Choosing Quality of Life
What Quality of Life Means to Me
There came a point in my life when I realised that quality of life isn’t something we simply stumble upon — it’s something we slowly create through small, intentional choices.
For me, those choices began with the basics:
what I ate,
how I moved,
how I rested,
how I cared for myself,
and how I showed up for the people I loved.
I wasn’t chasing perfection or trying to become some ideal version of health. I simply wanted to feel well — clearer in myself, stronger emotionally, and more present in my daily life.
As a mother, grandmother, great grandmother, sister, friend, and later someone navigating health imbalance, I came to understand that self care is not selfish. It’s foundational. When we are completely depleted, everything in life feels heavier.
I truly believe we all deserve a life that feels nourishing — not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually too.
Ultimately, choosing quality of live is about choosing to value yourself.
Nourishing the Body
One of the biggest changes I made was becoming more mindful about food.
Not obsessively.
Not perfectly.
Just more consciously.
I began paying attention to how different foods made me feel—not only physically, but emotionally too. Some left me feeling heavy, sluggish or drained, while others seemed to bring more energy.
Over time, I found myself naturally drawn towards the Mediterranean way of eating.
Not because someone told me I should, but because it simply felt right for me.
I enjoyed filling my plate with colourful vegetables, fresh fruit, whole grains, olive oil, fish, herbs, and simple home-cooked meals. There was nothing complicated about it.
It wasn't about following rules.
It was about choosing foods that helped me feel nourished rather than depleted.
Since living with an ileostomy, food has taken on an entirely different meaning for me.
I now pay much closer attention to both what I eat and how I eat. Slowing down at mealtimes has helped my digestion, and I've learned to listen to my body in ways I never needed to before.
What I came to appreciate most was that the Mediterranean way of eating wasn't simply about food.
It was about slowing down.
Preparing fresh meals.
Sharing food with others whenever possible.
Eating without rushing.
Enjoying food rather than fearing it.
It gently encouraged me to rebuild a healthier relationship with eating itself.
Over time, I noticed improvements not only in my energy levels but also in how I felt emotionally.
I became more aware of how closely connected food, mood, energy, and wellbeing really are.
And perhaps most importantly, I stopped viewing health as something driven by guilt or control.
Instead, it became an act of self-respect.
Eating with the Seasons: Returning to Nature's Rhythm
As I became more connected to myself, I also found myself becoming more aware of nature's rhythms.
There is something deeply grounding about eating with the seasons.
Strawberries in summer.
Root vegetables in winter.
Fresh herbs in spring.
Simple things, perhaps, but they began to mean more to me.
Eating seasonally became another way of slowing down. Instead of expecting everything to be available all year round, I became more aware of what each season naturally had to offer.
Fresh produce seemed to taste better. Meals felt more satisfying. I became more aware of where food came from and more appreciative of what nature quietly provides.
Somehow, that simple shift helped me feel more connected—not only to the changing seasons, but also to myself.
It reminded me that we were never meant to live completely disconnected from the natural world.
I think many of us have lost touch with those natural cycles without even realising it.
For me, returning to them has brought a greater sense of, gratitude, and appreciation for life's simpler pleasures.
Walking: One Step at a Time
Walking has been woven through every stage of my life.
Sometimes it has been about enjoying the outdoors.
Sometimes it has been about challenging myself.
Sometimes it has simply been the easiest way to clear my mind after a busy day.
I don't think I realised how much walking was giving me until much later.
Only then did I begin to understand that every walk offered something a little different.
Sometimes clarity.
Sometimes fresh energy.
Sometimes a chance to slow down.
And sometimes nothing more than the simple pleasure of putting one foot in front of the other.
I've always felt something different when I walk beside water.
Whether it's a river, a loch, or the sea, something inside me seems to settle. My breathing slows, my thoughts become clearer, and I feel connected in a way that's difficult to explain.
For many years I simply accepted that this was how nature made me feel.
Later, I discovered that researchers had begun describing what they call the Green and Blue Effect the restorative influence that green spaces and water can have on our physical, emotional, and mental wellbeing.
I smiled when I first read about it because it gave words to something I had been experiencing for most of my life.
Around the same time, I came across the term Nature Deficit Disorder, describing the effects that disconnection from nature can have on our wellbeing.
Again, it wasn't really new information for me.
It simply confirmed something I had gradually learned through living.
Long before I knew the research, I already knew how much better I felt after spending time outdoors.
Learning that science was beginning to explain these experiences didn't replace what I had discovered.
It simply deepened my understanding.
The Hills That Raised Me
Hill walking has always been especially close to my heart.
Perhaps because the hills remind me so much of my childhood.
Or perhaps because every climb has always felt like a gentle reminder of how life itself unfolds.
One step at a time.
Sometimes the path is easy.
Sometimes it asks much more of us.
But every step moves us forward.
I have always loved reaching the top of a hill or mountain.
Not because the climb was over, but because of how it made me feel.
Standing high above the landscape gave me a wonderful sense achievement.
I'd reached the top through my own determination.
Looking out across the hills or from the top of a mountain filled me with awe and reminded me that life always held more possibility than I could see from below.
As a young girl growing up in the Garnock Valley, I was surrounded by hills.
Even now, when I can no longer climb the hills I once did, I still find myself drawn to them.
These days, climbing the hill to my daughter Jade's home may look very different from the hills and Scottish mountains that shaped so much of my life, but the feeling is exactly the same.
It reminds me that life isn't about comparing where we are now with where we used to be.
It's about embracing where we are and what we can achieve with a little effort today.
Listening to My Body
My body has taught me many lessons over the years.
One of the most important has been learning to listen.
Not only when it shouts.
But while it is still whispering.
Gentle stretching became another way of caring for myself.
Not to become more flexible.
Not to achieve perfection.
Simply to support the body that supports me every day.
Our bodies quietly carry so much.
Stress.
Tension.
Emotion.
Exhaustion.
Since my surgery and chemotherapy, I've become much more aware of the messages my body gives me.
The stiffness when I get out of bed.
Tight hips.
A painful lower back.
Reduced flexibility.
These aren't things I ignore anymore.
Instead, they've become gentle reminders that my body needs kindness rather than criticism.
Many years ago, I realised how much movement changed my energy.
Today, that understanding has taken on an even deeper meaning.
Stretching doesn't simply release tight muscles.
Sometimes it softens emotions I've been carrying too.
I've learned that the gentlest movements can often be the most healing.
My love of Gardening
Looking back now, I realise my love of gardening began long before I ever picked up a trowel.
It began with my mother and my grandmother.
Some of my earliest memories are filled with the scents of their gardens.
I remember the little prefab where my mother, my brother and I lived when I was a child. Red carnations lined the path to our front door, and outside my bedroom window grew beautiful pink roses. Their scent still brings those memories back to me.
I also remember sitting quietly watching our tortoise as it slowly wandered around the garden. At the time I couldn't have explained it, but looking back I think those simple moments taught me what it felt like to be content.
My mother loved her rowan tree.
Every time we moved house, she took a cutting with her and somehow it always grew again.
I often think there was something rather beautiful about that.
It was as though she carried a little piece of home wherever life took us.
My grandmother's garden held its own special memories.
Beside the back steps grew two large lilac bushes. When they came into blossom, their scent filled the garden.
She had a small herb garden too, and I loved walking past and picking fresh mint.
Beyond that grew strawberries, gooseberries, blackcurrants and rhubarb.
There were flowers everywhere, but my favourites were always her stocks.
Even now, whenever I catch their scent, I'm transported back to those happy carefree days.
I realise that my mother, my grandmother, and nature itself shaped so much of who I became.
They simply lived with a love and appreciation for nature, and I grew up surrounded by it.
The scents, the colours, the changing seasons, the fruit, the herbs, the flowers, the trees—they were simply part of everyday life.
Without realising it, those experiences quietly rooted themselves within me.
I recognise now that everything I felt back then has stayed with me ever since.
Many times, when life has really challenged me, I don't know why, but I'm transported back to those gardens.
Especially my grandmother's.
Perhaps it's because that garden held so much love, comfort, and some of my happiest childhood memories.
I also think that's where I often saw my mother at her happiest.
When I find myself there in my memories, I somehow find my direction again.
For me, those gardens became places where everything felt possible and life was waiting to be lived.
Just like the gardens themselves, life is always changing.
Always growing.
Always moving through different seasons.
There is something deeply calming about placing your hands into the soil, tending to plants, and watching life unfold in its own time.
Among the Trees
My love of trees began in childhood.
I climbed them.
Sat beneath them.
Sometimes I hid among their branches while we played, convinced no one would ever find me.
I could happily spend hours there.
Looking back now, I think the trees always made me feel safe.
They were simply part of my world.
There is something else I have never really been able to explain.
Whenever I have a difficult decision to make, or life feels uncertain, I often find myself drawn towards the trees.
As I stand or walk among them, something changes.
It's as though I step out of my busy mind and into a place of stillness.
Very often, I see my grandmother's face.
For many years I never questioned why.
I simply accepted those moments.
Then I remembered a conversation we had when I was young.
I once asked my grandmother what God was.
I have never forgotten her answer.
For her, God wasn't something separate from life.
She saw God in nature.
In the trees.
The flowers.
The changing seasons.
The quiet beauty that surrounded us every day.
Perhaps that's why, when I see her face among the trees, it gently reminds me that there is something greater than me.
Standing or walking beside the trees doesn't always give me the answers.
But it almost always brings me clarity.
Wherever we lived, there always seemed to be trees nearby.
Even today, when I look from my window, I see a green with trees and, beyond that, a small wooded area.
It makes me smile because now I watch my grandchildren discovering that same sense of wonder.
Kingsley, who is five, loves searching the woods for trolls and fairies.
He tells me magical things live there.
His little brother Cruz is only three, but he's determined to climb the tallest trees.
The other day he stood looking at one particularly big tree before suddenly saying,
"Gan Gan... wait a minute."
Off he ran.
A few minutes later he came back carrying his little step.
As far as he was concerned, he'd solved the problem.
I tried not to laugh because climbing that tree was a very serious mission for him.
But inside I couldn't help smiling.
He wasn't giving up.
He simply found another way.
For someone so young, I found that rather wonderful.
Watching them reminds me so much of my own childhood.
Perhaps that's why trees still mean so much to me.
They hold memories.
They hold laughter.
They hold adventure.
And somehow they still make me feel safe.
Whenever I walk beneath them now, I find myself smiling.
Not only because of the trees themselves.
But because they quietly connect generations of my family, reminding me that wonder never really leaves us.
Laughter: A Gift We Should Never Outgrow
As important as healthy food, movement, and nature have been in my life, there is something else I treasure just as deeply. "Laughter".
I've always believed laughter is one of life's greatest gifts.
Not because it takes away pain or sadness.
But because it brings light into moments that might otherwise feel heavy.
Some of my happiest memories are filled with laughter.
Family walks.
Dogs creating complete chaos.
Jumping with my grandsons in muddy puddles.
Shared meals with lots of laughs.
Unexpected moments of silliness that no one could have planned.
Watching Still Game or Two Doors Down with my Grandaughter Brooke.
Those moments have reminded me, time and again, that joy doesn't disappear simply because life becomes difficult.
Sometimes laughter has been exactly what helped me keep going.
Choosing Quality of Life
Looking back now, I realise that quality of life was never about achieving perfection.
It was listening to myself more honestly.
Caring for my body with kindness instead of criticism.
Protecting my peace.
Allowing joy.
Staying connected to nature.
Laughing often.
Slowing down enough to truly experience life.
My cancer journey gave these choices an even deeper meaning.
Time became precious. Not in a frightening way.
But in a way that helped me see more clearly what really mattered.
I found myself becoming less interested in rushing through life and more interested in living it.
Today, I value simple things more than ever.
Time with my family.
Peace.
Nature.
Creativity.
Meaningful conversations.
Moments that cannot be repeated.
I no longer want to simply get through each day.
I want to be present.
I want to make memories.
I want to have the energy to enjoy the people I love and the life that still surrounds me.
I still find joy in preparing a nourishing meal.
Walking, even if the walk is shorter than it once was.
Climbing a small hill, even though it's very different from the hills and Scottish mountains I climbed years ago.
Standing beneath the trees and letting the wind gently carry away whatever I've been holding onto.
Laughing until my sides ache.
These moments may seem ordinary.
Yet they have become some of the richest parts of my life.
I don't expect my journey to look like yours. We all walk different paths, carrying different stories and facing different challenges.
But I do hope that somewhere within these reflections you might find something that encourages you to pause, to notice, or to reconnect with whatever brings you peace, strength, or joy.
Life hasn't always been gentle with me.
Yet it has continued to surprise me with its beauty.
I've learned that even in the hardest seasons there are still moments worth noticing.
Perhaps quality of life isn't something we find once and keep forever.
Perhaps it's something we gently create, one ordinary moment at a time.
And perhaps that's enough.