The Light That Didn’t Go Out

I didn’t vanish all at once. It was gradual—like a light dimming so slowly you don’t notice until you’re sitting in the dark.

After the hospital, after the trauma, I stopped reaching. I stopped wanting. I told myself I was fine, but I wasn’t living—I was bracing. I’d go to work, come home, put on my pyjamas, and sink into the television. That was my rhythm. No outings. No conversations. No curiosity. I lost interest in meeting anyone, going anywhere, or even chatting online. I wasn’t just tired—I was hollow. I had lost interest in life itself.

I felt dead inside.

This shadow of my former self went on for many years, slowly eating away at the person I had been before—slowly killing her. There were times I no longer wished to live. Going back to the Achola did seem like an option. The pull toward it was quiet but persistent, like a whisper in the dark. But I resisted. Not because I was strong, but because Peter was there. His presence and quiet devotion kept me tethered. So I guess there was still a part of my old self in there somewhere—buried, but not gone.

Then one day, something shifted.

I don’t remember the track, to be honest. It was just a bit of music from the 80s—something familiar, something forgotten. I had put it on without thinking, to fill the silence. But as the melody played, something stirred inside me. A flicker. A pulse. A feeling I hadn’t felt in years.

I felt alive again.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t cinematic. But it was real. That moment—brief and quiet—was the first time I remembered who I was. Not the broken version. Not the shell. Just… Jane. Still me. Still here.

I knew I was still broken. That part couldn’t be undone. But I also knew that being broken didn’t mean I had to stop being myself. That had never happened before. And it was enough to make me decide: I was going to give it a try. I was going to find myself again.

So I began.

I set a goal—to lose over ten stone. That would bring me back down to 9 stone, much closer to my old weight. It wasn’t about vanity. It was about reclaiming my body, my space, my presence. I created a diet for myself—rigid, disciplined, unwavering. And I stuck to it. Not once did I stray. Not once did I let myself forget why I started.

I stopped watching television. It had become a numbing agent, a way to disappear. Instead, I filled my home with music. Old tracks. New ones. Songs that made me feel. Songs that reminded me I was still here. The music became my companion—my lifeline. It lifted me, held me, reminded me of the softness I thought I’d lost. And slowly, I began to feel happier in myself.

Then came the day I hit my goal: 9 stone. I stood on the scale and felt something shift—not just in my body, but in my spirit as well. I had done it. I had kept my promise to myself. And I knew the next step.

The baggy clothes—the ones that had dragged me down for all those years—had to go. They weren’t just fabric. They were armour. They were silent. They were the weight of everything I had tried to hide.

So Peter and I went into my walk-in wardrobe. We didn’t speak much. We didn’t need to. One by one, we pulled those clothes from the hangers and folded them into black bin liners. It felt ceremonial. Like shedding a skin. Like saying goodbye to a version of me that had survived, but no longer needed to stay.

Peter didn’t say much, but his eyes held something—pride, maybe. Or relief. Like he’d been waiting for this moment too.

They were no longer part of my life.

The better version of me—the one who had waited patiently beneath the surface—was starting to reinsert herself. I could feel her. I could touch myself. And for the first time in years, I felt a sense of pride. Not just of the weight I’d lost, but of the light I’d reclaimed.

I was starting to feel much better about myself again.

And with that came a quiet but unmistakable urge: I needed new high heels.

Not because I had anywhere special to go. Not because anyone expected it. But because it felt like a step—literally and symbolically—in the right direction. I’d been wearing flats for years. Sensible. Safe. Invisible. They had become part of the disguise, part of the way I shrank myself. But I used to wear heels. Always. They made me feel elegant, lifted, present. And I missed that version of me.

So I decided: it was time to bring her back.

I wanted a few pairs—some for work and some for everyday use. Not extravagant. Just intentional. Just mine. Peter smiled when I told him, that quiet knowing look he gives when he sees me reclaiming something. We went shopping together, and I tried on pair after pair, rediscovering the posture, the poise, the quiet confidence that heels had once given me.

It wasn’t about fashion. It was about remembering.

Each pair I chose felt like a small declaration: I’m here again. I’m standing taller. I’m not hiding anymore.

Next came the clothes—more professional attire for work. I had always worn trousers and a white blouse—my uniform, my default—but now, I wanted to wear them differently. Not just as something to cover me, but as something that reflected care. Elegance. Intention. I didn’t change the style. I didn’t need to. But I chose pieces that fit me well, that felt graceful, that reminded me I was worth dressing for.

For years, I had worn those same clothes like a shield—wrinkled, oversized, forgettable. They said, I don’t care. But now, I did. I cared deeply. Not for approval. Not for attention. But for myself. For the woman who had fought to come back.

And then came the makeup.

I had stopped doing it years ago. Something that once gave me so much pleasure had… vanished. Like everything else, it had faded into the background. It was as if I had pressed pause on my life—stopped the reel mid-frame—and never hit play again.

But now, I was ready to unpause.

I sat at my vanity, brushes in hand, and began again. The ritual was familiar—almost a matter of muscle memory. The bristles swept across my skin like a memory. The scent of rose and powder filled the air, familiar and tender. The colours, the textures, the way my face came alive with each stroke. I had always used intense colours. Bold lips. Defined eyes. I never blended into the background when I wore makeup. I stood out. I glowed.

And as I looked at my reflection, something stirred. Not vanity. Not performance. Just recognition. There she is. The woman who had always known how to express herself. The woman who had never been afraid to be seen.

I was becoming her again.

The light hadn’t gone out.

It had just been waiting—for music, for movement, for me.