And I started posting.
First I had one follower, and then a few more, and then they continued to flow, an avalanche of likes and comments and re-shares, as I wrote about my fear of failure, of being trapped, my depression, the dark cloud that sometimes felt like it followed me everywhere, the joys of finally stepping outside my comfort zone. I went on more walks and posted more videos: my tent being blown away, crying in the rain, limping with agony, singing in the sun. Always wearing my bright clothes. Never representing anything less than the truth. It wasn’t glamorous, but that wasn’t what the women who followed me wanted.
They wanted to know there was someone else out there who was struggling, and doing it anyway.
And soon after that, they wanted to come on a walk.
It turns out there are a lot of women up and down the country who feel like me. A little lost. A little alone.
A lot ready to make a change.
So when I put out the call – I was walking the WHW again, and I was ready for company – they answered in droves.
“I can’t believe they’re all here.” I stop at the train doors and look at the group gathered on the platform with awe.
Here we are: twenty women, from all ages and walks of life. A few more will join us along the way to Milngavie, and from there we’ll set off on the West Highland Way. The same way I did a year ago. But this time, none of us will be alone.
A pang passes through me at the thought of last year. The memories I made. The people I met.
One person in particular.
I put the thought away.
“Come on then!” I shout. “Shall we go for a walk?”
The group cheers, and barrels onto the train, flinging bags into bag racks, plonking bums into seats, and generally making a jolly nuisance of themselves up and down the carriage. I watch it with barely restrained glee. This is it. Everything I wanted.
Marnie gives me a leaping hug from the side. “You did this, babe. This is all you.”
Pride wells within me.
A year ago, I couldn’t have imagined myself here. A year ago, I wouldn’t have wanted to be.
But here I am.
And it feels fucking fantastic.
* * *
“Slice of cake?”
Heather from Brighton, who has a mop of red hair and impressively muscular arms, stops by our table, brandishing a flowery cake tin with what looks like a lemon loaf nestled inside.
“Did you make this, Heather?” Marnie asks.
“Too right I did. Can’t have a train ride without a lemon drizzle. Secret is a bit of ground almond in the flour. Keeps it moist.” She taps the side of her nose and winks.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Across the aisle, two women in matching North Face fleeces – who swear they’ve never met – are sharing a tube of Fruit Pastilles, while their bespectacled companion reads them facts about the walk from the official WHW guidebook. Behind us, another two women are deep in conversation, noses practically pressed together until one of them throws back her head, covering her nose as she makes a sound halfway between a snort and a honk.
The train is speeding across the country, London far behind us now, and excitement thrums through me as the flat, neat fields of the south turned to wilder, undulating moors.
At the next stop, another wave of people washes on and off, among them four familiar faces: Priya and Lila stagger onto the train under the weight of their bags, smiles beaming. Behind them, Joan and Bolly gingerly step up, looking a little less confident with their gear, but no less enthusiastic.
“Priya! Lila! Joan! Over here!” I jump up and wave them over. Tears are pricking my eyes now, but I don’t bother to wipe them away.
These tears are made of nothing but joy. I’ve worked hard for these tears. I have no shame in them.
