Last Christmas I was clipped by a train. Mum was dying so my head was elsewhere. I was walking home and had to cross one of those crossings that say, “Stop, look and listen.” I didn’t do any of those things, and I had my headphones in so I couldn’t even hear the train. It clipped my left elbow.

Probably when I didn’t sleep for a week on drugs in 2009. I’d had a lot of meth and my heart felt like it was giving out. I remember climbing over balconies really high up, and I thought I was going to die, until I eventually fell asleep in someone’s garden.

After the war, when I was about nine, we were held up in our home. The robbers grabbed my father and had a gun at his throat. It was terrifying. My mother got a wad of money and gave it to the people, and they ran away.

When I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro for charity. It was horrendous.

As someone who didn’t waste a minute.

The fact that at least 300,000 women die every year from pregnancy and childbirth-related issues that are largely preventable.

I might speed up a few details, but wouldn’t change anything, other than my dad still being here.

Before kids, when I was 13 or so, on the back of my horse, running at full speed in an open pasture. Post kids, happiness happens often, but in more subtle ways. I now prefer the word “content”.

My father’s death before my marriage and motherhood.

A midwife named Jennie Joseph. She is a tireless activist for women, family health and equal access to quality maternity care.