3rd September 2015, 3.15pm. I was standing in Liverpool airport with my mum as she wipes away my tears, check-in assistants eyeing us up with faces of professional concern. Whilst tears are pretty standard for me in an aiport due to my crippling fear of flying, this time my hysterics were nothing to do with planes. I was about to move to Amsterdam, moving in with B for a new adventure in a country where I didn’t speak the language, I didn’t know anyone and I didn’t have a real job. I was pretty frightened, and standing there in the airport with my bags packed full of my necessities and home comforts, I didn’t feel at all ready to embark on this great, adult adventure. I remember wishing more than anything that I could get back in the car with mum, driving home and pretending none of this had ever happened.
It’s hard to believe that that was more than a year ago now, and things could not be more different.