Where in the World is Dakota?

Intro

Some stories are read. Others are lived. And then there are the rare few that write themselves into your soul — one gust of wind, one crumbling stone wall, one barefoot step at a time. What began as a photoshoot in a gown with a sword became something far deeper: a reckoning, a reclamation, and a chapter of becoming written against the timeless backdrop of Scotland’s hills and castles. 

This was never just about a dress, a camera, or a castle. It was about stepping into every version of myself I had ever been — the girl who once doubted her worth, the warrior who refused to yield, and the queen who finally learned she was worthy of the crown all along. Scotland wasn’t just the setting for this chapter. It was the page upon which I rewrote my story.

🌧️ Once Upon a Scottish Morning

Once upon a time, in a land far from home, she woke to a soft drizzle against her windowpane. The streets below were still wrapped in shadow, but the air felt alive — full of promise and a touch of magic. Today, she would gallivant through her kingdom…
Alright, maybe not a real kingdom — but for one day, it was going to be mine. ✨

🌅  A Fairytale Morning in Holyrood Park

The fairytale began at Holyrood Park. The walk there earned me more than a few curious glances — apparently, not everyone expects to see a woman gliding down Princes Street in a flowing gown early on a Sunday morning! (“What, you’ve never seen a princess before coffee?” ☕ 😂) The stroll carried me past the royal residence itself, but my footsteps were leading me somewhere older, somewhere steeped in legend.

​​The first stop was a rocky hill — the kind that feels ancient, carved by time and stories long forgotten — with uneven surfaces and wild winds making balance a small adventure in itself. I kicked off my shoes and stepped barefoot onto the cool stone, the wind whipping through my hair with wild insistence. It wasn’t a gentle breeze; it was Scotland reminding me who was in charge. But we understood one another that morning — the wind became my unseen dance partner, sweeping fabric and hair into motion like a waltz at a Bridgerton ball. The moment the camera clicked, I felt as if I’d stepped not just into a storybook, but into a living painting — one where I wasn’t posing, but becoming. I stood there, emerald dress billowing like a banner, the weight of the sword grounding me as much as the earth beneath my feet. Every gust carried a kind of freedom, and for that fleeting moment, I was the story.

From there, we hiked toward the ruins of St. Anthony’s Chapel. Perched on the hillside, its weathered stones stood as a quiet reminder of medieval faith and time’s steady march through the centuries. I let the cool earth and uneven stone press against my feet, grounding me as I wandered through what was once a sacred place. The air was still — except for the wind howling dramatically through the ancient arches, as if cued just for us. From this height, the city stretched below, yet up here, surrounded by crumbling walls and echoes of forgotten footsteps, I felt worlds away.

At one point, I paused in a crumbling window frame, gazing out over the same sweeping view that countless others must have seen long before me. I couldn’t help but wonder who they were — monks, nobles, pilgrims — and what they might have felt standing there: hope, longing, faith, or perhaps the same quiet awe that filled me. That single moment, framed by ancient stone and endless sky, made me feel deeply connected to the many lives that had passed through this place before mine — as if time itself had stopped to let me listen.

With that reflection still lingering, we left the chapel’s echoing stones behind. I slipped my shoes back on for the walk ahead, ready to trade ancient stone for sweeping green as we made our way toward the windswept grassy valley.

By the time we arrived, the mist had lifted, leaving behind a soft golden glow that wrapped the hills in quiet enchantment. The wind was still wild — no longer just a breeze but a mischievous spirit — tugging at my dress and hair as if determined to sweep me into its game.I shed my shoes once more, feeling the cool, damp earth beneath my feet as I twirled and frolicked across the landscape, the hem of my dress swirling like something out of a period drama. The light caught on the folds of emerald fabric as I moved — free, weightless, and entirely lost in the moment. It was one of those rare mornings when time felt suspended, when the world hushed just long enough for you to feel not just like the main character, but woven into the story itself — a living, breathing part of Scotland’s timeless landscape, carried along by the wind’s playful rhythm.

As the final clicks of the camera echoed across the valley, a hush seemed to settle over the landscape — as if the land itself knew this chapter was coming to a close. I slipped my shoes back on, brushing the grass from my dress, and took one last lingering look at the hills. The fairytale feeling hadn’t faded; if anything, it was growing stronger, tugging me forward toward the next adventure. And what better next chapter than a castle? 🏰✨

🌹Once a Warrior, Now a Queen: A Coronation of Becoming 
As we drove toward the castle, my thoughts wandered far beyond the day’s fairytale setting. They drifted back to hospital rooms and long, dark nights — to the chapters of my life where I had to fight in new ways, on unfamiliar battlefields. Many people suggested I do a photoshoot to celebrate “surviving” cancer. But I never felt drawn to that word. Survivor felt too neat, too final — and it left no room for the warriors who fought just as fiercely but never got the chance to say they survived. I was, and always will be, a cancer warrior — not because the battle ended, but because it shaped who I am becoming every single day.

Somewhere along that journey, I learned one of the most profound truths of my life: if I didn’t love the person looking back at me in the mirror, I could change. I wasn’t bound by who society said I should be or by the expectations of others. I could become — grow, evolve, and step into the version of myself I was created to be. Scars, imperfections, and all, I was not broken. I was becoming whole. My faith was the light that guided me through the darkest valleys, the steady hand that reminded me that transformation is holy work — not about erasing the past, but about rising from it.

And somewhere along the way, I realized that becoming isn’t about perfection — it’s about embracing the fullness of who you are, even the parts that hurt. A rose doesn’t apologize for its thorns. They are part of its nature — sharp, sometimes painful, and often misunderstood — yet they exist alongside its beauty. The rose cannot choose to bloom without them, and yet those who truly see it do so in spite of the sting. I came to understand that I, too, was both thorn and bloom — strength and softness, pain and beauty, grief and grace — and that my worth was not diminished by the scars that told my story.

And that is what this photoshoot was truly about. It wasn’t vanity or performance; it was a declaration. A promise to the girl who fought so hard to stay. It was a love letter to the woman she was still becoming. Each frame, each moment, wasn’t just a photograph — it was a reclaiming of my story. A chance to see myself not as a supporting character in someone else’s tale, but as the main character in my own: strong, deeply loved, perfectly imperfect, and boldly stepping into the next chapter of a story that is still unfolding.

As the castle’s stone towers rose into view, something inside me shifted. This wasn’t just another stop on my journey — it was the living embodiment of everything I had fought for. Every thorn, every scar, every tear had led me here, to this moment. I felt the past and present converge inside me: warrior and woman, thorn and bloom, scar and strength. This wasn’t just a photoshoot — it was a coronation. A knighting of the warrior I had become. And as the gates loomed closer, I understood something deeply: I was no longer stepping into someone else’s story for me — I was writing my own, ready to step into a story that had been patiently waiting for me to believe I was its author (and the big man upstairs my editor/publisher). 🌹✨

🏰 Through the Castle Gate: A Realm Awaits Its Queen
The first step into Craigmillar Castle’s courtyard felt like stepping into another world — one woven from both history and imagination. We began near the great tree that anchors the heart of the inner ward, its leaves a deep, almost crimson red — a striking contrast against the pale grey pebbles underfoot and the cool stone walls that framed the space around us. It felt like a scene plucked straight from Game of Thrones — a weirwood tree standing in quiet watch, ancient and knowing, its branches whispering secrets of centuries past. The walls rose high and steady, scarred by time yet still unyielding, and for a moment, I half-expected a watchful steward or an old caretaker to emerge from the archways.The air was crisp, the light golden, and with each step deeper into the courtyard, it felt as though we were slipping through a door in time — one heartbeat closer to the stories these stones had held for hundreds of years.

👑Crowned by a Child’s Gaze
It didn’t take long before the castle walls stopped being just stone and history — they started to feel like part of a living story. As we wandered deeper into the courtyard, camera still clicking, a small voice rang out across the grounds:

“Dad, look! There’s the princess!”

The words floated through the crisp morning air, innocent and earnest, and for a moment, I froze. I had always loved fairytales — devoured them as a child, studied their deeper meanings as an English major, and clung to them during some of life’s darkest storms. But standing there, dress sweeping over ancient cobblestones, sword in hand and sunlight catching on my hair, I wasn’t reading the story anymore. I was the story.

Laughter echoed from another corner of the courtyard where a tired father, clearly at his wit’s end, threatened his bickering children with a most medieval consequence: “If you don’t behave, I’ll have the queen lock you in the dungeon!” That made all of us laugh — the kids, the photographer, even me. But beneath the humor was a strange, beautiful truth: I wasn’t playing dress-up. I wasn’t pretending. I was the queen in the story — not because of the dress or the setting, but because I had finally claimed that role for myself.

It was surreal, almost dizzying, how these small, whimsical interactions carried such weight. Years ago, I would’ve brushed them off, hidden from that kind of attention, told myself I wasn’t worthy of being anyone’s princess — let alone queen. I’d convinced myself that I was too imperfect, too much, or maybe not enough. But that day, wrapped in layers of fabric and courage in the middle of a Scottish castle, I didn’t shrink back.

Being called “princess” and “queen” — for the first time in my life, I didn’t flinch at those titles. I embraced them. I believed them. I smiled; in that smile was the quiet acknowledgment of every thorn and scar, every hard-fought step that had brought me here.

This was more than a photoshoot. It was a reclamation — a rewriting of a narrative for a girl who once doubted her place in the fairytale. I was no longer the girl on the outside looking in. I was the woman at the center of the story, thorns and all, standing in her God-given power and finally believing she had belonged in the castle all along — not as a visitor, but as its rightful queen. 🏰✨

🗡️ Upon the Battlements: A Queen’s Watch

Climbing the narrow spiral staircase to the upper walls felt like ascending into another chapter of the story.I walked the length of the battlements slowly and deliberately, sword in hand, the chill of the ancient stone seeping into my bare feet, grounding me in the present while connecting me to the countless souls who had walked there centuries before.

Below stretched the fields — my “battlefields” — not of blood or conquest, but of resilience, faith, and every fight that had forged the woman standing there. With each step, I thought about the battles I had faced and the ones I had yet to fight, and how every scar had led me to this very moment.

Then, in another moment — one I’ll never forget — I lowered the sword to my side and simply stood there, watching the expanse before me not as a dreamer, but as its rightful queen, poised on the edge of her reign. This was more than a pose for the camera — it was no longer about imagining what could be, but about claiming what already was. It was a coronation written not in crowns and ceremony, but in scars and strength, in the quiet promises forged through every battle I had faced.

There, high atop the battlements, I made a silent promise to myself: that I would never again shrink from my own power, never again question my worth. I had fought for this view, this peace, this strength — and I had earned every inch of it. And from that height, with the wind at my back and a kingdom stretched before me, I no longer saw myself as a survivor of the story, but as the author of it — the queen who had risen, and who would continue to rise, again and again. 👑

📖 Among Pages and Shadows: The Story Still Unfolding

From the battlements, we stepped into the castle’s inner chambers — a stark shift from sweeping views to a world of quiet shadow and stone. The air was cooler here, touched by centuries of stories that seemed to hum beneath the surface. A narrow window let in a shaft of soft, diffused light, and as I stepped into its glow, the world outside faded away.

The photographer handed me an old book, worn and weathered — not for its content, but for the story it suggested. I sank into a stillness I know well: the kind born of turning pages, of losing yourself in worlds written long before your own. Light spilled across my hair and pale skin, catching on the folds of emerald fabric and casting striking contrasts — darkness and light, strength and softness, shadow and story.

It was more than a prop. Holding that book felt symbolic — a mirror of the life I was living and writing all at once. Every chapter I’d walked through, from pain to triumph, was there in the silence between the pages. Every scar and lesson, every tear and victory — all of it was part of a story still unfolding, still being written.Standing there, barefoot on the cold stone floor, I felt the weight of time pressing gently around me. The walls had witnessed centuries of lives, loves, losses — and now, they were witnessing mine. And in that quiet, luminous moment, I realized I wasn’t just holding a book. I was the book — chapters still unwritten, pages still turning, and a story that was far from over. 📖✨

Exploring the interior of Craigmillar Castle felt like walking through the pages of a story that had been written centuries before I arrived — and yet somehow, I was part of it now. The corridors were cool and dim, their stone walls breathing out the scent of rain and age, and every step I took seemed to stir up whispers of the past.

I moved slowly, hand trailing along walls worn smooth by countless generations, imagining the lives that had unfolded here. I could almost hear the clatter of knights’ boots echoing up the spiral staircases — some racing to ready themselves for a royal quest, others polishing their armor in hopes of winning the queen’s favor. Their banners would have fluttered proudly in the courtyard, bright with heraldry, as orders were shouted and horses readied for departure.

From somewhere deeper within, the soft strains of music seemed to drift from a great hall, mingling with the boisterous laughter of nobles gathered around a roaring feast. I pictured servants weaving between long wooden tables, their arms laden with platters of roast game and spiced breads, the rich aroma of smoky hearth fires curling through the corridors. And in the courtyard below, I saw horses stamping in the chill air, their breath misting like smoke as bright banners snapped overhead — a living, breathing tapestry of medieval life.

With every step deeper into the ruin, the line between imagination and memory blurred. While standing in a narrow window slit or pausing beside the crumbling walls, I could almost feel the pulse of history thrumming beneath my fingertips — the hopes, fears, and quiet regrets of those who had once walked these same paths. The air itself seemed to hum with echoes of their stories. The castle didn’t feel abandoned; it felt alive with memory, its stones still carrying the weight of oaths sworn, battles fought, and dreams pursued. I felt small — humbled by the centuries pressing in around me — yet strangely powerful, grounded in the knowledge that this fortress had held more than just stone and mortar. It had borne witness to lives shaped by intrigue and loyalty, ambition and love… and now, in my own way, mine was among them..

In these hushed spaces, the line between past and present blurred until I could no longer tell where my story ended and history began. I could almost see Mary, Queen of Scots moving through these same corridors — her footsteps slow and measured as she sought refuge here in 1566, her body weakened by illness but her spirit still fiercely alive. Perhaps she, too, paused at these narrow windows, looking out over the horizon and wondering which allies she could still trust. Somewhere behind these walls, I imagined nobles bent close together, their voices barely above a whisper as they drafted the infamous “Craigmillar Bond,” plotting to free their queen from a husband she no longer loved — or perhaps to free themselves from the consequences of her reign. History still debates whether she was part of the plot, but standing here centuries later, I could feel the tension of that moment clinging to the stone like moss.

The castle around me seemed to hum with memory. I could almost hear the clank of armor as knights prepared for campaigns or rode out in search of glory, feel the heavy air of courtly intrigue weaving its way through the great hall, smell the roasting meats and spiced breads of a long-ago feast. It was easy to imagine musicians playing by firelight, their songs mingling with the laughter of nobles plotting alliances that would outlive them all. And somewhere in that tapestry of sound and story, I felt my own heartbeat steady and strong — a quiet rhythm joining theirs across the centuries.

Like Mary, I, too, had known what it meant to seek refuge after a storm. I, too, had stood at the edge of uncertainty, unsure of who I could trust or how my story might unfold. The people who once called this place home had navigated betrayal, ambition, heartbreak, and hope — just as I had. And in that realization, I felt an unexpected kinship stretch across time. My battles had not been fought with armies or inked in secret pacts, but the resilience that carried me here was made of the same unyielding strength.

The castle wasn’t just stone and silence — it breathed. It pulsed with memory, with the lingering heartbeat of every soul who had sought shelter, plotted destiny, or dreamed of something greater within its walls. I could feel their presence like a faint echo beneath my feet, a whisper threading through the corridors and curling around my thoughts. And in that stillness, I understood something deeply beautiful: I was not merely a visitor tracing the edges of history. I was a continuation of it — another heartbeat added to the rhythm of this place, another story etched into its weathered stones. My footsteps joined those of queens and courtiers, warriors and dreamers, and in their company, I felt both impossibly small and immeasurably significant — a living thread woven into a centuries-old tapestry.

📜Epilogue of Becoming: A Tale Still Unfolding
As the last light of the morning filtered through Craigmillar’s ancient windows, I paused one final time — hand pressed gently against the cold stone, breath caught somewhere between past and present. This day had been more than a photoshoot; it was a reckoning and a rebirth, a weaving together of who I once was and who I am still becoming. I had walked barefoot where queens once plotted, raised a sword where knights once swore oaths, and stood in the silence of centuries that seemed to know my name. The castle had become a mirror, reflecting not just the woman I am now, but every version of me who fought to exist — the girl who once doubted her worth, the warrior who refused to yield, the queen who finally learned she was worthy of the crown all along.

 As I turned back for one last look, the castle loomed behind me — not just a monument of stone and centuries, but a mirror of every version of myself I had met within its walls. The warrior. The dreamer. The girl who once doubted her worth. The woman who now claimed it without apology. I stepped out of the gate not as the same person who had walked in, but as someone still writing her story. The wind braided itself through my hair, a promise more than a farewell. I stepped out of the gate, certain the tale would continue, one breath, one page, one day at a time. ✨📜 🌹

Some sneak peaks from my photoshoot: