Alice Witton-Wright

In 2015, I was a life-loving, happy-go-lucky 25-year-old, heart firmly on my sleeve, studying Speech and Language Therapy, and embracing everything life had to offer. Then, during what should have been an ordinary trip to Slovenia, the carpet was pulled from underneath my feet.

It was extremely unnerving, scary and confusing all at the same time. I had fallen into a psychosis, a word I hadn't needed to know the meaning of before then. I was having an out-of-body experience, losing all inhibitions, convinced that everyone around me could hear my thoughts. An unfamiliar voice filled my head throughout the night, and whatever I was seeing and hearing, however unbelievable, felt entirely real. It was the moment I thought I could fly, mid-way down a staircase, that my now-husband made the call to the emergency services.

That first episode was just the beginning. A second psychosis followed two years later, and in 2022/23 I spent over nine months in hospital, my longest admission to date. Each episode would follow a similar pattern: a rapid loss of inhibitions and social boundaries, an elevated and manic state, before quickly spiralling into psychosis. After multiple admissions, I was diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder, a condition I now know I will likely manage for the rest of my life.

My memories of those hospital stays are fragmentary at best. I didn't have mental capacity for a fair chunk of time, and so my family would pick me up at times when I certainly couldn't have myself. The hardest part hasn't been the episodes themselves, it's been what comes after. The loss of identity. The slow, sometimes painful work of acceptance. Even now, I'm still piecing together what happened and why. What has surprised me most is the sheer power of the human brain, both in its capacity to unravel, and in its extraordinary ability to recover.

Thanks to the steadfast support of my family and the health professionals around me, I reach full stability between episodes and am able to live what I'd describe as a fairly normal life. But I was ready for something more, a community, a sense of purpose, a place where I truly belonged.

When Lois called to tell me I'd been accepted as an M2M beneficiary, the impact was immediate. I was so moved. It immediately gave me a sense of belonging and recognition, the first time I'd felt accepted by someone outside of my immediate circle. My condition had quietly distanced a number of friendships over the years, through no one's fault. But the isolation had left its mark. I was craving something positive, outward-facing, and warm. In M2M, I found exactly that. There is both a strong sense of camaraderie and a vein of empathy that runs through the core of the community. It's unbelievably infectious.

M2M has already begun to shift something significant in me. It has shown me that my illness needn't define me, that I am more than my diagnosis. Through shared experiences in the outdoors, I've found space to tell my story, feel heard, and build new memories that aren't coloured by illness. The community is gentle and caring, but it also pushes me, mentally and physically, in ways I've wholeheartedly welcomed. Within the parameters of the charity, I am striving towards getting back my sense of self, and working on what it means to be me.

Now, my eyes are firmly set on what's next. I want the coming years to be defined by adventure and travel, not by hospital admissions. I want to fill my memory with moments worth keeping, and to show others that the same is possible for them too. I want to give hope to people who have had their life turned upside down as a result of poor mental health, and show them that through grit, determination and openness, you can progress and even achieve great things.

This year, I'm joining M2M on the Nepal trip. And I know it's going to do all of that, and more.