.png)
The past few months changed everything for me. From turning 21 to racing on the fastest track in the world, I’ve had to grow fast, mentally, physically, and emotionally. Here’s what I’ve learned about independence, pressure, community, and the kind of support that keeps you moving even when no one’s watching.
The last few months have felt like a whirlwind. In March, I got my learner’s licence. For most people, that’s a pretty standard milestone. It doesn’t usually get a second thought. But for me, it was huge. It wasn’t just about driving. It was about freedom, responsibility, and reclaiming control in a world where so much of my mobility had always depended on others. Growing up disabled, there were plenty of things people assumed I wouldn’t do, or at least not easily. So sitting that test, passing it, and holding that licence in my hand was more than just a formality. It was a quiet kind of victory.
In May, I turned 21. Not long after that, I raced across the UK and Switzerland and made the decision to part ways with my coach after several years. That mix of celebration, travel, and transition forced me to reflect, not just on where I’m going, but on what’s held me up through it all.
Turning 21 was big. Not just in the obvious ways, but in the sense of how much I’ve lived already. Most people hit that age thinking their story is just starting. For me, it felt like I’d already lived several chapters, the hospital years, the setbacks, the breakthroughs, the wins that came after no one thought they would. I’ve spent more time learning to recover than most people have spent learning to walk, and somehow, I still found a way to move forward.
Turning 21 gave me a moment to take a step back. To think about everything I’ve overcome, everything still ahead, and the people and tools that have helped carry me through. The journey hasn’t been easy, but it’s mine. And I wouldn’t be here without the support, in all its forms, that helped me keep pushing.
I’ve never just seen myself as an athlete. I’m someone who wants to open doors for others, especially young people with disabilities who are still figuring out where they belong. Sport gave me a voice, but it’s the people and platforms like this that give that voice a place to be heard. Off the track, I’ve continued to speak and advocate for accessibility and inclusion, whether in schools, on panels, or in policy conversations. It’s a reminder that performance doesn’t always happen in stadiums. Sometimes, it happens in quiet rooms where change begins. Every time I race, every time I speak, every time I roll into a room that wasn’t built for someone like me, I’m reminding myself and others that we deserve to be there.
As I look ahead, I’m not just thinking about racing faster or training harder. I’m thinking about the kind of impact I want to make, on and off the track. That means paying attention to the small things that shape performance, but also staying grounded in the bigger purpose behind it all. The people I surround myself with, the places I call home, and the values I lead with matter. Because when everything lines up, from mindset to equipment to community, it creates room not just for progress, but for possibility.
For a long time, I thought a “normal” life was the goal. But eventually, I realised I wasn’t born to chase normal, I was built to chase possible. And possible changes everything. Because normal never changed the world.
