There are objects in our lives that hold entire eras inside them — not because they are magical, not because they are cursed, but because they become the silent witnesses to who we were, what we survived, and who we were becoming without even realising it.

For me, one of those objects was the convertible.

I bought it after the accident in 2019— a small act of defiance, a reclamation of freedom, a way of saying to myself,

“I am still here. I am still moving. I am still alive., if i’m going to die I might as well do t in style ”

It was pretty, well‑kept, a little indulgent, and it carried me through some of the most formative years of my life. We drove the entire Kent coast together — me, the wind, the sea, the open road, and the version of myself who was slowly learning how to feel again.

It was the car I drove when I was thawing. It was the car I drove when I was falling. It was the car I drove when I was breaking. It was the car I drove when I was healing.

It held the laughter, the intensity, the confusion, the longing. It held the coastline years — the years when I was learning to breathe again. It held the relationship that cracked me open. It held the aftermath of the accident. It held the early stages of my soul-led life.

And then, eight months ago, I off‑roaded it. The engine had been struggling for a while — a metaphor I didn’t want to see at the time. It ran out of MOT. It sat still. It waited.

And today, I sold it.

Not because I wanted to. Not because I was ready. But because something in me knew the chapter was over.

As the new owner drove it away, I felt a sadness that wasn’t about the car at all. It was the end of an era — the closing of a psychic loop, the release of a version of myself who no longer exists.

I joked recently that maybe, with Easter coming, I might resurrect both the car and the van — a little gallows humour, a little mythic symbolism, a little nod to the part of me that still believes in miracles.

But the truth is, I didn’t want resurrection. I wanted release.

Because the van — the one that broke down in Scotland — is symbolic too.

I bought it a year after the relationship ended, with the money left me — money to rebuild my life, the foundation of my freedom, that allowed me to travel, to rest, to heal, to create, to become.

The van was the beginning of my next chapter — the chapter where I chose myself, my peace, my creativity, my autonomy, my soul.

He never knew about the van. He never knew about the life I built after him.

And that, too, is symbolic.

Because some chapters are meant to be lived privately. Some transformations are meant to happen offstage. Some rebirths are meant to be witnessed only by the self.

The car was the past. The van was the bridge. And selling the car today was the moment the past finally loosened its grip.

It was the moment I realised:

I don’t need resurrection. I need evolution. I need movement. I need the next vehicle, the next journey, the next version of myself.

And that is exactly where I am now — standing in the doorway between what was and what will be, holding the keys to a new chapter, ready to drive forward without dragging the past behind me. I have no idea what might unfold , who I will meet on the way, what challenges I might face, and what joy I might experience, but that’s the adventure called life…..