Ever since I was paralysed I have craved the stillness and calm of Aviemore.
So just having another week here on my happy place has set my vision before my scan results on Monday.
There’s something about Spey Valley that makes you stop.
It’s not just the golf - though that in itself is no small thing, it’s the silence, the sky, the smell of nature all around.
You don’t have to be chasing a low score to feel the course settle something in you. And this week, that stillness has been everything.
I’ve spent the past few days in Aviemore, tucked away in the Scottish Highlands, trying to keep both body and mind occupied in the run-up to my latest scan results.
Monday afternoon is circled in my calendar not with a pen, but in my head.
That quiet dread, that silent countdown, is always there.
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But for now, I’ve had something to lean on. Two rounds of golf.
A couple of gym sessions. Some physio. And the reassurance of being home.
I didn’t have the strength to play a full 18 holes. That’s just where I am right now, limited, but not idle.
I managed two rounds of 9 instead: a 50 and a 46. On paper, they might look like nothing much, but I know the effort it took to earn those numbers.
Spey Valley isn’t a gentle track. It’s long, punishing in places, with forced carries and fast greens. If you’re not switched on, it’ll eat your ball and your confidence with equal ease.
But it’s also one of the most beautiful courses I’ve ever played, each hole framed by wild, open country and guarded by bunkers.
What mattered most to me this week wasn’t chasing birdies, it was movement. It was being able to breathe deeply, to swing freely, to wake up sore in the right kind of way.
The physical toll of two 9-hole rounds, plus my gym work and physiotherapy, has been just enough to keep me anchored.
My body has felt pushed but not punished.
That sweet spot where I’m training, not straining.
That feeling is gold dust when you live with long-term injuries and the background hum of medical uncertainty.
More than anything, this week has reminded me how vital it is to find a rhythm. I’ve been bouncing between London and Jamaica this year, big cities, intense climates, sharp contrasts in energy.
Here, though, in the Highlands, there’s no rush. No social pressure. No need to explain yourself when you say, I don’t have the strength today.
The mountains don’t care about your scorecard. The river doesn’t know you’re waiting on results. And in that indifference, there’s something oddly comforting and calming.
Golf, too, has a way of reflecting where you are mentally. You can’t fake flow on the course. When my head is spinning or my nervous system’s overloaded, it shows immediately in the swing.
Rushed transitions. Tight hands. Poor decisions. But this week, I’ve been surprised by how much clarity I’ve found out there. Just me, a ball, and my dad in the buggy giving me top tips.
There’s a lot of talk in golf about the mental game, and I’ve come to appreciate how closely it mirrors the deeper game we all play managing uncertainty, managing self-talk, managing expectations.
I didn’t shoot under par, and I didn’t expect to. But walking off after that 46, I felt lots of pride. Not just in the number, but in the fact I kept going. I showed up. I moved and lived in the moment.
There’s a lesson there I keep relearning: we don’t have to wait for the big moments good or bad to honour what our bodies and minds can still do.
We can claim small wins, even when the future feels fuzzy. This week, a small win looked like 9 holes followed by a cold drink and a slow walk back to the car. It looked like waking up with sore legs from the gym, and knowing that meant my legs are still with me and I have more time on this planet.
The truth is, waiting for scan results is its own kind of marathon.
There’s no real way to “prepare” for what they might say. But there are ways to protect yourself in the meantime.
For me, coming home to Scotland has been that protection. A kind of soft landing before whatever comes next.
The air’s cleaner here. My thoughts feel less jagged. And even though I can’t control what happens on Monday, I can control how I spend today.
So, today, I’ll rest. Maybe stretch. Maybe chip a few balls on the range if my body allows.
I’ll eat something warming. I’ll laugh with some mates. And I’ll remind myself that I’ve already had a solid week.
A week where I didn’t retreat. A week where I trained. And moved forward inch by inch.
