Grey Skies, Clear Head

I had been looking forward to my trip to Manchester. Being a student ambassador was part of it, but so was seeing a friend I had not seen in a long time.

At least it should have been.

On Wednesday evening I was suddenly very unwell. It felt as though my stomach was going to explode. Dramatic, perhaps, but in the moment I genuinely thought something catastrophic was happening. It remains unexplained. Even the GP could not tell me what it was. All I knew was that I felt dreadful.

Perhaps stubbornly, I still got on the train the next morning. I had cancelled on my friend. He could not have been kinder about it, but I hated being unreliable. I knew that if I was going to get through the fair the next day, I needed rest more than anything else.

I arrived in Manchester, got completely lost on the tram network that is supposedly easy to navigate, and eventually made it to Hotel Football, right opposite Old Trafford. Even the toiletries were packaged in little football themed bags. Subtle it was not.

From my room I could see MediaCity across the water.

The world outside looked washed out and grey. The rain flattened everything into the same dull tone. But walking across the river felt different. MediaCity had always existed in my mind as something distant. A place for serious professionals, broadcasters, journalists with real bylines and real authority.

Not students still figuring it out.

Yet there I was.

Standing in the rain, camera in hand, looking at the BBC buildings and imagining a future version of myself walking in with purpose. For a moment, I could see beyond university. I could see something bigger.

I will be back there one day in a professional capacity. Camera in hand, perhaps pointing towards the very space I once stood.

A few pictures later, I retreated back to the hotel. A quick visit to the local Wetherspoons, always such a thrilling cultural excursion, and then I was in bed and asleep by six thirty that evening.

Waking up on Friday, I felt like a new man.

My stomach was still achy. It still is, even now. But the panic had gone. I realised I was not dying. It sounds dramatic, but that was the shift. My body was angry because it was empty. It was a fleeting episode, not a catastrophe.

I felt in control again.

The bed at Hotel Football was unbelievably comfortable. The staff were lovely. Breakfast was exactly what I needed. Those waffles were excellent. It felt like permission to slow down.

I am not good at doing nothing. I try to exercise every day. I take the pictures. I write the posts. I work. I stay busy. Alongside that I juggle two weekly therapy sessions and mentoring.

It is productive. It is also exhausting.

This trip reminded me that I need to make more space for downtime. To let myself rest without guilt. Even to make my room feel more like somewhere I want to be, because right now it feels functional rather than comforting.

Soon enough it was time to pack up and head across the road to Old Trafford for the Uni Search fair. I love this job. Hearing the ambitions and curiosity of young people who want to grow up and make a difference is genuinely inspiring.

The fair was over before it had even begun.

Then it was back to the station and back to London. I have spent the last two nights with a different friend in Hertfordshire instead.

Gutted we did not get our Manchester reunion, but grateful that he understood.

Manchester was meant to be about seeing someone I care about. Instead, it became something else. A grey, rain soaked reset. A reminder that I am more fragile than I sometimes pretend, but also more resilient than I give myself credit for.

London represents chaos for me right now. Work. Recovery. Responsibility.

Manchester gave me a brief pause from all of that, and in doing so, shifted my perspective.

Back to reality tomorrow. Laundry. Food shop. An early night. Monday will be full on.

But I am going back clearer.