Five months I’ve endured without a proper period, followed by a week of feeling like I’d been run over by a bus, an international journey from Kuala Lumpur to Spain, and then my uterus apparently deciding that now was the appropriate time to get back involved.

Because apparently my body had its own travel plans. And it didn’t share the itinerary with me.

Is it a virus, or is it my hormones?

The week started with me feeling really under the weather. We travelled from our last housesit in Penang on the train back to Kuala Lumpur. I felt okay, I had no symptoms, but as soon as we got settled in our new accommodation for the week, my body started to shut down.

It started with the aching joints, that strange feeling of being cold right into my bones while simultaneously feeling hot, and an exhaustion that made everything feel like considerably more effort than it should.

At first, I assumed I was getting some sort of viral bug. Then I started wondering whether it was hormonal.

The spotting started soon after. There’s a thing women sometimes call ‘period flu’, where hormonal changes around a period can leave you feeling like you’ve been hit by a truck. Fatigue, aches, chills, headaches, cramps and that general feeling of feeling absolutely rotten.

When you’re in perimenopause, apparently every symptom comes with multiple-choice:

A: You’re getting ill.

B: Your hormones are doing something weird.

C: You’re exhausted because you’ve been travelling, exercising, sleeping badly and generally asking quite a lot of your body.

D: All of the above.

And honestly, D is usually the safest choice to bet on.

I’ve become quite used to trying to interpret what my body is telling me. I was dealing with months of no period, thinking I was on my way to being fully in menopause and coming to terms with that in itself.

When you don’t have a period for a number of months, the clock starts ticking down. After a full 12 months of no menstruating, you can officially declare yourself in menopause. But now, the five months I had been counting had reset back to zero.

Five months of thinking I was getting closer to that 12-month milestone, and it was gone in one bloody announcement. It’s like my body has taken the instruction manual, and thrown it into a wood chipper.

When I started feeling flu-ish, I wasn’t entirely sure whether I was actually ill or whether my hormones had simply decided to put on a particularly convincing performance.

And then we travelled halfway across the world… Because of course, naturally, this was also the week we were travelling from Kuala Lumpur to Spain.

Nothing says let’s give my body a gentle and restful week quite like international travel.

We travelled from Kuala Lumpur to Istanbul. A ten hour flight which went surprisingly okay, except for a screaming baby in the row beside us. That kid had serious pipes on her and she made the whole plane aware of them for the majority of the flight. My ovaries felt like they were shrivelling up with every shrill high-pitched scream. Thank goodness for earplugs and noise cancelling headphones!

On arrival in Istanbul, we had a 15hour layover. It was 3pm in the afternoon at this point. We considered getting a hotel for a few hours sleep but it was going to be around £300 for the privilege so we decided to rough it out in the airport. Thankfully Istanbul has designated rest zones which are effectively sunbed style chairs that you can lay on, albeit not very comfortable.

We managed around 5 hours there then paid for access to a lounge. We thought we could be sneaky and stay for the remainder of our time there but no, they took our boarding passes and told us we had 3 hours and to return to reception to collect our passes then. Efficient.

We had a small bite to eat and a very uncomfortable nap on a small chair. We left feeling worse than when we went in.

Eventually the time ticked down and we made it on the plane for the four hour trip to Valencia at 6am.

We hardly had any sleep in the thirty hours we had been travelling. We probably managed a few 20 minute power naps total. I knew my head was doing that nodding off thing on the plane.

I was really tired. The sort of tired where you know you’re functioning, but you’re not entirely compos mentis. You’re just running on auto pilot.

But we’d made it. We were back in Europe, and this time we were heading to Oliva, a quaint traditional Spanish town 40 minutes from Valencia, where we’re housesitting for Jan and looking after her four house cats. Which, as housesits go, is probably the easiest one to have.

They’re self-contained little creatures who don’t require early morning walks, and, thankfully, don’t seem particularly interested in being kept entertained. As long as they are fed, watered and their litter trays are cleaned, they are happy. Plus the occasional petting and play with some toys and some treats to keep them sweet.

So we’d arrived, settled in and started getting our bearings and then my body decided it had one more thing to add to the itinerary. After five months… My period arrived.

Not a bit of spotting. Not the ambiguous “does this count?” situation I’ve been having to analyse for months. A proper period. And when I say proper, I mean proper.

I’ve never experienced one like this before, it was so heavy and intense. I had to get up every 2 hours during the night to shower. My stomach cramps were scrambling my insides like a washing machine.

This also restricted me from exploring our surroundings; calculating whether I could safely leave the house without having to make an emergency dash back to the bathroom. Not exactly the Spanish adventure we’d envisaged so far.

After months of wondering whether my periods were disappearing for good, there was suddenly absolutely no question about whether this one counted.

My body had apparently decided subtlety was overrated. It was almost funny.

I’ve spent months trying to work out what my hormones are doing, looking at symptoms and dates and trying to work out whether I’m ovulating, about to have a period, having a hormonal surge or simply losing the plot.

And then, when my body finally decided to give me some information, it did so in the loudest possible way.

“YEP. YOU ARE NOT OLD AND DUSTY YET LOVE!”

Thank you. Message received.

The strange thing about perimenopause is that there is something quite unsettling about no longer being able to predict your own body.

For most of my teen and adult life, periods were just part of the schedule.

I knew when they were coming, like clockwork.

I knew what my body normally did.

I knew what was normal for me. Now I don’t.

Five months is a really long time. Long enough that you start wondering whether that was it. Long enough to think perhaps your body has moved on to the next phase without formally notifying you.

And then suddenly you’re back in the middle of it.

I don’t know whether this means I’ll have another period next month. I don’t know whether I’ll go another five months without.

I don’t know whether this is the beginning of some sort of new pattern or simply another random hormonal event.

That’s the frustrating thing. There doesn’t seem to be a timetable.

There isn’t a nice little calendar saying:

August: period
September: no period
October: surprise, surprise!
November: good luck.

You just have to wait and see what your body decides to do. And I bloody hate surprises.

So here I am. I’m in Spain.

I’ve travelled from Kuala Lumpur, I’m exhausted, I’ve apparently survived some sort of viral/hormonal/possibly-both episode, I’m bleeding heavily after five months without a period, and there are four cats wandering around the house judging why their temporary servants haven’t got their act together yet.

Mr Garrison sums it up perfectly here:

I booked my first full body health screening… and I ordered my first pair of multifocals. Apparently I’m a fully serviced adult now.

The health screening was carried out at a private hospital in KL and I’m not going to lie, I was pretty apprehensive about it. Given the stresses that we have been through as a couple already, Johns’ kidney stones and sepsis scare, I was pretty terrified about going back to a medical centre and being examined, scanned and medically interfered with… and having to pay for the privilege.

This is the first time I’ve really thought about and put my full body health first so it was important that we chose the right place to have this done. Obviously I’ve had checkups in the past with being on birth control etc but this was a fully comprehensive screening, head to toe.

So in proper Vonnie style, I’m pulling up my big girl pants yet again.

We opted for Prince Court Medical Centre for our tests, one of the top rated hospitals here in Malaysia. The package was labelled as Over 40 Well Woman, Over 40 Well Man. John was having the male version, the female version had a few extra tests for me to include a mammogram and a smear test. God, just the name of that alone gives me shivers. Smear, yuk.

The whole package was surprisingly comprehensive. This wasn’t just a quick blood test and a chat with a doctor. It was designed to look at pretty much every major area of your health, from your heart and bones to your organs, blood, hearing and eyesight.

Over the next four hours I was sampled, scanned, squeezed, measured, photographed and sent to trot on a treadmill.

Urine.

Blood tests.

ECG.

Hearing.

Eyes.

Ultrasound.

Bone density scan.

Mammogram.

Smear test.

If they’d offered to check my tyres and top up my screenwash, I honestly wouldn’t have questioned it.

I have never had a mammogram before, I’ve always been a bit scared of them as I’m terrified of having breast cancer. I’ve always thought I had lumpy boobs but various doctors have checked when I was younger and said I was fine, but now I’m older and feeling like I’ve been a bit neglected in the health department, I was worried at what they would find.

The mammogram itself was very strange. It reminded me of those YouTube videos where someone puts random objects into a hydraulic press. You know, things like plasticine or candle wax.

Thankfully nothing exploded, but there is definitely a moment where you wonder just how flat one boob is capable of becoming.

Since I’d come off birth control years ago, routine checks had become much less frequent for me, and before I knew it I’d gone far longer than I should have without a smear test. Thankfully that went as well as could be expected too. It’s just like riding a bike…

That hour in between lunch and the consultation was a nail biter. All scenarios were running through my head, all sorts, and even when not worrying about my own health, I was terrified of what John would be told. He had done so well to get back to peak fitness, and the last thing we needed was bad news.

The time had come… I was up first to see Dr Nora. She instantly put me at ease with a nice smile and friendly demeanour. She went through all the tests conducted and was really happy with all of my results. The only things she mentioned were my cholesterol was a bit high but not worryingly so, then there was a discussion on Vitamin D deficiency but she just prescribed more sunshine for that, which was welcomed!

I had been given the all clear, with a few suggestions for a future breast ultrasound and some potential osteoporosis developing in my hip joints. I was told to keep exercising and weight training, as that would help. Brittle bones run in my family anyway and everytime I move, my bones seem to creak so I wasn’t shocked at that news. Old granny greyhips here.

The feeling of relief was immense, I practically skipped back to my waiting room seat. Now it was John’s turn. He returned 15 minutes later with the same observations as myself, not surprising given we eat the same things and do the same activities. Being prescribed more sunshine is never a bad thing!

Overall we both left very relieved and happy with the outcome and found it funny that we almost had the exact same observations.

And if going for a full body MOT wasn’t enough, I finally took the plunge and ordered new glasses with my new prescription… multifocals!

This has been something that has been on my list for years, I have been wearing an old prescription for so long that my eyes would get tired so quickly from squinting, and now that I needed multifocals, or varifocals, as they were once known, I had to take my glasses on and off to read my phone or laptop, but I needed them for watching tv. Everytime I took them off and placed them on top of my head, I always ripped a bit of hair out of my scalp. Ouch! The metal frames had to go in the bin.

Somewhere between having my boobs squashed between two plates and choosing frames that would help me read restaurant menus clearly, I realised something.

I’ve officially reached that stage of life.

I’ve turned into my mother.

I imagined I’d still be climbing the corporate ladder, stressing over deadlines, managing software teams and trying to hit targets that someone else had decided were important. On the personal side, I think I would still be attending muddy music festivals, going to concerts and getting absolutely shitfaced every now and then at weekends before spending Sunday regretting every life choice I’d made.

Instead, I now get genuinely giddy when I find an M&S Food Hall in Kuala Lumpur. The first time I spotted one I actually squealed - an actual squeal. Maybe it’s because it feels familiar. A little slice of home when you’re thousands of miles away. I had exactly the same reaction when I found a Boots in Thailand. I confidently marched in, found what I needed, handed over my Boots Advantage Card… but it didn’t work. I was disproportionately disappointed.

At some point my brain seems to have quietly rewired itself. Nobody tells you this is how midlife turns out.

Take shopping malls, for example.

Anyone who knows me knows I’m a shite shopper. I don’t browse. I don’t wander around looking for inspiration. If I need something, I make a list, know exactly what I’m buying before I leave the apartment. I’m in, I’m out. Job done. Bosh.

And yet… I’ve somehow become someone who rates shopping malls. ‘Mallaysia’, as some people call it, is absolutely spot on. There are malls everywhere. Huge ones. Tiny ones. Fancy ones. Very busy and chaotic ones. And I now have favourites… yep. You read that correctly. Not because of the shops. Because of the air conditioning, the toilets, the food courts, the Christmas and Chinese New Year decorations. Basically anything that doesn’t involve actual shopping. Who even is she?

I used to think shopping centres were somewhere you went because you needed something. Now I’m recommending them to other travellers like they’re tourist attractions.

“Definitely go to TRX.”

“Pavilion’s lovely.”

Listen to me… wee granny greyhips. This definitely wasn’t on my 2026 bingo card.

My thoughts on accommodation have changed too.

Five years ago I’d have looked at the photos and thought, “That’s a nice kitchen.” As long as it was clean and modern, I was sold.

Now my internal checklist looks more like this:

Does the air conditioning actually cool the room?

Does it sound like a jet engine?

Will it point directly at the bed?

Is the shower decent?

Is the mattress going to cripple me?

Does it have a washing machine?

Are there enough knives (in this case spoons, if you know you know) and forks to eat dinner without improvising?

How many reviews mention cockroaches?

Apparently this is what adulthood evolves into now. There wouldn’t have been a hotel room in the UK you could have paid me to sleep in if one review mentioned beasties. Now it’s one of the first things I look for when I walk through the door.

Now, let’s talk about washing machines. Nothing makes me happier than reading an accommodation listing that says: Washing machine included. Honestly, that’s like the holy grail to me these days.

Past Vonnie would’ve been impressed by a walk-in wardrobe. Present Vonnie just wants somewhere to wash and dry her pants. Handwashing clothes for months on end really lowers your standards. Or maybe it raises them. I’m not sure.

I’ve also gone from owning wardrobes full of clothes to rotating about three tops, a couple of pairs of shorts, one dress and my trusty sketchers.

I used to have work clothes. Weekend clothes. Holiday clothes. “One day I’ll fit back into that” clothes. Now everything fits into a backpack, and I’m still looking to downsize the pile.

I also spend far more time thinking about practical things than I ever imagined.

Exchange rates (converting everything into pounds and comparing prices).

SIM cards.

Free WIFI.

Visa expiry dates.

Which supermarket sells decent Greek yoghurt?

Where the nearest park is.

These are now perfectly normal conversations between John and me in our late 40’s.

Another thing that’s changed is what feels exciting.

A year ago we were at Glastonbury with 210,000 other people, seeing Oasis reform and watching them at Wembley after 30 years of waiting, and having the occasional party with friends. Last week I spent a good ten minutes telling John how impressed I was that the rubbish was collected three times a week in Penang. Not the beaches. Not the sunsets. The sodding bin collection.

Friday was always bin day back home, so somewhere along the line it became our way of saying “Happy Friday”... so Happy Bin Day folks!

We really did know how to party eh?

Moving to a hot, humid tropical country while going through perimenopause is a bit like voluntarily moving into a sauna while someone keeps turning the smart thermostat up. I was not prepared for the level of hot flushes that followed.

I’ve heard other women call them, “tropical moments.” That almost sounds cheery and sunshiney - like a vision of sunsets, cocktails and laughter - when it’s actually the heat of hellfire that’s the most appropriate way of thinking of it.

Showering four times a day is no joke. My skin must be screaming at me: “what in the feck are you doing, woman”? The amount of antibacterial shower gel we go through is unreal at this point. The shower setting is permanently cold, all day long. Face first like a madwoman trying to waterboard myself to try and cool down.

Being damp and moist (you behave now) is not a vibe. I like to think I’m quite a clean, put-together person, but this environment has other ideas. I used to be cold all the time, funnily enough. I would absolutely take that back. My internal pressure cooker is permanently on the verge of blowing a gasket.

Walking outside is where things really escalate. Not only the sweating, but the mosquitoes. I’m currently sporting around 15 to 20 bites at any given time. As some disappear, the next shift clocks on. It’s relentless.

I even looked up my blood type to check if I was on some kind of preferred menu. Apparently O is the most desirable. I’m B Positive, which feels like it should help, but clearly nobody informed the itchy bloodsuckers. I’ve considered wearing longer trousers, the floaty elephant pant type, but I just can’t commit. It feels like adding another layer would tip me straight into spontaneous combustion.

Talking of layers, I now come with a permanent coating of mosquito repellent. It doesn’t smell great either. One thing I miss about the UK is the ability to panic-order things online without thinking about logistics. I would have bulk-bought Avon Skin So Soft by now. Still the best non-mosquito repellent ever made. You just smell like a normal human being, not something that’s been chemically treated in a lab.

Then there’s the clothes situation. I only have a limited wardrobe with me, and I’m rotating through it like I’m running a hotel laundry service with a staff of one. Anything remotely heavy has been folded into a guilty little pile marked “ship back to the UK,” where it will presumably sit for another seven months. I mostly exist in shorts, a vest top, and a long-sleeved linen shirt in a desperate attempt to avoid becoming insect food, which is not so much a look as a hostage negotiation between vanity and survival.

I used to have a skincare regimen. Now my routine is mostly trying not to dissolve into a puddle. My makeup bag hasn’t been touched in seven months. Why am I still carrying it around? When I do try to use it, the product just slides off anyway. You look in a mirror a few hours later and your face is already somewhere else entirely.

I’m not afraid to admit I’ve had Botox once or twice. I used to have a deep wrinkle between my eyes that I affectionately named my “face vag” because, well, you can work it out. It was so deep I could practically store loose change in it. These days, that’s another luxury I’ve quietly stopped funding.

And then there’s the hair. I am very tempted to buzz it all off. I feel like I’m one bad day away from becoming a wild swamp woman with opinions. I haven’t dyed it in almost a year and now there’s a Cruella de Vil grey streak appearing above my left eyebrow.

I’m trying to embrace it, but it’s doing its own thing. I blame my dad. He has thick afro-like hair that grows like a microphone head, and I appear to have inherited the full volume package plus a coo’s lick for added drama.

So yes, buzzing it all off does feel oddly appealing.

The only thing stopping me is I’m not quite ready to look like a 10-year-old boy. And there’s also a very real chance I’d end up looking exactly like John.

At that point we’d just be a bald middle-aged couple wandering around Southeast Asia together, and I’m not ready for us to become a Temu Right Said Fred just yet.

It started in March 2020.

John’s dad was visiting from Glasgow. He usually stayed a week or two, but this time everything felt slightly off. The news had started to shift, conversations were changing, and then on the 8th of March the first global lockdown was announced.

He became restless. He wanted to get back to his own home while he still could, so we made a decision - we drove him back to Glasgow, even with the uncertainty of the ‘stay at home’ message looming. Would we be stopped on the road and interrogated? The lockdown felt like it was already beginning to close in around us.

There and back in one day. Twelve hours of driving, mostly quiet except the radio softly playing something in the background. Hardly any words were spoken. None of us knew when we would see each other, or when anything would feel normal again.

Lockdown split life into two very different realities in our house.

We were both working from home, trying to carve out space at the dining table. A makeshift office, laptops balanced on whatever surface was available, life reduced to screens and online calls and routines that felt quite surreal.

Then around four weeks in, I was furloughed.

John wasn’t.

He had to furlough his entire sales team, and he and one other person were left trying to keep things running. “Keeping the lights on,” as he put it.

So while I was painting, doing jigsaws, and learning Spanish in a slightly chaotic attempt at structure, he was still working full-time in a world that had stopped.

There was an unspoken tension in that. A strange imbalance to our daily lives that we had to deal with.

I had just returned to work after around six weeks of furlough when the phone call came.

My aunt, Mary. My mum’s younger sister. The fun one. The loud one. The one I was always told I was most like. If there was laughter in the room, chances are Mary was somewhere near it.

She had died in a house fire. A faulty phone charger was believed to be the cause. She was only 59 years old.

I cannot tell you how devastating that news was. For months afterwards, I found myself replaying the scenario in my head. Imagining how it all unfolded. Oddly, one of the few things that brought me any comfort was the thought that she was probably asleep at the time and was unaware of what was happening.

Beyond that, there are some things I still don’t like to think about.

I was working remotely when it happened. Because she wasn’t considered immediate family by HR, I couldn’t have a month off to grieve. I still had to attend work calls, still had to function, still had to speak in complete sentences while something inside me went completely quiet.

I remember feeling like I had disassociated from everything. Like I was watching things happen in real time but not being fully aware of it.

John didn’t really know what to do with me at that time. I didn’t really know what to do with myself either.

There isn’t a specific way to grieve when life expects you to perform normally.

The funeral was restricted to ten people because of Covid.

Ten family members, spaced apart in the same church where she married my late Uncle. Where I had once been her flower girl. All we wanted was to huddle together, to comfort each other. We weren’t allowed to even do that.

Outside, the congregation spilled into the streets. Other members of the family had to stand outside, including John. The whole town seemed to know her. She worked in the local pub, she was loved, she was the kind of person who left a mark without trying.

On the way to the service, the hearse drove through the town and people stood on the pavements to show their respect as it passed by.

It was one of the most overwhelming things I have ever seen.

Over the next few years, huge losses became an unfortunate and sad pattern for our family.

I lost the two most important figures in my life, my Nanny and Papa. My mum’s parents. The backbone of our entire family. They had been married for over 60 years and they passed almost a year to the day of one another.

In that same year we also lost my Uncle Thomas (Tam as he was affectionately known as) - my Dads brother. Then soon after my godfather Tommy followed by his daughter Janice - a much loved cousin on my Mum’s side. Then shockingly, my cool Uncle Tommy (Mum’s younger brother) who influenced me greatly on music when I was younger and then, John’s dad, someone I had known and respected for 30 years.

Each one happened before we had time to recover from the last one.

It wasn’t just grief. It was just indescribable repetition and hurt.

At some point I stopped feeling like I was processing anything properly.

I was just… existing. Working. Managing a household. Showing up. Functioning? Barely.

And underneath all of it, something else was happening quietly. I could feel myself becoming emotionally distant in a way I didn’t really have language for at the time.

Numb… but angry and cynical at the same time.

Angry at having to keep working a job that was slowly sucking the soul out of me, numb at having to keep up a version of myself when all I wanted to do was rot in bed and lock myself away from everyone and everything. What was the point of it all?

My doctor eventually suggested antidepressants.

I resisted at first. Strongly. I didn’t want to “need” help. I wanted to handle it myself, even though I clearly wasn’t.

Eventually, after a more difficult depressive period where John expressed worry for my mental health, I did take them - with his encouragement.

What I remember most from that time is not sadness exactly, but absence. Like joy had become something I recognised, but couldn’t quite reach anymore.

We would socialise but I didn’t feel, well, anything. I was like a ghost.

I stayed on those pills for 3 months and then one day I decided I didn’t want to take them anymore.

That was 2023.

It wasn’t until John’s dad passed away in May 2024 that something shifted again.

This was John’s first true experience of losing someone. Sure, he knew my family members, but this was his Dad.

I can see now that I had already reached a kind of internal breaking point. I just don’t think it happened in one specific moment in time.

Sometimes it’s years of accumulation. Quiet erosion. Life slowly becomes something you no longer recognise as your own.

I had to find the strength to help John through his devastation. It was like an auto pilot to me, having to put aside my own feelings, because this was John’s dad. His blood. I felt very sad that I too had lost a second father figure. But in quieter moments, I did sometimes wonder where that support had been for me. Not because John didn’t care, he absolutely did. But until his dad died, he hadn’t really experienced grief in the same way. Looking back, I think I was carrying a lot of it on my own and simply trying to keep going.

But for us as a couple, it wasn’t just grief.

It was grief, and health, and work, and change, and exhaustion, and all of it happening at once without pause.

In truth, I was already there before we made any decisions about leaving the UK.

I had changed a lot as a person. I no longer recognised the fun, bubbly person I once was. I had become a tired, quiet husk of my former self.

I didn’t have the energy to convince John that we needed a different life. I didn’t even know how to put it into words or what it looked like.

But eventually he reached that point too.

And once we were both singing from the same hymn sheet, quite literally at that point, things started to change and move quickly.

Today it was about the dogs. (For context, we are housesitting at the moment, taking care of two small poodles). We had a huge storm overnight, biblical rain, thunder and lightning. Malaysian weather at its finest. Obviously the dogs were a bit rattled so we did our best to soothe them. They ended up on the bed with us while John played jazz music to calm them down (from his phone, he didn’t whip out his saxophone or anything). We’d done the same thing before with the last dog when fireworks got too much and it worked surprisingly well.

At one point I took one of them downstairs because she was frantically grooming herself, which is usually a clear sign of anxiety. So I changed the environment and ended up sleeping on the sofa with her.

We were both up every hour with the pups. By the time it came to the morning walk, we were already running on fumes. And this must be what it’s like having newborns… just with less sympathy. We couldn't even muster the energy to talk to each other. 

That’s when the voice in my head kicks in, like a swift kick to the face. The negative thoughts. They are always lurking. That train is never late.

I always doubt myself, it doesn’t matter what I’m doing. We got back to the house.  “I’m not sure I can do this for 5 weeks” I said. I saw John’s face. He looked disappointed in me, he probably wasn’t but that’s how I interpreted it. Like I can’t say what I feel because it might cause friction. That’s what I sense in my head, not the actual truth.

This housesitting life is meant to bring freedom. Less financial pressure. A sense of purpose. Some much-needed nervous system calm. Puppy cuddles whenever we need them.

But all I see is hard work. Constantly worrying if the dogs are ok, if they are enjoying the food I need to prepare every night (cooked chicken, veg and rice if you’re interested, it’s like a 5 star restaurant where they’re eating better than us!), it’s a full-on meal I prepare each night, if they have done their business enough to make sure they’re comfortable.  Whether I’m doing a good job. Whether they’re unsettled. Whether I’ve missed something important and they’re quietly judging me in dog language that I’m not fluent in yet. I always have that narrative in my head that they are giving each other the side eye, plotting their next manipulative ploy to try and get me to give them more treats.

And once that thought arrives, it doesn’t really stay contained. It branches out like it’s got somewhere to be. Very helpful stuff. 10/10, thanks brain.

What’s odd is that nothing is actually wrong at the time.

The dogs are fine. They’re fed, walked, safe, and currently living their best lives alternating between naps and staring into the middle distance like tiny philosophers.

But my brain doesn’t seem especially interested in facts when it’s in this mode.

It prefers possibilities. Ideally the slightly stressful kind.

For a long time I thought this meant I was just a negative thinker.

Like I had somehow missed out on the internal “glass half full” update that other people seemed to receive. But I don’t think that’s quite it.

It feels more like my brain has an overenthusiastic safety officer in charge, clipboard and pen at the ready. The kind who takes their job very seriously and hasn’t yet accepted that not every situation is an emergency.

Especially when I care about something. Which, unfortunately, is most things.

And right now there are a few things that seem to be turning the volume up:

We’re in a new environment. Sleep is slightly chaotic. There are animals involved. And no one is giving out performance reviews…So it does what it thinks it’s meant to do. It scans for problems. Constantly.

Instead of thinking “I might be overthinking this,” it feels more like: “Well. This is clearly not going well, is it?”. Even when absolutely nothing has changed.

Trying to flip it into positive thinking doesn’t really help either.

It just makes everything louder until I end up spiralling and then doing what I apparently do best: delivering a slightly chaotic summary of my internal state to John.

He then instinctively wants to fix it, whereas I just need to say it out loud so it stops rattling around in my head. That part actually does help.

I know what I should be doing… dealing with actual facts.  The dogs are fine. They’ve been fed. They’ve been walked.

No-one is currently issuing complaints. They have their play time and they cuddle a lot with us, which is very cute.

Everything is, objectively, okay.

Annoyingly, my brain doesn’t find that nearly as compelling as its worst-case narratives. It does make me wonder why my brain defaults to this though.

Maybe it’s carried over from when John was ill. Maybe my nervous system hasn’t fully settled yet. Hormones might also be doing their part. I don’t really know.

What’s becoming clearer is that this isn’t really about dogs, or travel, or even this specific situation.

It’s what happens when there’s responsibility without clear feedback. No one tells you that you’re doing this correctly, so the brain fills in the silence itself.

And yet, if I step back, the reality is pretty great.

We’re living in a new country. We’ve rebuilt our routines from scratch. We’re caring for animals properly… And we’re still functioning, even on the days when my brain is being enthusiastic, shall we say.

I don’t think the goal is to silence it completely.

That would be ideal, obviously. But unrealistic, like expecting British people to handle heat gracefully. (Side note, I feel like I’m living inside an oven every day, it’s very hot here in Penang).

But I need to try and not let it take the proverbial steering wheel so much. It needs to sit safely in the passenger seat. Comment occasionally. And ignore where necessary.

But how do I do that when it’s clear I haven’t been able to regulate that in my 48 revolutions around the sun?

So instead, today “we continue…” as Pete Tong says.

Just continuing, while my brain occasionally tries to convince me I’ve forgotten how to be a competent adult.

And, for now at least, not listening to it quite as much as it would like.

I know what you’re thinking, working from home doesn’t sound like a hardship. And in some ways, it wasn’t. It was convenient. I loved the sanctuary of our house… probably a bit too much, to the point where it became quite isolating. John used to have to drag me out for a canal walk because I’d happily just stay in.

At one point during Covid times (which now feels like some sort of medieval era), I didn’t leave the house for 17 days. Seventeen! When we had a picturesque canal right on our doorstep and the animals and nature to give me a boost. How daft does that sound now?

The day would be spent attending countless “this could have been an email” online meetings. You know the ones I mean. Discussing deadlines set by people who didn’t really understand the work, and questioning why something wasn’t working by a date they’d plucked out of thin air. Writing pointless documentation or processes that really don’t matter in the grand scheme of things, given how the business treated us in our redundancy. It just didn’t matter.

Hours would either drag or there wouldn’t be enough time in the day to get something over the line. It was that yin and yang of annoyance that was the corporate life. And then, just when you thought you were done for the day… The invite to a 4.30pm / 5pm meeting would land in your calendar, the one where you knew it would eat into your own sanctuary time and suck the soul from your body. So fun!

You’d put the mask back on. Smile. Nod along while someone went on about KPIs and RAG reports. Then finally you log off, collapse onto the sofa, and realise it was pitch black outside. Another day gone working for “the man”.

It was monotonous. And looking back, I gave a lot of years to something that, in the end, didn’t matter as much as I thought it did. Don’t get me wrong, I worked hard. I reached management level in IT and earned the highest salary I ever had, and probably ever will. That money let me buy what I wanted, when I wanted. But in the end, most of it was just… stuff. Things we eventually sold.

I sometimes think I should’ve put more into pensions, savings, ISAs… but hindsight’s a wonderful thing. Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

So what does a day look like for me now? It’s definitely less stressful, but there’s still a routine there.

When we’re in KL, we usually wake up around 9.30am or 10am as we stay up later in the evening now. I tend to fall asleep around 1.30am, but John needs a bit longer to wind down. He actually gets more productive at night, so that works for him. One thing we have learned is that the 9-5 grind wasn’t a good fit for John. It’s become so evident now after leaving that structured regime.

Mornings are slow. Coffee first, then maybe some breakfast of yoghurt or fruit, then a bit of YouTube while we wake up properly. We usually head to the gym around lunchtime. A mix of cardio and strength, then some time at the pool or just sitting in the sun. I’ll often work on the blog, or read, and John will film or plan content.

In the afternoon, he’ll edit while I sort lunch, or we’ll head out to grab something to eat. We try to hit 10k steps a day, so if we’re short after the gym, we’ll go for a walk, usually around a park or the mall.

In Thailand or Bali, that walk would be down the beach or along the bustling main streets with the sun in your face. At night, it would be the same walks but with a cooler moisture in the air, maybe a nice cool breeze if you’re lucky with the sheen of sweat glistening off your sun-touched skin.

Back in KL, dinner is usually simple. Sometimes we’ll go out, tacos or a Thai place for a spicy beef salad, but more often we’ll cook something basic in the room. Sweet potato and tuna, or a chicken or beef wrap. We are just a couple of basic bitches, but it works for us!

A treat would be somewhere like The Gavel for a Sunday lunch, or a beef wellington, catching up with Denise and Paul, the owners of the restaurant we’ve got to know. A bit of social interaction, which makes a nice change.

Most evenings are quiet. Lying on the bed, watching TV, eating dinner, sometimes ordering takeaway. Not wildly different from the UK in that sense, just without the constant pressure sitting in the background of the work dread the following day.

We don’t really drink now either. Maybe a cider now and then if we fancy it, but nothing like before.

We get asked all the time if we have visited here or there on our travels. The truth is we haven’t done any of those typical tourist trip things yet. No Batu Caves. Haven’t been up the Petronas Towers. Riding the rollercoasters at Genting Highlands is another one. We don’t need to rush, we are not on holiday. We’ll get to them.

Don’t get me wrong, life isn’t completely stress-free. It’s not a perfect life. There’s John’s overactiveness to manage at times. The ongoing insurance battle. The creativity and worry of producing content for YouTube and blog posts. But it’s a different kind of stress, it’s ours. We are doing it for us, not for some invisible corporate machine. Our life may seem simple to others, or very different to others. We’ve had comments like “how can you spend so much time together?”, which cracks me up, honestly. We are each other’s person, so we are learning to enjoy our new life together without alarm clocks or work meeting invites.

It’s not always sunshine and rainbows, but it’s perfect enough for us to not have to worry about the 9-5 grind anymore. And that is priceless.

It feels surreal watching these videos knowing we went through all of that, but it’s all such a blur now. Watching others go through the same challenges makes me realise how much we have already forgotten.

The decision to sell up and move away didn’t come lightly, although it may have sounded impulsive to others. It followed a harrowing few years of grief, burnout and disillusionment - really beginning around 2020 and finally coming to a head around this time in 2024. Life, as we knew it, didn’t feel like it was working for us anymore. We were going through the motions, trying to get through each week, but not really enjoying anything. It slowly dawned on us that no-one was coming to save us, so we decided to save ourselves.

We often read in the comments that “it’s not easy to make that decision” or, on the flip side, “it’s easier for you because you don’t have kids.” But I don’t think it’s about ease at all. I just think these people haven’t reached the end of their rope yet because when you hit that rock bottom… it forces you to pull your head up and make a change. That’s what we did.

Initially the plan was to move back to Scotland, get a wee flat somewhere, like completing the arc from where we first started all those years ago - our first place was bought for £32,500 back in 1998, a cute two bed flat with a balcony. Those were the days.

However, we hadn’t downsized at that point, so thoughts were on a bigger place. We managed to secure a 3 bedroom house rental just outside Glasgow. That was to be our first stop gap on deciding where to settle, it was for 6 months initially. Perfect… but then the homeowners changed their minds. Their plans to move to America for work ‘fell through’ they said, but I soon found the house back on the market with an increase of £300 a month over the price we had agreed… so we were back to square one. But I’m glad that happened because having them as landlords may not have worked out for us knowing that stunt. I understand people trying to make money but that left a bitter taste in my mouth, it’s so dishonest. So… that was nice!

A short time later, I viewed a property near Loch Lomond, driving up from Northampton on my own while John was working. I loved the house. It was set back from the calming waters, a dramatic looking facade with character and a nice huge garden. But the rental market had changed massively. I was one of 28 applicants… 28! My flabber was well and truly gasted! Surprisingly… we didn’t get it, so that was another disappointment to deal with.

We even floated the idea of buying a narrowboat or a camper van. That’s where our heads were at. Trying to find a way to make life in the UK fit again. But it was starting to feel too much like hard work.

We decided we needed a break, a nice bit of R&R to de-stress our nervous systems. We booked a holiday to Lanzarote where we rented an apartment for a whole month to see how we felt with being away; just with a backpack each. I was still working then, John was redundant already, so I agreed to work there remotely for 2 weeks, and have 2 weeks holiday. It was a small one bedroom apartment, full kitchen, sofa, TV and a balcony almost facing the sea. It was just what we needed, just living frugally eating salads, watching TV and walking 10k steps a day. Down the beach or going for a coffee around Costa Teguise with the sun in your face each day. John was making some videos for the channel.

We got home from that month away and the minute we walked into our kitchen the weight of all of our possessions really hit home. Everything we owned was there staring back at us, plus John’s dads belongings were also piled up in a corner of the kitchen. The enormous weight of baggage really hit us.

Soon after, John casually mentioned he was thinking about selling his record collection and music equipment. I was stunned. This was his pride and joy. But after losing his Dear dad, something had shifted for him too. Perspective changes what really matters. And strangely, hearing him say that made everything feel more real to me. We weren’t just talking about change anymore. We were actually doing the thing!

I was pretty excited about this because I knew then that the thought of downsizing was becoming more of a reality now. And you know I love a good tidy so this was like a win win for me! (I joke that I love to clear things out but in all honesty when I feel anxious, I like to clean as it clears my head and lets me work through some things in my brain whilst I do it).

We had watched a few YouTubers talk about Malaysia and how great a place it was, so we started really thinking of making that our next home from home. We had never been before so it was a completely fresh start, the unknown. We agreed to put our plan into action.

John’s channel was already up and running, so we were documenting parts of the journey as we went.

Once it became real, I went into full planning mode; lists everywhere. Stuck to the fridge. On a whiteboard. On scraps of paper. It kept me right, organised.

Lists for donations, for rubbish tip runs, things we would sell to family or friends to make a few extra quid. Things we would donate for free, selling on Vinted, Ebay, Facebook Marketplace.

I started organising everything into piles in the garage. One for charity, one for rubbish, one for selling. And one day, I just decided: that’s it. It’s time. Black bags were filled. Car loaded. Trip to the tip. That’s it, no going back.

We lived in a three-storey townhouse, and every room, cupboard and wardrobe was full. I used to joke that it was like playing Tetris every time I opened a cupboard.

I started in the kitchen. My domain. It was easier somehow because everything was hidden away. Plates. Glasses. Mugs. Extra cutlery. Cooking utensils. All gone. Bagged up for the tip or boxed away for charity.

What shocked me most was how many places wouldn’t accept donations. Perfectly usable things ended up being thrown away. It really makes you think about how much we hold onto… and how hard it is to try to let it go properly.

Meanwhile, John was selling his music collection. He split it into genres and started listing everything. According to Discogs (a website you can list your collection where it gives you an estimated price for each listing), it was worth somewhere between £20k and £60k total.

The reality? Much much less.

That was tough for him. Letting it go at a lower value than it deserved. But by then, leaving meant more than holding onto anything.

He also sold his full DJ setup. Custom-built desk, turntables, CDJs, mixer, speakers. It went to a guy from Manchester treating himself for his 50th birthday. A new chapter for him too I suppose, in a different way.

Furniture went to friends or onto Facebook Marketplace. We weren’t trying to maximise profit. We just needed it to go to a good home.

Each item ticked off the list was progress; like we were buying our freedom back, bit by bit. Reflecting on it, we were emotionally numb at times, it was truly exhausting. I barely remember parts of it all now.

But eventually, it was time.

We loaded everything into a van and headed to Scotland, our first stop.

All our remaining belongings went into a storage unit. Seeing it all stacked into that small space was surreal. That was everything we had left from a three-storey house. But the sense of accomplishment was a huge deal.

For the first time, the freedom felt real. Something we could actually sense.

It turns out rock bottom isn’t where things end. Sometimes it’s just the kick up the arse you need.

By my mid-30s, I realised I didn’t actually know what my adult body felt like without it. When I think back how long I was taking that for, it actually blows my mind.

We’d just moved from Scotland to England, and something shifted in me. My moods became unpredictable, my confidence dipped, and I didn’t quite feel like myself anymore. I just put it down to being stressed after a big life shift, big move, new job, different environment, however I soon realised it was something else. I was drinking more than usual. I wasn’t a huge drinker, but I found myself buying a bottle of red most nights after work. I couldn’t explain it properly, but I knew something wasn’t right.

Once the initial stresses of moving and starting a new job eased, it began to feel more hormonal after a while, so I made the decision to come off the pill. No one really explains what it can feel like to come off something you’ve relied on for so long; physically or mentally. I thought I was just removing something artificial. I didn’t expect how unfamiliar everything would feel afterwards.

I tried to find a middle ground and had a coil fitted.

That, in itself, wasn’t the most pleasant experience. And although it solved the ‘daily pill’ problem, it introduced a new one - one that, let’s just say, wasn’t ideal for John. He was experiencing discomfort on his end… and yes, that pun is fully intended!

I then had that removed and decided to see how things would go without any synthetic hormones at all. At first, it felt like a relief. I’d spent over 20 years remembering to take the pill, then dealing with the discomfort of having the IUD fitted. Now there were no pills, no procedures and no schedules taking up room in my head.

Looking back now, it’s strange to think how much space all of it took up over the years. Pills, appointments, hormones, side effects, routines, worries about pregnancy, trying to maintain a healthy relationship, holding down a job, running a home… it all just becomes part of everyday life as a woman.

You adapt to it because you think you’re supposed to.

Hormonal health was always something that sat quietly in the back of my mind. My mum had severe endometriosis and needed a hysterectomy when she was only 24. I remember growing up aware of how much she’d struggled, and also being a young mum of two. Part of me always wondered if I’d eventually face something similar myself.

A year or so after the big move down South, we hit a milestone - 20 years together. I was approaching 38, and after 17 years engaged, we finally decided to get married. Before the wedding, I went back on the pill briefly. I wanted to feel my best - but it was temporary. Once it was over, I came off it again. We had quietly decided that we wouldn’t be pursuing having a family; it’s just not what we wanted. We just had to manage it in other ways. And that was it. No more birth control. No more routine check-ups.

In the UK, those appointments had always just happened in the background; smear tests, blood pressure checks, general monitoring. But once I stepped away from birth control, it all just stopped.

I’d quietly been dropped off the system… and if I’m honest, I felt like I was no longer important.

For years, you’re told how crucial these checks are; HPV, cancer, all of it. Then suddenly, they just cease. No follow-up. No guidance. It’s like you become the invisible woman right at the point most women start going through perimenopause.

Years passed, and my body never really felt consistent. My weight crept up and down, energy levels, mood, everything seemed to shift without much warning. I felt constantly drained.

Late 30s, early 40s now - and then came the next phase - brain fog, tiredness and the sweats - the hot and cold ones.

Not just the occasional “it’s a bit warm” kind of sweat - but the kind that has you changing clothes multiple times a day. Waking up in the middle of the night feeling like you’re overheating from the inside out; one minute you’re cold, the next roasting hot. It’s coming and going in waves.

The first time you wake up at 3am with the bed sheets soaked and you’re having to creep about the bedroom quietly, getting washed, changed and having to find a bloody towel to lie on, is an experience! Feeling gross that you can’t change the sheets without waking him up beside you. Not really getting back to a comfortable sleep because you feel minging lying on a wet sheet. God, it’s horrendous.

The cold sweats and chilliness was also a new thing. When I lost some weight I felt cold all of the time. My mates used to take the mickey that I brought a jacket with me everywhere, even in the height of a Scottish/English summer. ‘There’s Vonnie with her leather jaikit!’ But I used to get so cold that my teeth chattered. I soon realised that was another part of a hormonal shift I didn’t expect.

I mentioned in a previous blog that before I left the UK, my doctor diagnosed me with perimenopause. I was 47 years old. This all happened after my monthly cycle had stopped for two months. This had never happened to me before; even through all my previous symptoms, I had always been regular as clockwork. I had no idea how to deal with this, there was no structure, no guidance or advice from the doctor on how to handle it.

How long had I been dealing with all of this? Was it just being masked due to stress all this time? Was I experiencing perimenopause at an even earlier age before being diagnosed at 47? Probably.

Now add leaving the UK, travelling to Malaysia, Thailand and Indonesia into the mix.

Hot tropical countries, constant humidity, already sweating just from walking outside - and trying to work out what’s hormones and what’s just the climate.

It sounds minor when you say it out loud, but it builds. The constant outfit changes. The extra clothes washing (and the endless thoughts of having to factor in washing and drying without proper facilities). The interrupted sleep. The general feeling of being uncomfortable in your own body.

When you look up the endless list of perimenopause symptoms you have an ‘ahaaa’ moment. The list is endless and when you really dive into it, some are very validating. I used to have sore rotator cuffs where they clicked or a pain in the middle of my shoulder blades, even without going to the gym. I soon learned that it’s a symptom - so that’s where the random frozen shoulder pain comes from!

I don’t remember the last time I had a proper night’s sleep…. Whether it’s been settling into a new place, environment, room whatever it is; the noises and generally trying to acclimatise to a different way of life.

I feel like I’ve aged a bit more now too. I always catch myself in the mirror and I generally look healthier now but I look sad a lot of the time. My face is drooping slightly, my grays are prominent (I’ve stopped dying my hair blonde so it’s more noticeable now) and my wrinkles are becoming a bit more defined. I need to convince myself, and reassure John, that I’m not really upset or angry about anything; it’s just my resting bitch face! But sometimes, I am just in a mood for little to no reason why!

My eyesight started changing too. My usual prescription no longer felt sharp, and my optician told me I’d need to start thinking about varifocals. I recoiled at the idea; those old-school glasses with the visible line across them? Absolutely not!

Apparently things have moved on, you can get multifocals now, but I never got around to sorting it before we left the UK. It’s been sitting on my to-do list ever since; another reminder that my body was changing whether I liked it or not.

I’m also trying to enjoy training every day, to build a healthier body and mind - but most days it feels like a constant battle. My bones hurt and my energy levels feel depleted but I never really regret going to the gym afterwards. But I do get those pains creeping in later. It’s just part of life. Sometimes I wish I could just lubricate my joints with some WD40, like the tin man, and be on my merry way.

So I previously had issues where my cycle stopped, it returned and now, as recently as February, it’s stopped again. Not sure whether it’s due to the stress of the redundancy, the travelling. Who knows, but it’s been on my mind a lot… and no, I’m not pregnant! That would be just typical at this stage of life.

One of the hardest things to explain is how much it affects intimacy and libido. My mind still thinks about the act all the time, but my body often feels completely disconnected from it. That’s probably one of the most frustrating things.

It’s not even just that part. I miss simple closeness too. I used to curl into John in bed, sometimes acting like his wee backpack, the big spoon, wrapped around him half the night. Now, the second I get too close, I feel like my body temperature goes through the roof. I become unbearably hot and have to move away again.

That part genuinely upsets me sometimes. People probably imagine we’re off travelling the world having this amazing carefree time together - and in many ways we are - but there are also quiet moments where I really miss that physical closeness and connection with him.

Once we are settled back in Malaysia, I’ll organise an appointment for a health screening to make sure everything looks normal and hopefully get some guidance. They have excellent clinics and hospitals there, so I know I’ll get the information I need quickly to make a judgement on next steps. Maybe that involves adding some hormonal treatment into the mix. Let’s see.

Meanwhile, I started trying to track what was happening with my cycle. Downloading apps from the App Store, logging symptoms, trying to make sense of it all. But every time I thought I’d found something useful, I’d hit a paywall. You input all your details… and then get asked to subscribe for a fee before you actually get anything helpful back. I found it so frustrating.

That’s when it clicked - lightbulb moment! If I couldn’t find something that worked for me, I’d build the sodding thing myself. So that’s what I’ve started doing.

Since my job worries have subsided, my brain is making space for some creativity that I’ve not felt in a while. It feels quite liberating to have something for myself, a purpose.

Can anyone relate to this?

Quietly, I have been working away on my phone. Using AI to brainstorm, mapping things out, figuring out what I actually need to include - not just what was already out there on the market. Now I have my new laptop, it’s giving me the freedom to work on it a bit more and come up with some more ideas. It’s also better on the old eyes too, every little helps and all that.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t just reacting to what my body was doing. I was building something around it.

For the first time in a while, it felt like we could breathe.

Back in the UK, we’d have been finishing work and huddling under blankets on the sofa trying to keep cosy and comforted. We wouldn’t have had the energy to leave the house, train, or even go out in the dark. But, this felt like a different life entirely - and I was starting to realise how lucky we were to be living it.

Our evenings became predictable in the best way; back in the room, rewatching Succession, subtitles firmly on because apparently that’s just where I am in life now!

Meanwhile, John was getting stronger. Back in the gym daily, tracking his progress, comparing photos week to week; properly back in it after everything he’d been through. We were both starting to reset slowly.

But underneath it all, things weren’t as settled as they seemed.

The TUPE transfer saga came and went almost overnight - transfer confirmed on Monday, redundancy consultations announced on Tuesday.

I was straight back into HR consultations and conversations with colleagues, recording everything, documenting everything. It had all happened too quickly and something didn’t sit right. My spidey senses were on edge.

It became clear that 70 people were being reduced down to just 8 roles, and the whole department was affected. I was so sad and angry knowing that all the good people we had, and those I had managed, would have to be let down like this. Countless families in the firing line just because the company wanted a cheaper way of doing things.

The redundancy talks paused for Christmas, which gave me a bit of breathing space. No calls, no meetings hanging over me for a couple of weeks.

As the month came to an end, we were on the move again - this time to Thailand. Our tourist visa was up, but it felt like more than just a necessary move. I was ready for a change of scenery.

We’d never been there before, and in my head this felt different - slower, warmer, more like an actual holiday rather than just relocating somewhere new.

Before we left, we went through our bags again, stripping things back for what must have been the second or third time. Each time we let more go, mostly clothing. Each time it felt a little easier. Like we were finally learning how to live with less.

We booked a small boutique hotel in Hua Hin with the pool just outside our room. Quiet, simple, exactly what we needed. It provided the kind of pace we’d been chasing for months and for a while, it felt like we’d got the balance right.

I loved Thailand from the beginning, the vibes, the food, the people and just the sincerity of everyone. It really gave me a new sense of calm and goodness in humanity. I definitely felt like I smiled a bit more there. It is the land of smiles after all.

But behind the scenes, John was still deep in it with the travel insurance battle.

Most mornings followed the same pattern; out for a walk, trying to switch off, and then straight back to the room with the laptop open. Strategising next steps, emails, waiting for a decision that seemed to take forever.

Even there - somewhere that was supposed to feel like a break - we hadn’t fully been able to let go.

Christmas Day came, and I’d booked us into a hotel for lunch. I knew if we hadn’t planned something, we’d have ended up sitting in the room, scrolling, likely ordering a grab takeaway meal, convincing ourselves it didn’t matter and then feeling like we’d missed out.

It was a nice afternoon. Easy. For a few hours, it felt like we’d managed to enjoy something normal. We normally have Christmas Day with John’s dad, this would be the second one without him, so we honoured him with a tearful happy toast.

When we got back to the room, John checked his emails. The insurance company had come back.

Denied. No warning. Just like that. All that effort he had put in, hours/days spent hunched over a laptop. Back to square one.

I don’t even remember exactly what was said straight away - just that heavy, sinking feeling. Like your senses go all warped like they do in movies. Instantly, John was back to strategising and appealing the decision furiously on the laptop.

It was meant to be a break, but in parts, it never really felt like one.

By the time we left Thailand to head back to KL, we were both hoping that things might start to shift once we were settled again. And it came in the form of an unexpected surprise.

Not long after we got back, we heard from our good friends who were going to be in Phuket within the next fortnight for a family trip. We didn’t think about it too long - we booked flights, packed light, and headed straight back out to Thailand again.

And that few days… It was exactly what we needed.

Being around people who knew us, properly knew us - the chats, the laughter, the easy familiarity of it all. It felt like stepping back into our previous lives for a bit.

It was only 5 days or so but just having that normality again did us the world of good. The universe was looking out for us.

We left with our cups full again. Much lighter and happier. I shed a tear on our goodbye not knowing when we’d see them both again.

At the end of February, the redundancy was finally concluded and I could put the whole sorry saga behind me. It wasn’t straightforward, and I did need some professional support to reach a fair outcome.

And just like that, for the first time in my adult life, I wasn’t employed.

It felt strange to say that out loud. A little unsettling, if I’m honest - after 31 years of always knowing what I did, and who I was in it.

But also - it felt like the beginning of something so much better.

That, of course, came at a cost. A grand total of £13,000.

I had mentioned before that even while he was in hospital, John had been dealing with the travel insurance company; logging everything, emailing constantly, making sure nothing slipped through the cracks. And that didn’t stop once he was discharged. If anything, it ramped up.

He became completely focused on it.

I found myself getting annoyed with him for not just resting properly. But that’s not how his brain works. He’s always on, always thinking ten steps ahead. He doesn’t know how to switch off. It must be exhausting for him. I know it’s tiring to watch.

And yet, I’d just watched my life partner go through something terrifying, and all I wanted was for him to stop… just for a bit. To rest. To recover properly.

But when John gets something in his head, there’s no pulling him away from it. So eventually, I let it go and watched him battle the insurance company from his laptop, hour after hour.

AI became his second brain. He was constantly writing, rewriting, and planning his next move.

I joked that he had turned into “Johnnie Brockovich.”

Meanwhile, I slipped into a different role entirely.

I was tracking his medication (antibiotics, paracetamol, supplements), logging times in the notes app on my phone so nothing was missed. I was constantly checking, double-checking, because I couldn’t quite trust my own memory anymore.

The food shopping, making sure he was eating properly, getting enough nutrients to recover. Leaving him alone in the room and heading to the supermarket, always conscious of how far I could go and how long I could be away.

Each day, we ate the same things. Fruit, yoghurt bowls, tuna salads, apples with peanut butter… a few crisps or sweeties as a treat. We’d started on packaged noodles, but even that changed once we realised how much sodium was in them.

After a few weeks, he was allowed to go on short walks. We’d go out in the evenings when it was cooler, never too far, always mindful of his energy. Even then, it would take everything out of him.

I could see it was going to be a slow road back to health.

Then we had to move to our new accommodation, a bit further out than KLCC but still close enough to the hospital.

It felt like too much, too soon, but we didn’t have a choice. We had booked it before all this happened.

The room was small, but it had an amazing balcony overlooking the city. We could sit and watch the thunderstorms roll in without getting soaked. There was a gym and a pool, but we were further from parks, and the traffic made walking outside difficult.

Strangely, within the first week, he started to feel better. Well enough, in his mind, to go to the gym and walk on the treadmill.

I kept a close eye on him, making sure he didn’t overdo it. He insisted he was fine.

That became the pattern; him pushing forward, me quietly watching, managing, adjusting.

But underneath it all, I was running on empty. I still felt completely burnt out.

You hear “in sickness and in health” in your vows, but living it is something else entirely. I felt like I had become a nurse… a mother… everything except myself. And I kept questioning whether I was doing any of it right.

He was so focused on getting back into a daily routine, building his strength again. But if I’m honest, the last thing I wanted to do was go to the sodding gym each day. Once I was there, I was fine… but getting there was the battle.

My work calls were still ongoing at this point too, so my confidence was slowly being chipped away. The only thing keeping me going was knowing there would soon be a redundancy cheque to add to our wee pot of gold.

A follow-up consultation with the doctor went well. He confirmed John was recovering and cleared him to use the pool again. That felt like a turning point.

He absolutely lit up.

He took to it straight away, like a proverbial duck to water. For the first time in a while, I could see real relief in him.

As the days went on, I could see his strength coming back bit by bit. And slowly, I started to soften. I felt myself relax, just a wee bit.

In the background, my redundancy situation was still hanging over me. But it was starting to feel more certain, which oddly brought a bit of clarity. Like one chapter was closing whether I was ready or not.

I tried to keep up with everything, forcing myself to train each day, even when I had nothing in me. Going to the gym and pool together made him happy, and I wanted that for him.

Eventually, I started to appreciate those moments. But if I’m honest, I wasn’t always feeling it. Sometimes I had to mask how low I felt just to keep things moving.

The strange thing is, once the workout was done, I did feel better. But getting there felt like climbing a mountain.

Each morning followed the same pattern. Wake up, a bit of YouTube, a yoghurt bowl, a coffee.

John thrives on routine, so as soon as his second coffee was done, he’d jump up and get ready for the gym.

Meanwhile, I was internally stomping my feet like a toddler - “I don’t want to go!” All I wanted was to stay in bed and rot, watching rubbish on the Firestick. But I knew that once I was up and moving, it would be fine.

He had this new lease of life, which makes complete sense after what he’d been through. But I felt very flat and drained. Like one of those cartoon characters that’s been run over by a steamroller. Quiet. Stretched thin.

I had started sleeping a bit more once he improved, which helped. But I couldn’t tell if I was recovering… or just collapsing from exhaustion each night.

After the gym and pool, it was me sorting lunch (usually a tuna salad), then washing clothes and towels so we could do it all again the next day. The room had a washing machine, which helped - but everything became part of a routine that had to run, no matter how I felt.

Before we left the UK, I had been diagnosed with perimenopause. I’m 48, so it’s expected… right?

But during this time, I genuinely couldn’t tell what was what anymore.

Was I exhausted from everything we’d just been through? Was it hormones? Or was it everything hitting me all at once?

I joked to John in hospital that I wished I could’ve been hooked up to one of those IV drips. I still think about that now.

We had only left the UK three months earlier. I was glad we’d made the move, but I still hadn’t had time to process it all properly.

I’d been in fight-or-flight for so long, I didn’t know how to switch it off.

What we thought would be a simple consultation quickly escalated. After a CT scan, the doctor showed us the difference between John’s kidneys; his left was shrivelled and scarred compared to the right. It was in shock due to a severe infection and there was a 7mm kidney stone obstructing his pipes.

We had to register at the main reception area, and whilst we were waiting, the piano player (I know, right!?) was playing Que Sera Sera….we laughed but we both were very nervous, mainly because John hadn’t had an operation before and the last time we were in a hospital was when his Dad passed away. There was a lot tied up in that moment. We both felt it but we didn’t vocalise it to each other, we just knew.

We had a few hours to wait, so we went back to grab his bag and returned to the hospital.

He was admitted straight away and started on IV antibiotics. We had no idea how long this was going to last.

His room mate was particularly loud, there was only a thin curtain separating them both, He was listening to the TV so loudly, whilst being on the phone at the same time, stimulation overload! Even the nurse who came in to fit his cannula made a face, but didn’t say anything, I guess that’s what happens when you are in a private hospital!

Later that night, when I had left to go back to the hotel, he had a bit of a flake out. He was experiencing heightened anxiety and shouted at the man to turn his volume down, He texted me to tell me. Instantly I felt like I should have been there, I had only just got back to the hotel and he was already struggling. My stomach dropped. I know how much he can spiral when things get too much. He texted me to say he’d been moved to a private room and he felt much better in the silence. I felt some relief, but my anxiety was still peaking so it took me a while to relax.

Leaving John in hospital each night was incredibly stressful. Getting a Grab taxi back alone to a hotel room in a city I barely knew felt surreal. I would break down as soon as I got in. I wasn’t eating properly. I wasn’t sleeping properly. I was running on adrenaline and anxiety. I would buy packaged noodles and lots of sugary snacks and just comfort eat whilst watching serial killer tv shows on netflix. It’s the thing that makes me feel relaxed though, weirdly. John always jokes that I’m taking notes on how to bump him off. Oh the irony.

At the time, I didn’t even label it as anxiety. I’ve always just called myself a worrier. But looking back, it was pure fight-or-flight mode. Each morning I’d wake up from a very broken sleep, exhausted and immediately text him. Not knowing what the response would be in return. Thankfully the responses were always an eagerness to see me. Then I’d book a Grab taxi and make sure I was in the hospital waiting area before visiting hours began at 9am so he knew I was there. I stayed until the “wee bing bong” announcement told us it was time to leave at 9pm. It reminded me of ‘High De High’ and Sue Pollard. Probably showing my age there…UK folks will know what I’m referring to.

During those first days, the infection was treated with lots of IV antibiotics and fluids. A temporary stent was fitted to drain the kidney. After four days, he was discharged with a future date scheduled for laser surgery to remove the obstructing kidney stone.

Two days later, it was our tenth wedding anniversary. The day after that, my 48th birthday. We celebrated quietly by watching TV in the hotel room. We agreed we’d go for dinner properly once he felt stronger.

It wasn’t how we imagined that milestone would be celebrated, but it was enough.

A few weeks later, John was readmitted for surgery. This time we knew the ward, the routine, the process. It felt slightly less unknown, but not any less stressful.

The surgery went well and a new stent was fitted. We thought we were over the worst of it. He was allowed to leave after a few days with an agreed time to return in around 3 days time for the stent to be removed.

Two days later he developed numbness in his extremities. I knew something wasn’t right. We rushed to A&E, and he was readmitted with urosepsis; a life-threatening condition. His consultant told us that if we had waited any longer to act, it may have been fatal.

I have never seen him so poorly. The sweating, the trembling, the confusion. It was terrifying. What would have happened if we hadn’t got to A&E as quickly? What if he doesn’t get better? How long will recovery take? I’m always a glass half empty person anyway, always fearing the worst but this really was terrifying to witness.

He almost died. And I was sitting there trying to process that on my own. John had no idea how much in danger he truly was, but it wasn’t something I wanted to bring up until he was well enough to process it.

I felt very alone. I reached out to some friends via text and they were all so very worried. A couple of them even said they would travel out to keep me company if things got any worse, no questions asked, which I felt so grateful for. It was reassuring to know that if anything got worse, I would have someone to collapse into.

But slowly, the antibiotics worked. After a few days, he was sitting up, eating, chatting, watching TV. The colour came back into his face. I knew we were past the danger, though recovery would take time.

Throughout all of this, I felt like a washed-out rag. I felt like I had aged 10 years in a short space of time. I was exhausted. I wasn’t fuelling myself properly. But I didn’t feel I had the right to fall apart after what he had gone through.

I had to make sure his diet was right, that he drank enough water, that every appointment and tablet was tracked. I had notes on my phone for everything. I became a bit obsessive about it. But I couldn’t let it be known I was struggling. I just had to carry it.

And while I was sitting in hospital wards for 12 hours a day, I was also fielding emails about my job.

At the same time, we were dealing with his travel insurance company. What we thought would be straightforward turned into another layer of stress; constant emails, phone calls, being passed between different case managers, and very little clarity.

John threw himself into it, logging everything, chasing responses, trying to get answers. I found myself getting frustrated with him at times because he wasn’t resting, but I also understood why. When he focuses on something, he doesn’t let it go.

It quickly became clear this wasn’t going to be simple. It was the start of an ongoing battle that would last months.

At the time, I was on an unpaid career break. But with the TUPE transfer looming, I knew redundancy was likely. There were over 70 people affected, more than 20 in consultation, so it quickly became a collective process. It wasn’t going to be quick.

I had asked for an early outcome but instead, it dragged on.

I’ve been employed since I was 15 years old. I built a 30-year career in IT. Structure, deadlines, leadership, responsibility; that’s what I knew. Even on a career break, I still felt anchored to it.

Now, I was back effectively working full-time; responding to consultations, reading documentation, communicating daily; but without salary, security, or clarity.

It was frustrating. It was draining. And if I’m honest, it made me angry. Not just about the process; but about how easily a career, and a person, can be reduced to a number on a spreadsheet. And the timing? Bloody perfect. Exactly what I needed when everything else was falling apart.

It’s now April, and the redundancy was concluded at the end of February with the settlement figure being agreed; but not before I had to consult with an employment lawyer due to how the process was handled. This resulted in a few extra pounds being awarded, but more than that, it made me stand up for myself after decades of service. It was stressful, but it made me stand up for myself - and that mattered more.

People often ask what I am doing with my time now. It’s a fair question. I’ve been asking myself.

For 30 years, I worked. I contributed financially. I ran our household. I was organised, productive, and needed.

So when your husband is ill, your career disappears, and you’re living abroad in a hotel room… who are you? How do you reinvent yourself at 48 when your career disappears?

For the first time since I was 15, I don’t have a job title. That’s both freeing and unsettling. I went into my career by accident. It was never some big plan. I never thought I’d end up being an IT Manager.

When John and I met, I felt creative. I used to draw, write daft poetry, and listen to music for hours. But somewhere along the way, a career slowly reshapes you.

You put on the suit, join the calls, analyse the dashboards… and before you know it, it becomes who you are. Now I feel like I need to find my way back to that earlier version of me.

John and I agreed that once my redundancy was finalised, I would take a few months to just… be. No rushing into the next thing or scrambling to prove productivity or usefulness.

This is that time. Some days that just means slowing down, sitting with my thoughts and taking notes on things that happen. Those notes then end up being featured in this blog. I’m currently in Bali, sitting writing this on my shiny new laptop. I don’t have all the answers yet, but I’m here, slowly figuring it all out.

Blog 1: Stepping into the Spotlight

John is often asked in the comments how I am and how I feel about everything, and I’m genuinely grateful for that. It’s nice people care enough to ask. I’m okay with being involved in his videos now, but at the start I was quite hesitant.

I hate seeing or hearing myself on camera. I have quite a squeaky Scottish accent and even though we’re from the same place, John always seems to come across much better. I don’t know if it’s confidence or just the way he speaks, but he sounds far more natural than I do.

I’ve always felt like I was a bit “too” Scottish, if that makes sense. Not in a proud way, just in a way that made me feel like I didn’t really fit on camera.

So for a long time I stayed in the background because it just felt easier that way. I didn’t have to think about how I sounded or how I looked.

But people were asking about me, and I realised that if I was going to be part of this new chapter of our lives, I couldn’t just stay hidden in the background forever.

The first few times I was on camera I felt really aware of everything. How I sounded, what I was saying, and how I looked. And then watching it back was probably the worst part. I’d just focus on all the things I didn’t like instead of the fact I’d actually done it.

But over time it has got a bit easier. Not massively, and I still wouldn’t say I’m comfortable, but I don’t overthink it as much as I did at the start. I used to worry about how I looked (whether I needed make-up on!), but all of that has ebbed away with time.

I think I’ve just accepted that it’s probably never going to feel completely natural, and that’s fine.

I still notice my accent. I still have moments where I hear myself and think, ‘God, do I really sound like that?’ But it doesn’t bother me in the same way now.

Leaving the UK and starting again was always going to push me out of my comfort zone in different ways, and I suppose this is just one of them.

I’m still getting used to it all, and I’m definitely not fully comfortable being seen, but I’m a lot further along than I was!

So, given all of that, I’ve decided to pull up my big girl pants and start telling my side of the story. I want to write these blogs to show how I’m doing, from a female point of view.

So here I am, opening up and putting myself out there.

We left the UK on 17th September 2025. We’re originally from Glasgow, so we’d already moved from Scotland to England before. Leaving friends and family this time felt familiar, but more intense. We were heading to the other side of the world, far from anyone at any time.

Making the decision wasn’t easy, but too many things pointed to now being the right moment. We hadn’t travelled when we were younger and had always been tied down by work and mortgages. The move felt scary, but felt right.

As of today, it’s already been seven months since we left, and so much has happened.

The seven months leading up to our departure was exhausting. We cleared our house out completely and sorted through John’s dad’s belongings.

John doesn’t like saying goodbye to things. He holds onto them like they’re memories. Watching him slowly come to terms with letting go was hard and infuriating. I just wanted to get on with things; I’m more ruthless when it comes to clearing. I’ve always recycled clothes and possessions, and I like a tidy space because it helps my mindset. But John didn’t want to be rushed until it was down to the wire. I had to bite my tongue to wait until he was ready but when that happened, it was like DEFCON5; all systems go. Welcome to the mind of an ADHD-er.

I found the process freeing. Watching the rooms get emptier was such an achievement; I had checklists written on the fridge and a whiteboard and ticking them off was like a game. It took longer because of John’s hesitation, but once he got going, it became cathartic. We kept the things that mattered, and most of it wasn’t the big things we thought. (Those things are now safe in a small storage unit back in Glasgow).

The house didn’t just feel empty. It felt lighter. In the end, it seemed daft that our three-storey house had mostly stored things we eventually let go of. All of that money each month just to ‘store’ things you never really need. It made us realise that if we ever moved back home, a smaller place would be more than enough.

When we left England, we stayed with close friends of 14 years in Glasgow for two weeks. It gave us a base to see friends and family and say goodbye properly. We had a Saturday out with a huge group of friends we’ve known for 30 years, and it honestly felt like no time had passed, even though we rarely see them.

We enjoyed some time with our new roommates. We watched movies, cosy nights in, nice home cooked dinners as well as some nights out and it was just perfect. Oh and got some puppy cuddles in the form of English bulldog Stella.

We visited with my parents, sister and her family, as well as Johns auntie Irene; his dads older sister. I felt like my Mum and Dad were a bit bewildered with our plans, but I think they understood why we were doing it. Mum thought we were actually moving back to Glasgow so when I explained we were travelling to the other end of the world, it took a bit of time for her to process that. I had always been independent; moved out to live with John at age 20, had two different houses with mortgages, moved to England whilst they remained in the same town I was brought up in. No shade on them for doing that, but my jobs and circumstances always took me down different paths.

Irene was sad to see us go after spending so much time together after John’s dad passed, but couldn’t be more chuffed for us. We had a teary goodbye and promised to keep in touch. Irene is 81 so we were aware that it could be a while before we saw each other again which made it all a bit harder knowing her age.

Just before we left Glasgow, about a month into my career break, I received a call from my boss that would change the trajectory of our plans. My department was to go through a TUPE transfer to another company. Essentially, we were being sold off.

Before we decided on our travel plans, I had already prepared myself for potential redundancy happening in the year we were away, but I didn’t expect to go through a TUPE transfer so soon into our plans! Soon I’d be neck deep into work calls and having to deal with HR relentlessly whilst on an unpaid career break…but more on that later.

We had no idea what challenges awaited us in Malaysia.

We flew to Dubai to visit our old friend Lynn and her family, who have known us for over 20 years. They welcomed us warmly and gave us five unforgettable days.

It was our first time there, and everything felt big, bold, and shiny. But what stayed with me most was the familiarity of old friendship. Watching her children, Bailey and Amber, now grown up, made time feel very real.

They live on Jumeirah Palm so it offers lots of lively restaurants and nice promenade walks. We went out for fabulous food, walked around some very nice air conditioned malls, visited the Atlantis for a nice beach/pool day and they treated us to a boat trip on the water, with a lively meal afterwards.

It was fabulous relaxation before the next chapter began.

Arriving in Malaysia felt like stepping into a different world. The heat was intense, but after Dubai’s oven heat, it was the humidity that hit the hardest!

Getting into our first Grab taxi after a long journey felt monumental. We were instantly taken aback by how green and lush everything was. It felt like an urban jungle so it was a nice change to the big sandpit that was Dubai.

Our first accommodation had impressive city views. The KL Tower and Petronas Towers were visible from our room, and looked so pretty all lit up after sunset. John mentioned he felt like the place was very Bladerunner-esque.

We eased into our first week, but it quickly became clear John was struggling. He was being sick, unable to pass urine properly, and in significant pain. I improvised a hot water bottle with a plastic water bottle with boiled water wrapped in a towel to ease his discomfort.

Eventually, we sought medical help at a nearby hospital. An appointment was secured within days.

We expected a quick consultation. Instead, a CT scan revealed something much more serious. John had to be admitted that same day. His left kidney was in shock from a severe infection.

Seeing him in that much pain made me feel helpless, but something in me switched into coping mode, and just like that, our new life began in a hospital room.