over the pond.

20th February marked the three year anniversary of cutting off all my hair, a seemingly small and insignificant incident. But when I think about it, really think about it, it was an act of utmost importance, an act so important I didn't even see it as such.

Three years ago I couldn't really cope with life. Looking back from the position I'm in now I can't even picture it.

I cut off my hair because I had no control over anything else in life. I had this itch under my skin to do something, anything, to keep me from doing something stupid. So I cut off my hair. I wasn't the girl that I had been before, long hair didn't suit me, it was too young and carefree, too girly and soft. So I cut it all off.

I could soften this post with pretty little selfies of my hair at various stages but that wouldn't be fair to myself.

When I cut off my hair, I couldn't picture today. I couldn't picture me at uni, happy but sick of essays, where my biggest concern was whether or not I should do my reading for my seminar tomorrow. I couldn't picture anything beyond where I was.

But I got through it.

It took me three years, but somehow, I got to the other side. The side I never thought I'd see, the side I dreamed about, wished for, prayed for for so long.

I don't allow myself to think of that time very often, after the final closure I told myself I couldn't hold on to it any longer. And, somehow, scarily, after three years of obsessing over it, I let it go.

But then there is days like the 20th February. Not a reminder of a romantic anniversary, or a birth or a celebration. A day which reminds me just how much has changed and how grateful I am that it has.

A day which reminds me to be happy. Because I am not scared anymore.

A day which slaps me on the wrist for getting annoyed at Adam this morning because he forgot to pick up some food for me from Sainsburys.

A day which makes me think about things which make me cry so that I can be thankful that these things are no longer in my life.

The girl who went into the hairdressers clutching a picture of Carey Mulligan on the red carpet with her pixie cut no longer exists. She was so lost, and she didn't even know half of it. She thought it was coming to an end but in fact that was just the beginning and that little girl with short hair didn't even know it.

But I do.

I know every single thing that happened to her and I know that it gets better. I know that the one thing she longs to have back comes back to her.

In the midst of it all, I couldn't picture how something which had been so utterly broken could ever go back to the way it was. But it did. Somehow, amazingly, it has.

And that can only be by God.

I don't care who judges me for that belief.

It can only be by God.

And now, after three years, I find myself wanting my hair long again. I am young, carefree and happy. I wish to learn how to curl it, I find myself trying so hard to braid it in different ways. I have the time and the energy to do all these things.

Because I am not who I was, and the girl with the pixie cut who felt so wretched and alone and who lost so much, has grown.