The date had been circled on my calendar for months – Friday 18 December 2009. Mum was coming to pick me up from university and bring me home for the Christmas holidays. It was my fourth year at the University of Southampton, and I’d just begun a PGCE in primary education, training to become a teacher. I loved every second of university life, but I couldn’t wait to go home. There was nothing that made me happier than the thought of Christmas with my family.
Our small celebrations were the same every year. I could picture it. Mum, my stepdad Cliff, my younger brother Ollie and me, all dressed up and opening presents on Christmas morning by the tree, the same festive CD soundtracking our day. Grandma Dorothy arriving mid-morning, dressed elegantly and relishing every sip of her Harveys Bristol Cream. Turkey with all the trimmings, crackers with paper hats. An afternoon of board games and Quality Street, before we stuffed cranberry-slathered turkey sandwiches into our mouths and sat, comatose, in front of the TV until bedtime.
The call came at 10am that Friday. I was dressed and packed, Christmas presents divided into bulging carrier bags. I’d made sure the fridge in my shared student kitchen was empty, everything eaten or chucked away, and my live-in carer was leaving at lunchtime.
“We’re not going to make it,” my mum said, sounding harried on the phone. She hated driving at the best of times. “We’ve crawled as far as Detling, but they’ve closed the motorway. It’s already taken us two hours. There’s no way we can get to you.”
While Southampton was dusted in a thin layer of snow, Kent was blanketed overnight, with up to 20cm falling in three hours. The M2 had shut and passengers were stranded at Gatwick and Luton airports. Two thousand schools were forced to close, lorries were gridlocked on icy roads, villages were snowbound. And my mum was turning the car round and going home without me. I was stranded.
“What am I going to do?” I said, after pleading with her to keep trying. I was delusional in my panic, certain there must be a way for her to collect me, but soon hopeless and sick with anxiety. My life was different from that of other students, who might have enjoyed an extra day of freedom from their parents. Without my carer, who was about to leave for the holidays, I had no one to help me cook, wash, get into bed. My friends had already left and the halls of residence were eerily quiet. My mum promised to call again with a plan when she’d made it home, but when she hung up, I burst into tears.
Being disabled means everything has to be organised ahead of time – a spontaneous change of plan isn’t an option. I can’t just jump on a train. Alone in my student bedroom, I had to push aside my fears about how I would ever get home, and do what disabled people do best – plan meticulously. I’d travelled on my own only three times in my life, and the furthest I’d been was from Kent, where my family live, to London. Travelling independently using a wheelchair comes with many challenges. Getting an accessible taxi, even in a city like Southampton, meant calling multiple firms in the hope that their one wheelchair-adapted vehicle was available. Then there was the difficulty of booking assistance at every train station I would need help at, hoping someone would check the booking and help me off the train.
The easiest part of my action plan involved calling my dad, who lived in Swindon, to come and help look after me for the night. He came to my rescue later that day, bringing pizza, beer and Taken on DVD. It was the perfect distraction and a huge relief ahead of the next day’s mission.
In the morning I set off, hugging my dad goodbye. All I could carry with me was my wheelchair charger and a small bag of essentials. The Christmas presents I’d lovingly chosen were left behind. The taxi took me to the station, and I felt nauseous at the thought of the long journey ahead. Help from staff finally arrived and I boarded the train. With my focus now solely on getting home, determination pushed my worries to one side. I was on my way. Wintry landscapes rushed past – nothing was going to stop me. I met my stepdad at Waterloo East, the air colder, the skies darkening. Trains towards Kent were delayed, but still running. I had to get home.
A taxi, three trains, five hours and 140 miles later, I was finally there. I cried with relief when I made it indoors, freezing cold but emboldened. It was a Christmas journey that pushed me completely out of my comfort zone, embarking on a trip I never would have believed I was brave enough to manage. I found a resilience I didn’t know I had.
There were multiple things that could have gone wrong on the journey, but I carried on regardless. Swallowing my terror, I found a new confidence, which I rely on to this day. That stressful, unexpected journey gave me the courage to travel independently. Four years later, I commuted to London from Herne Bay every day for a month for work. Now when I’m stranded by a delayed train or railway chaos, I’m anxious for a moment, until I remember the Christmas when I overcame my fears and travelled home on my own, against the odds.
