The Moment I Knew: A Bunny Hop, Pure Joy and an Unforgettable Love

We first crossed paths in 2004, in a cramped kick‑boxing studio in London. I was still learning to jab a soft pad, and she—tall, graceful, with a smile that seemed to stretch a room—was already striking with a confidence that made me pause.

Honestly, I didn’t think much of it at first. She was beautiful, yes, but I was more focused on keeping my balance on the mat. It was the club’s Christmas drinks that changed everything. We found ourselves side‑by‑side at a noisy bar, laughing about our travels in Latin America, swapping stories about horses, and suddenly the conversation didn’t want to end.

We later slipped into an all‑night café, talking until the sun crept in around 5 a.m. By the time we said good‑byes, I knew I wanted a second date. The third one, however, turned into a tiny disaster: my housemate called to tell me we’d been burgled. I had to dash home, call the police, and deal with a mess I never expected.

Georgie, ever the calm centre, offered to come over. When the constables arrived, one of them asked, “Who’s she?” and I found myself stumbling over a word—friend? girlfriend? The silence was awkward, but she stayed, a quiet solidarity that meant more than any label.

Spring arrived early that year, and we decided to take a bike ride through a local park. My bike was a feather‑light touring model; hers a hard‑tail mountain bike that looked ready for anything. I rode ahead, glancing back every few seconds, and then I saw it: she approached a modest speed hump and—without a hint of hesitation—launched into a perfect bunny hop.

She was wearing a dark‑grey canvas jacket, the kind you’d expect on a rainy London day, and her focus was palpable. The bike rose, the wheels briefly left the ground, and she sailed over the bump as if it were nothing. For a split second I saw pure, unfiltered joie de vivre. Her face flushed when she realized I’d watched, a mix of embarrassment and pride that was unmistakably her.

That moment crystallised something I hadn’t quite grasped yet: Georgie lived life at full volume, and she wanted the world to hear the music.

We eventually swapped the grey skies of London for the sun‑lit streets of Melbourne. She fell in love with the city’s footy culture, joined a few local sports clubs, and tried—perhaps unsuccessfully—to carve out a niche in community sports development. Work was scarce, so she returned to the UK for a stint, and we settled into a long‑distance rhythm.

In 2009, the rhythm shattered. Georgie, then only 32, was diagnosed with breast cancer. Within a fortnight I quit my job, packed my life, and flew to the UK to be by her side. She knew, without a word, that I would uproot everything for her.

Her first remission gave us a breath of hope. We returned to Australia, found jobs that suited us, and embarked on endless adventures: camping under the Red Centre’s night sky, cycling from Cairns to Cape York, and discovering hidden beaches on the west coast.

But fate wasn’t finished. A few years later the cancer returned, more aggressive, and by late 2019 the doctors whispered a grim prognosis—six months, perhaps less. The pandemic meant we were stuck together in a small Sussex town, a strange blessing that let us soak up every ordinary moment.

Georgie seemed to be holding on, then suddenly she grew breathless. A scan turned into a brain haemorrhage, and she slipped into unconsciousness. Two days later, in July 2020, after a heart‑wrenching stay in ICU surrounded by family, she passed away.

Three days before that, she’d ridden her bike to the GP—so fitting, given how much movement meant to her. It’s that irrepressible energy, that unbridled joy, that still lights up my memories. I am endlessly grateful for the time we shared, for the bunny hop that told me she was alive in every sense, and for the fierce love that taught me how to be a better person.

Tell us: what’s the moment you knew?