I Finally Found Her (And She Still Knows How to Dance)

Tonight I danced on an Indonesian beach like no one was watching, Gran. And I remembered the moment I was terrified I'd lose her again.

Dear Gran,

The sun has just set over the Flores Sea, painting the sky in shades of coral and gold that no camera could capture. I'm sitting on the sand now, legs still shaky from dancing, my hair tangled with salt and wind. My Indonesian friend's French boyfriend brought his portable DJ deck to the beach. For the past two hours, the four of us girls and our partners danced to house music like there was no tomorrow.

We didn't care who was watching. We just moved and laughed and lost ourselves in the rhythm. I didn't think twice about getting up to dance. I didn't need a drink to loosen my inhibitions. And I didn't care how I looked. We drank iced tea and danced until it was too dark to see each other's faces, guided only by the music and pure joy.

Eight years ago, Gran, I would have needed three glasses of wine before I'd even consider dancing. Tonight, I was the first one up, pulling my friends into the waves to dance with our feet in the surf.

Watching the last light fade over these Indonesian waters. I'm thinking about that terrifying day when I almost lost myself. The woman who dances freely, whom I'd just found again after so many years of hiding.

The Day I Feared I'd Bury Her Again

Do you remember when I called you from Bangkok airport, Gran? Sobbing into the phone before my flight back to England? I'd just spent five months travelling through New Zealand, Indonesia, and Thailand. I felt like I was leaving behind someone I'd longed to see for years: my oldest, truest friend.

She was me. The real me.

That plucky-hearted, free-spirited girl I once was was still there. Under the cast-iron mold of whom I'd become. And it terrified me to think I might lose her again.

You listened so patiently as I tried to explain through tears: "Gran, I found her. I found the woman I used to be. But what if I come back to England and become that other person again? What if I lose her?"

As that plane settled into cruising altitude, I knew it was up to me to keep her alive. I didn't want to go back to the life I'd been living. I liked who I'd found. I loved travelling, discovering new places, meeting people with open hearts.

And you said something I'll never forget: "My darling girl, you haven't become someone new. You've just remembered who you always were."

The Girl You Knew Before the World Got Its Hands on Me

You knew her first, didn't you, Gran? The girl who made skirts from sofa fabric, wore her dad's jeans. Listened to Lou Reed while everyone else loved Wham. The teenager who was brilliant at lacrosse. And travelled to America with the England U16 squad. The girl who had dreams bigger than our small West Country town.

At eighteen, I was going to be a PE teacher. I was going places. I was breaking norms for girls in a boy's world. Do you remember how fierce I was? How unafraid?

And then... I blinked.

Within months, I was at HMS Raleigh, marching around parade grounds in the bitter cold. And surprisingly, I loved it. I thrived. I trained hard, passed everything, ironed and polished and studied through the night. I parachuted with the Royal Marines. I served at Whitehall, in the historic landmark, Admiralty Arch. And I served at NATO Headquarters during the Gulf War.

I was eighteen and unstoppable.

But you watched me disappear, didn't you, Gran?

When I Lost Myself Without Noticing

Somewhere between having a boyfriend, buying a house, getting pregnant, and getting married.  I became someone I didn't recognise. I'd walk our dog with the buggy through military housing, wondering: How did I get here?

My daughters were and are my greatest gifts; you adored them. But somewhere in building a safe, stable life for them, I forgot myself. I wanted them to have what I never had: roots, routine, stable parents, GCSEs, and university.

But Gran, I'd never wanted that for me. You knew that. You watched me try to fit into a life that was too small for my spirit.

At 32, I separated from my husband and went into overdrive. Studying, parenting, and climbing the corporate ladder. Buying houses, taking the girls on holidays, proving my worth to a world that had convinced me I wasn't enough as I was.

You probably wanted to shake me sometimes, didn't you? To remind me who I was?

The Cracks That Let the Light In

Then the girls left home, and I was left with an empty feeling I hadn't known since I was eighteen. You were still here then, still writing me letters, believing in the woman you knew I could be again.

Those five months travelling cracked something open, Gran. I started to see glimmers of her. The thrill-seeking teenager. The woman who chose adventure over safety, who danced without a care.

I realised I hadn't become someone new during those 5 months travelling. I was simply unearthing who I'd always been. That's what solitude did. That's what courage did. It gave her space to show up again.

Some days, I cried, not from sadness, but from recognition. My soul would rise up and whisper, "I'm still here. I've always been here."

You knew that feeling, didn't you, Gran? That moment when you recognise yourself again. After years of playing roles the world assigned you?

What You Taught Me About Coming Home to Myself

"My darling girl," you said during one of our last conversations, "finding yourself isn't about becoming someone new. It's about unlearning everything that told you who you shouldn't be."

You were right, as always. I wasn't lost like a ten-pound note in a winter coat pocket. I was buried. Under layers of stories that weren't mine. Expectations that didn't fit. Roles that felt like costumes I couldn't take off.

The woman dancing on the Indonesian beach tonight she's not new. She's ancient. She's the eighteen-year-old who was going to conquer the world. The Navy officer who parachuted with the Royal Marines. The mother who travelled solo to find herself again.

She's who I was before the world convinced me to be smaller, quieter, more acceptable.

The Promise I Made on That Plane

Flying home from Thailand that day, I made you a promise, Gran. I promised I wouldn't let fear bury her again. I wouldn't go back to the life I'd been living just because it was safe or expected.

The only thing that could stop me now was fear. And fear, I decided, had no place in this next chapter.

You didn't get to see how I kept that promise. Moving to Indonesia, building this unconventional life. Dancing on beaches with friends from three different countries. But I feel you in every moment of pure joy. Every time I choose courage over comfort.

Dancing in the Dark

As I write this, my partner is building a small fire in the sand. My Indonesian friends are packing up the DJ equipment. Laughing about something in Bahasa Indonesian, which I'm still trying to master.

This is my life now, Gran. Messy, multilingual, unconventional, and completely real.

I dance without drinks. I make friends across cultures. I live in a wooden house on stilts with pigs, dogs and chickens. And mountains that stretch toward the horizon. I write letters to you under Indonesian stars. Feeling more like myself than I ever did in any boardroom or Hertfordshire house.

The woman you always knew I was. She's finally free.

"My darling girl," I can hear you saying, "you were never lost. You were just waiting for the courage to come home to yourself."

Thank you for believing in her, Gran. Thank you for waiting for her return.

Thank you for teaching me that the most important journey isn't about finding yourself. It's about having the courage to be yourself, fully and unapologetically.

From the quiet of the mountains, where lost selves return and dance barefoot under the stars.