out a variety of sports. Because I’d been lugging my twenty-one-and-a-half stone frame on crutches for the past three years, I had good upper-body strength but it still came as a surprise to everyone just how good I was at weight lifting. I started out pretty light and when I found it easy, the guy running the event said: ‘I think you are pretty good!’ So he entered me there and then for the competitive part of the Games.
Because I was still struggling to walk I’d wheel myself to the bar in my wheelchair and then stand up to get myself in position for the event. I sailed through stages one and two and then it came to the finals and, unbelievably, I won a gold medal! Somehow I managed a silver in archery and a bronze in rowing too – also down to my Russian shot-putter’s physique! Afterwards, I was asked if I’d consider attending a talent-spotting event, where future Paralympians were often found, but I felt I’d reached my peak with that gold and I decided I didn’t want to take it any further as I didn’t think I’d be able to fit it around my life as a mum.
When I look back at photos of myself competing I’m speechless, really. There were a lot of factors that made me so fat, but ultimately I was responsible, as I put the cake in my mouth. But there are positives as well: I look at the old me and think that was the start of it all, the beginning of my journey back to recovery.
With so much going on I was surprised to be asked to attend a meeting in front of a board who wished to talk to me about Iraq. I sat at the opposite side of a boardroom table before a number of officers I’d never seen before. They asked me a series of questions about my experience of Iraq: whether I felt I had the right kit, how I’d been dealt with medically afterwards and what morale was like out there, and whether we were asked to do jobs that were appropriate to our skill level. At that time I was told it was to do with the Iraq Inquiry. I can only assume, prior to Chilcot, it was a fact-finding exercise and they wanted to speak to a broad spectrum of people to get a wide range of views about what was going on. I told them what had happened to me and that morale was on the floor when I was out there. How it was hard that Iraq is such an unpopular war with the public back at home and it’s now gone to wrack and ruin. I felt I could have seen that coming while we were out there. Our boys were handing over to the Iraqi police force and quite a few of us felt that things were going to fall apart.
Back at Headley Court, things were great for me socially as well as the physical stuff. I met so many brilliant people, who are still friends now. I arrived at the same time as two other lads and the three of us immediately hit it off. We were all single amputees and all started off together in the wheelchairs. Our little gang would sneak off for cigarettes together and we were always getting told off by the instructors when we weren’t where we were supposed to be. It was a laugh, like bunking off from class at school. There was a bar at the centre, just to give the place some kind of normality, and it was a great way to unwind and have a laugh and make friends. We’d be there every night, propping it up.
There was no stopping us as soon as we grew more competent on our legs. When we had finished our day we would head to nearby Epsom for a drink. Because I was with two other amputees I felt less self-conscious or embarrassed at being seen out with only one leg. People would sometimes stare at us but that was probably because we were a group of amputees. Together we just took it on the chin. At that point I didn’t have a leg that looked like a leg – it was metal bar with a foot – but because I was with two friends who also had the same legs I knew I didn’t have to worry as they would never have allowed anything to be said to me. I’d been so miserable before that to be able to go out again was a window into a world I thought I’d lost forever and I just went for it.
There was another great guy who used to come out regularly with us. He was a triple amputee and still used his chair, but he didn’t let that hold him back in any way. One night he got so drunk he fell on the joystick that operates his chair and we found him spinning round and round outside the pub. I just though:, ‘Oh, my God! If anyone sees this we are going to be in so much trouble!’
We used to cover for each other all the time if one of us was hungover. As there were three of us there was always one person who would make sure they’d told the instructor we were in prosthetics or somewhere else when really we were getting a couple of extra hours in bed. It sounds silly and trivial now but this whole after-hours’ curriculum was all part of the rehabilitation process as we were entering back into normal life again. It was the first time in years many of us had begun to feel like normal people again, able to go to the pub to have a drink and a laugh just like everyone else. It was also a way to chat through how we were feeling emotionally and mentally and not just concern ourselves with our physical rehabilitation. Just sitting having a drink in a pub was not only a way to let off steam, it was a way people could feel they were letting their barriers down and to actually share stories with each other.
It was while we were on one of our nights out that one of the lads told me he had had a really odd out-of-body experience. We started talking about how out of it you are when you first come round and it’s really common for a lot of guys to have no memories of the moment they were injured. Some do, but I always felt extremely lucky that I don’t have to face the nightmare of those moments. He sort of dreamed, while he was still conscious and awake, that he’d been taken out of his body and put into another body, where he became a kind of super-soldier. He had to battle to get back into his body on earth. When he won the fight, that’s when he came round. We started speculating about whether it’s the painkillers you are given that lead you to vividly hallucinate, but I really don’t think that was the case with me. Many of the severely injured have had experiences like that – it’s really common – but only the ones who have been close to death. I’m not religious but I now think there is something else; however, I don’t know what it is. I’d always described myself as an atheist, but I am more spiritual now than I was before. I don’t think we cease to exist – I think a little drop of our essence as human beings carries on somewhere else.
If you had told me months before that I’d be able to open up with people I’d never met before and discuss things like that I would have laughed. I’d spent years becoming invisible in my chair and not engaging with life. But Headley Court was changing me physically and my mental outlook was certainly improving. I’d overcome the darkest of times and even though there were still moments when I was in that dark place, I could see light in my future. That’s why I agreed to take part in a photo shoot with a rock star.
Three months after my amputation a journalist called Caroline Froggatt contacted me through the injured servicemen’s charity Blesma and said: ‘We are looking for a girl to take part in a photo shoot for a book, with pictures from it being put on display at the National Portrait Gallery. Would you like to come to Bryan Adams’ house to take part?’
It was all a bit surreal but I said yes. Jamie drove us into London; we turned up at Bryan Adams’ house, which I wasn’t expecting. He had set up a studio in the vast basement of his house next to the River Thames. His wife had just had their first baby and she and Caroline opened the door and welcomed me in. There were a load of lads that I knew from Headley Court and some were already in the studio having their portraits taken. While in a group I’d discovered a newfound confidence that hadn’t yet translated into life outside Headley Court, so when I walked in, I felt crippled with insecurity and really miserable. But I wanted to do it. To be honest, I don’t know why, apart from the fact I was quite proud of my artificial leg as it meant so much to me because it had transformed my life.
Here I was, taking part in a professional photo shoot with Bryan Adams, yet I was totally miserable because of the way I looked. I had lost some weight by then, but it was a drop in the ocean compared to what I needed to lose and I was big. I sorted out my make-up as there was no stylist on the shoot as they wanted us to look natural and like we were in real life, and then Bryan came over and said hello. He was really friendly, explaining he wanted to capture me relaxed. There was a big team helping him, a vast array of cameras, flashes and photo-editing kit – the full shebang. I stood against a huge white infinity wall while he clicked away, talking all the time, only pausing to pose me in a new position, guiding me as to what he wanted me to do.
It was a real struggle, but I managed to stand on my prosthetic for long enough so he could take two sets of photos of me: one in a long black dress and a second set in military uniform. In both I showed my prosthetic leg. In front of the camera I was incredibly under-confident; at that point, with strangers, I struggled to even make eye contact as I was still battling with my self-esteem. But Bryan put me at ease as much as it was possible to do, which was no mean feat. He had no celebrity airs; he was just a lovely man. The bottom line is I just wasn’t happy being the ‘me’ I was at that time. I didn’t even ask to see any of the images on his camera.
Regardless of that, it was a lovely day. Bryan got everyone sushi for lunch and we ate with his family and then left. Jamie chatted the breeze over lunch, talking about football, where he’d been on his recent travels and asking about the cameras. I was pleased that I didn’t have to do any of the talking – I felt painfully shy and introverted. When you’ve been in a wheelchair for three years you get used to people ignoring you and talking to the person who is pushing the wheelchair, so I’d become a person who didn’t have to engage in life very much. Although I was walking on and off on my leg I still hadn’t come out of the shell completely, so instead I just soaked up the atmosphere.
I didn’t see Bryan Adams’ photos until months later when they were finally hung in the National Portrait Gallery and they asked me to attend. I received a lovely email saying, ‘Would you like to come to the launch?’ So I went online and had a look at the website and that’s where I saw the photos for the first time. I was horrified. I just thought: ‘Oh God, they’re awful!’ I was so upset. I absolutely hated them, so there was no way I was going to go and see them in the flesh.
A few weeks a copy of the book arrived from the publishers as a gift for me. I couldn’t even stand to open it. It was as though every time I looked at the image I would be sucked back into hell. It was many months since I’d posed and I’d moved on by such an extraordinary degree: I was more confident but I still wasn’t yet ready to confront how low and desperate I’d been at that time. I knew the image was undeniably powerful and it’s a vividly accurate snapshot of where I was in my life in that moment. While I wasn’t ashamed of that – it was such an accurate reflection of how I was feeling during that incredibly painful time – it was tough to see.
I only showed my mum and two of my closest friends the book but their most shocked reactions weren’t about me, they were about the other soldiers in the book. They all said, ‘Oh, my God, I didn’t realise people survived such serious injuries!’ Up until then I was the most injured person they’d ever met, but in comparison to other soldiers I’ve only got a scratch! So it’s an incredible book for raising awareness. In the grand scheme of things I’m one of the least injured people I know out of all the guys I was with at Headley Court. It’s a shocking, yet inspirational book.
Funnily enough, life got better from that day onwards for me. That said I’m unlikely to be in a place where I’d have the book on the coffee table at home. In fact, when my second daughter Lexi-River couldn’t reach the floor in her baby bouncer, it’s very ironic but the book, The Legacy Of War, was underneath her for the first six months of her life. I think it would be incredible if Bryan were to come back to us all five years on and really see how far we’ve come. Some of us were already on our journeys to recovery, but others, like me, were at the start of rehabilitation and rebuilding our lives. The only thing I wish is that I could tell the girl in the pictures what great things were just round the corner for her. A new life and a new beginning, and that the weight would go and I would be totally transformed beyond even my recognition.