Slipping my seatbelt on and settling in for the safety briefing, I thought of the last time I’d prepared for take-off. It was three months earlier, heading home from a mini-break to San Sebastien during which I’d suffered my second miscarriage.


In the weeks that followed, life span rapidly out of control – until I crash-landed into a mental breakdown. Diagnosed with symptoms of PTSD, signed off sick and spaced out from new medication, I was barely getting out of bed. Months of anxiety left me exhausted, and I was reeling from a five-year relationship turned toxic.


Yet I was grateful for the people around me. When I’d fallen into this place two years before, I’d fought continually to access medical help. All in vain. This time, however, I was referred to the crisis mental health team, granting me daily home visits and sessions with a brilliant clinical psychologist. Slowly, with their help, I began to focus on my recovery.


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