One of the most memorable adventures I've had since becoming a wheelchair user was getting back onto the water and trying adaptive waterskiing.

Before my accident, I was used to activities where speed, movement and a certain amount of risk were part of the experience. Losing the ability to use my body in the same way was a huge adjustment, and there was a period when I wondered whether those experiences belonged to my old life.

Waterskiing gave me a chance to challenge that idea.

The first hurdle was simply getting onto the water. Everything that had once felt instinctive suddenly required planning. Getting in and out, transferring into the equipment, positioning myself securely and figuring out how my body would respond to the forces involved all took thought. There was also the uncertainty of not knowing exactly how my body would react once I was moving.

Then came the moment when the boat started to pull.

Initially, it felt completely unfamiliar. I had to learn how to balance differently and use the equipment rather than relying on the movements I had previously taken for granted. Every small adjustment mattered. The first attempts were a mixture of excitement and frustration: I knew what I wanted to do, but my body didn't always cooperate in the way I expected.

What made it special was gradually getting beyond that frustration.

With the right equipment, instruction and plenty of persistence, I began to understand how to control the movement. Eventually, instead of thinking about my wheelchair or the things I could no longer do, I was simply concentrating on the water, the boat and the feeling of being pulled across the surface.

There were still challenges. Fatigue meant that I couldn't approach the activity in quite the same way as I might have before my accident. I had to think carefully about transfers, equipment and safety, and accept that progress would sometimes be slower than I wanted. Perhaps the biggest challenge, though, was psychological: letting go of the expectation that I should be able to do things exactly as I had done them before.

Once I stopped trying to recreate the old experience, I could appreciate the new one.

That was the real lesson for me. Adventure didn't disappear when I became a wheelchair user. The route to it changed. Sometimes I needed adapted equipment, other people's expertise or several attempts to find a way that worked. But the excitement, the sense of achievement and the feeling of pushing beyond what I thought was possible were still there.

That day on the water reminded me that a disability doesn't have to define the boundaries of your life. You may have to approach an adventure differently, and you may discover limitations that genuinely need to be respected, but there are also possibilities you haven't discovered yet.

For me, that's what makes adventure so powerful. It's not about pretending that nothing has changed. It's about accepting what has changed, adapting to it and then asking a very simple question:

"What can I do now? … Sometimes the answer is the beginning of an entirely new adventure."

One of the most exciting opportunities I've had since my injury came completely unexpectedly. Through the AFPST charity, I was invited to a trial sports day where I got to experience a whole range of parasports, from wheelchair rugby, badminton and table tennis to boccia and racing chairs. I also had the chance to try biathlon using a ski erg to replicate the skiing, alongside a shooting range.

I had no idea at the time where that first experience would lead. As soon as I finished, I was offered the opportunity to travel to Colorado just two weeks later to experience para biathlon alongside the GB team. It would also be my first international flight… but that's a whole other story!

What made the opportunity so special wasn't just the chance to try a new sport. AFPST creates opportunities for injured and disabled people to discover what they're still capable of, while bringing together people who understand the challenges of adapting to life after injury. Being surrounded by other driven people, all pushing themselves and refusing to let their circumstances define what they can achieve, was incredibly motivating.

We headed to Winter Park with the aim of getting out on the snow, learning the sport and seeing how far I could push myself. Biathlon is a unique combination of cross-country skiing and precision shooting. Physically demanding, technically challenging and completely new to me.

I quickly learnt that parasport involves a huge amount of preparation, particularly when it comes to setting up the right equipment and making sure everything is safe for my skin. We have to be incredibly careful to avoid pressure sores, so getting the rig set up correctly took a few hours. But once we finally got out onto the snow, it was absolutely worth it.

What I hadn't anticipated was just how difficult the skiing itself would be. The combination of balance, coordination and power was exhausting. I had done a lot of skiing before my accident, but this was completely different. I couldn't even begin to compare the two. Even the gentlest of slopes made me nervous at first.

Having the GB team around me made a huge difference. Watching people who had already developed the skills I was struggling with, learning from them and simply being around others who were pushing their own limits gave me a real sense of encouragement. There was a shared understanding that progress doesn't always happen quickly, but that every small improvement matters.

We had four mornings on the snow, and the rate of progression was incredible. Each session brought something new, and I could really feel myself becoming more confident and capable as the days went on. More than anything, it reminded me that I was still capable of a lot more than I sometimes give myself credit for.

Unfortunately, after four days, Colorado had other plans for us. The weather was far hotter than expected, with temperatures reaching around 30°C every afternoon. This meant the snow conditions weren't suitable for as much training as we had hoped. It was frustrating to have travelled so far with big ambitions, only to have our plans disrupted, but that became part of the adventure too.

Rather than letting the weather dictate the entire trip, AFPST helped us make the most of what was available. One day we went horse riding, and I also had the opportunity to try alpine skiing, another completely new challenge from a wheelchair.

Looking back, I think that's one of the things I valued most about the experience. AFPST didn't simply give me the opportunity to travel to Colorado and try a sport. They created an environment where I could meet people, challenge myself, discover new possibilities and be reminded that my injury hadn't taken away my ability to achieve things.

It wasn't quite the trip I had imagined, but perhaps that's what adventure is really about. Things don't always go to plan; sometimes, the challenge is finding another way forward.

Getting to train alongside the GB team, experience a new Paralympic sport and push myself in an environment completely outside my comfort zone was an incredible opportunity. But more importantly, being surrounded by people with the same drive to keep moving forward showed me that there is still so much I can do.

A huge thank you to AFPST for giving me the opportunity, the support and the confidence to take on something I never expected to do. It's an experience I certainly won't forget. One that has left me wanting to see what else I'm capable of.

My journey with the Redefining the Impossible Foundation began with a thought: sometimes, you need to do something that scares you to prove to yourself what is still possible.

I was incredibly proud to be one of the charity's first beneficiaries on their inaugural expedition. For me, this trip represented far more than getting on a bike and riding from one place to another. It was an opportunity to challenge the limits I had placed on myself and to discover whether the bigger adventures I had once taken for granted were still within reach.

Up until that point, I had achieved a lot through rehabilitation and training. But I hadn't yet tested myself over multiple days, where fatigue would build, my upper body would be pushed relentlessly, and there would be nowhere to hide from the physical demands of the challenge.

And the fatigue was real.

Cycling for hours using my upper body was only part of the challenge. At the end of an 80km day, I still had to transfer, shower, change, eat, organise my kit and prepare for the next day. We were camping on the floor, which meant transferring down to the ground and back up again — something that sounds insignificant until you've already spent an entire day exhausting the very muscles you need to do it.

It was a completely different kind of test.

But this was where all the work I had put into my rehabilitation and training began to make sense. The hours of preparation, the difficult sessions, the setbacks and the moments when progress felt painfully slow had all been building towards this.

Preparation doesn't always reveal its value when you're doing it. Sometimes, you only understand why you trained when the moment arrives that demands everything you've got.

Thankfully, we weren't doing it alone.

Our incredible support crew, Bob and Eddie, played a huge part in making the expedition possible. While we were pushing ourselves on the road, they would get ahead, put the campsite up, prepare everything we needed and make sure we had the fuel to recover and go again the next day.

That support taught me something that has become central to the way I think about challenges today:

You don't always have to be the strongest person in the team. You just have to understand how you can contribute to making the team stronger.

Everyone on that expedition was at a different stage of their own journey. We had people who had experienced very different accidents and injuries, and everyone had their own challenges, fears and experiences of recovery.

What made it so powerful was how openly people shared them.

There was no pretending that everything was easy. We could talk honestly about the things we were struggling with, the things we had learned and the things that had helped us move forward. Someone would have an answer because they had already been through something similar. Someone else would offer a different perspective because they had approached their recovery in a completely different way.

I came away from that expedition with an armoury of knowledge that I could take into the next stage of my own journey. Perhaps the biggest lesson was that the expedition was never really about whether I could cycle 330km. It was about discovering what becomes possible when people stop trying to overcome everything on their own.

We all had different strengths. We all had different limitations. And we all needed help at different moments.

Together, we could achieve things that would have felt impossible individually.

That experience fundamentally shaped the way I see challenges, recovery and possibility. It taught me that redefining the impossible isn't about pretending that limitations don't exist. It's about being willing to question them.

What if there's another way?
What if I haven't reached my limit yet?
Who could help me get there?
And who could I help along the way?

Sometimes redefining the impossible starts with one decision: to believe that there might be more possible than you currently believe.

A few months before my accident, I took myself on a solo venture into the mountains of Pakistan.

The plan? To find a friend of a friend and say hello.

That's right. I had no real plan beyond a name, an address, and a vague idea that this man lived somewhere in one of the most remote valleys in Pakistan, right up near the borders with China and Afghanistan. His name was Alam Jan.

So that was it. Flight booked, bag packed, and not a lot else.

I flew into Islamabad and gave myself a few days to get my bearings. Almost immediately, I was struck by the kindness of the people I met. Despite being a complete stranger, I was welcomed, helped, fed, pointed in the right direction and generally looked after by people who had absolutely no reason to do so.

I sorted myself out with a SIM card, some motorbike gear and a motorbike, and then I left.

I didn't have a detailed itinerary. I didn't know exactly where I'd be sleeping each night. I didn't know what the roads would be like or how long the journey would take. I just knew I had to head north, along the Karakoram Highway, and somehow find this man, and what followed became one of the most challenging and rewarding experiences of my life.

I rode through some of the most spectacular landscapes I had ever seen, ate some of the best food I've ever tasted and travelled along one of the most dangerous roads in the world. Temperatures dropped as low as -20°C, and the further north I travelled, the more remote everything became.

Access to the north was severely restricted by snowfall and avalanches. I watched rockfalls come down in front of me, sometimes close enough to remind me very clearly that, out there, I was completely insignificant compared to the environment around me. The road was unpredictable, to say the least.

At some of the more dangerous sections, I was given a police escort. This consisted of a truck carrying armed policemen sitting in the back with AK-47s balanced casually across their laps, inadvertently pointing in my direction as we bounced and jolted our way along roads carved into the mountainside.

It was surreal.

Every day presented a new problem to solve. A road closed. A checkpoint. A landslide. A weather change. A language barrier. Somewhere to sleep. Somewhere to find fuel. Somewhere to eat. And somehow, I just kept going.

After a week of riding, delays, roadblocks and police stops, I eventually made my way into the Chapursan Valley.

And there he was. Alam Jan.

After everything it had taken to get there, I finally met the person I had travelled halfway across the world to find. Unfortunately, due to the amount of time it took to get there and how much time I needed for my return journey, I could only stay with him for a few nights, but those two nights gave me an insight into a completely different way of living.

I spent time with his family. I ate with them. I listened. I watched how they lived. There was no constant phone checking, no rushing from one thing to the next, no obsession with what was happening somewhere else in the world.

There was simply life.

And for those two days, I switched off from everything I thought I needed to be doing and became completely present in what was actually happening around me.

That valley taught me something I don't think I fully understood at the time.

I had spent so much of my life believing that being prepared meant knowing exactly what was going to happen next. Having a plan. Having control. Knowing the route, knowing the outcome and knowing how I was going to deal with whatever came my way.

But out there, I had none of that. I couldn't control the weather. I couldn't control the roads. I couldn't control the avalanches. I couldn't control the checkpoints, the delays, the cold, the uncertainty or what the next day would bring.

What I could control was how I responded.

And slowly, without really realising it, I started to become comfortable with uncertainty. I learnt that I didn't need to have everything figured out before taking the next step. I learnt that being alone doesn't mean being lonely, and that asking for help isn't weakness.

There was something incredibly powerful about being thousands of miles from home, in an environment where I knew nobody, spoke very little of the language and couldn't predict what was going to happen next, and realising that I could still figure things out.

And then, unfortunately, it was time to leave the valley.

At the time, I didn't realise how much of it I would carry home with me. I thought I was bringing back memories, photographs and a few good stories.

What I actually brought back was perspective.

I brought back the ability to sit with uncertainty without immediately trying to control it. I brought back a deeper appreciation for simple things — a warm meal, a safe place to sleep, good people, a conversation, being outside, being present. I brought back an understanding that resilience isn't about never being afraid, never struggling or never getting knocked down.

It's about knowing that when things don't go to plan, you can adapt.

You can breathe. You can take the next step. You can find another way forward.

A few months later, I had my accident, and suddenly, everything I had learnt in that remote valley became real.

The accident took away the illusion that I could control what happened to me. Just like the mountains had taught me, there was no perfect plan. No certainty that things would go the way I wanted them to.

But I had already learnt something incredibly valuable.

I knew I could be thrown into an environment I hadn't chosen, faced with circumstances I couldn't control, and still find a way through.

The valley had taught me how to keep moving when the path ahead wasn't clear. The accident forced me to put that lesson into practice. Looking back now, I don't think that trip was really about finding Alam Jan. I think, in some ways, I went to that valley to find a different version of myself. One that was more comfortable with uncertainty. More capable of adapting. Less afraid of being uncomfortable. More grateful for what really matters.

And far more confident in my ability to deal with whatever life decided to put in front of me.

I went into that valley looking for a stranger. I came home having met myself.

And the person I brought back with me was stronger, calmer and far more resilient than the one who left. Those lessons have stayed with me ever since. You don't always get to choose the mountain you're asked to climb. You don't always get to choose the road. You don't always get to choose what happens next.

But you do get to choose how you respond.

And now, when life throws something at me that feels impossible, I think back to that road in Pakistan, the mountains towering above me, the temperature dropping to -20°C, the road disappearing beneath snow and the complete uncertainty of what was around the next corner.

And I remember:

I've been in the unknown before.
I've been uncomfortable before.
I've been scared before.
And I kept going.
So I know I can do it again.

The ocean has always been a bit of a magic place for me.

Long before my accident, it was where I went to switch off. To feel small, in the best possible way. To reset. So when I became a wheelchair user, one of the first questions I had wasn't really, "Will I surf again?" It was something closer to, "Will the ocean still feel magic?"

Thanks to Ian Bennet and the awesome team of volunteers at The Wave Project in Croyde, I answered that question much quicker than I expected.

Those first few sessions were about relearning almost everything. Getting down the beach. Transferring onto a board. Timing a push into the whitewash. Working out how to paddle again. Balancing on the board now I was all upper body.

I inhaled a silly amount of sea water.. it wasn't tasty but the more I did the more I laughed at myself. It was a vicious circle.

Underneath all the relearning, something really familiar was still there. The second I was lying on a board with the water moving underneath me, that same sense of calm came back. It hadn't gone anywhere. I just had to find a new way to get to it.

What I didn't expect was how quickly "I want to get back in the water" turned into "let's try competing." With the UK Nationals coming up I entered myself, knowing that it was just another opportunity to get in the ocean and enjoy the power of it.

Competing changed the whole experience, but not in the way I thought it would. I imagined it would be about performance, scores, results and trying to win. In reality, it ended up being much more about the people around me.

Adaptive surfing events are unreal. You turn up and suddenly you're surrounded by a whole beach full of people who just get it. No explaining. No awkward questions. No having to justify why you want to do something that, on paper, might seem a bit ridiculous.

People with all sorts of injuries, all sorts of equipment and all sorts of different ways of getting themselves into the water, all figuring out their own version of the same problem:

'How do you keep doing what I love?'

And nobody there needs convincing that adventure and disability aren't opposites. Everyone on that beach is already living proof of it.

Then there are the volunteers.

I don't think I ever properly appreciated, before my injury, just how much invisible effort goes into making a day like that happen. Every heat relies on an army of people who aren't there for any glory themselves. Carrying boards. Carrying us. Helping wheelchairs through sand that seems specifically designed to swallow wheels whole. Keeping safety in the water. Timing heats. Cheering louder for a mid-table finish than most people would cheer for a win.

Epic doesn't really feel like a strong enough word for them.

Without that many hands, that much patience and that much enthusiasm, none of it works. With it, something that sounds logistically impossible turned into one of the best days of my year.

And then you're out in the water.

Waiting for a set. Sitting alongside the other competitors. Watching the waves.

It was sooooo good to be back out there.

Just a few months earlier I'd been unsure how I'd even feel being back in that environment. And now I was sitting in the water, waiting for my next wave, competing.

I came away with a silver medal that day, and honestly, it didn't really matter.

What mattered was being back in the one place that has always made sense to me. Doing it competitively. Alongside people who understood exactly what it had taken to get there. And being held up by a group of people who simply wanted to help us do it.

Adventure, for me, has never really been about the sport itself.

It's about who you find yourself surrounded by while you're doing it, and what it teaches you about what's still possible.

Surfing gave me both in the same afternoon: proof that the ocean hadn't gone anywhere, and a reminder that I didn't have to find my way back to it alone.