A car veered into our path. The crash, at over 100mph, detonated the airbag and shattered my left ankle resting innocently on the dashboard. In a split second, my identity as a fit, active young woman collapsed. 

Shock, surgeries, and pain followed. Despite multiple painful operations that attempted to save my limb the surgeons and I made the decision that amputation was the only path forward that would offer me any quality of life. Losing my leg felt like losing myself. I became the “broken friend,” the one people didn’t know how to be around. Depression hit hard. The depression I fell into, almost as quickly as the impact of the accident itself, was profound. Doctors called it “situational depression,” as though depression needs a validator, a reason to exist. 

The simple suggestions “go for a walk,” “get fresh air” felt cruelly out of reach. My body, once so capable, had betrayed me. Rebellion crept in. I turned on myself. Food became punishment. Starvation offered control in a life turned upside down. I lost 30 kilograms and spiralled, reliant on opioids and antidepressants. I eventually landed in a mental health facility, diagnosed with a severe eating disorder but still clinging to the very behaviours that were destroying me. 

Then something shifted. On walks around the hospital grounds, I started watching the other patients. I asked myself: Did I really want to fall that deep? I decided slowly, very slowly that no I didn’t. Tentatively, I applied for a weekend charity event organized by LimbPower, a group supporting amputees through sport. It terrified me but attending changed everything. 

There, I saw people like me, some with even greater disabilities, running, swimming, playing wheelchair rugby. They were thriving. And for the first time, I didn’t feel alone. They understood. They offered support. That weekend cracked open a door I hadn’t realized was there. 

I believe that weekend of accessing support within my new community changed my life. I realised that to be good at this new life of mine I needed fuel. I needed to eat. However, breaking that cycle was so difficult. I started to eat, and people would celebrate my new state of health by proclaiming happily how well I looked. Slowly my affinity for starvation, my identity as someone with an eating disorder became less of a passionate pursuit. I wanted what my peers had, I wanted to achieve something as an amputee, as a new Zoe, someone who could recover and once again see the light. 

I tried returning to my old sports, football, athletics, but they only reminded me of what I’d lost, and the pain lingered. Slowly I explored adaptive sports. Still, I kept walking. Little by little, the weight returned, and with it, a flicker of light. I could watch a sunrise and feel something. I smiled more. Laughed again. The darkness started to lift. 

A revision surgery in 2016 set me back six months. But this time, I wasn’t alone. My new friends, (who had experienced limb loss) visited, listened, and understood. Talking about phantom pain with someone who got it was a relief. By 2017, I was walking again, eating, living. I began to believe in the possibility of a new life. 

Then in 2021, after the isolation of lockdown, I found a new passion, surfing. It had always fascinated me, the freedom, the connection with nature, and the adventure. My first attempt as an amputee was humbling. At The Wave in Bristol, my prosthetic felt like an anchor. I couldn’t stand up. But instead of defeat, I felt determination. Something inside me woke up. 

Surfing became an obsession. Every shaky attempt, every wipe out, fuelled me. The destructive discipline I’d once used to starve myself transformed into a positive drive for strength, for health, for joy. The water became my sanctuary. Braving the ocean brought fear, yes, but also healing. It demanded presence, focus, and a kind of self-respect I hadn’t known I needed. 

Workouts became part of my routine. I connected with other disabled surfers. I joined the Surfing England para team. They became my mentors, my friends. With their guidance, I learned how to ride waves with a prosthetic, how to adapt, how to thrive. 

Now, in 2025, I am a regular at my local surf break of Bournemouth. The community there has welcomed me fully. Today, I’m the British number one in my division, Para Stand 2 and last year, I won gold at the ISA World Championships. I have gone from a beginner to an amputee athlete and the journey has been both hard that the most enriching and rewarding experience of my life. 

But more than medals, my greatest achievement is recovery itself. My amputation, once a source of grief, is now a badge of resilience. I’m stronger, more empathetic, and more grounded than I’ve ever been. 

This journey isn’t just about surfing. It’s about finding light in the darkest places. It’s about rediscovering joy in movement, in water, in community. I’ve learned that recovery doesn’t mean returning to who you were, it means forging a new self, one shaped not by loss, but by strength. 

To anyone struggling, whatever your battle, there is a way forward. For me, it was finding a community, embracing the healing power of the sea, and choosing passion over pain. Life will always throw challenges at us, but we don’t have to face them alone. 

Go watch the sunset. It’s always later than you think. 

Finding Community with Dorset Mind  

We have a variety of support groups that may be right for you! Visit https://dorsetmind.uk/what-we-offer/adult-services/adult-groups/ to explore our range of support groups for people facing mental health challenges.  

  

You can also explore a variety of volunteering and fundraising opportunities on our website. Our welcoming community of volunteers, (many with lived experience of mental health challenges or supporting a loved one) helps ensure that no one faces these difficulties alone. Volunteering is a fantastic way to meet new people, build connections, and make a meaningful difference in the community.  

  

Visit dorsetmind.uk for a range of resources and support. If you are worried about your mental health, please visit your GP or a mental health professional. In a crisis, please call 999 or The Samaritans at 116 123.