She Who Dares

By Alana Stott MBE

It was 2014 when the phone rang at Alana Stott’s home. On the other end was her husband, Dean, a member of the UK Special Forces serving in Libya in the midst of a civil war. As the sound of gunfire echoed through the receiver, Alana felt her heart racing as she struggled to gather as much information as possible from him. Moments later, the line went dead.
In a compelling, heartfelt retelling of her epic journey through life, Stott shines an inspirational light on how she navigated through all her personal experiences with candor, humor, bravery, and authenticity. As she leads others through her memories, Stott begins by detailing her childhood where she first learned to advocate for justice, pledged to one day end injustices, and focused on helping others, and then shares insight into her path forward as she traveled the world, married, attained professional success, battled challenges, and eventually summoned the strength and courage to guide her former UK Special Forces husband from enduring life-changing injuries to becoming a world-record breaking champion.
She Who Dares chronicles one woman’s path of self-discovery as she overcame obstacles and challenges to transform into a passionate advocate for positive change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jul 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665724203

Alana Stott MBE

Alana Stott, MBE is a philanthropist and true multi- hyphenate with a unique list of professional achievements that include sales professional, bodyguard, Mrs. Scotland, CEO, writer, and producer. She is the founder of Wolfraven Inc., a media platform that shares inspirational stories while advocating for causes that improve the world. Stott has also written her inspirational memoir, “She Who Dares;” and a series of empowering children’s books. Alana and her husband, Dean, have 3 children and reside in California. Alana was awarded The Member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (MBE) for her service to vulnerable women and mental health awareness on the Kings New Years Honors list 2023.

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Copyright © 2022 Alana Stott, MBE.

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and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-6657-2422-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-2421-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-2420-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022909525

Archway Publishing rev. date: 4/11/2023

TO ALL THOSE GOING THROUGH STRUGGLES:

KEEP GOING, FIGHT HARD, PLAN HARD,

NEVER GIVE UP, AND

GRAB HOLD OF EVERY OPPORTUNITY.

CONTENTS

Prologue

CHAPTER 1     Growing Up

CHAPTER 2     Adam

CHAPTER 3     Crossroad

CHAPTER 4     Cycle of Violence

CHAPTER 5     Cancer

CHAPTER 6     Losses

CHAPTER 7     Making Changes

CHAPTER 8     Standing Up

CHAPTER 9     Places to Go

CHAPTER 10   Learning to Fail

CHAPTER 11   Finding Myself

CHAPTER 12   Finding Him

CHAPTER 13   Next Level

CHAPTER 14   Time to Step Up

CHAPTER 15   Mollie

CHAPTER 16   Becoming Mrs. Stott

CHAPTER 17   The Arab Spring Effect

CHAPTER 18   Who Dares Wins

CHAPTER 19   Growing Team Stott

CHAPTER 20   Planning the Challenge

CHAPTER 21   How to Ask for Money

CHAPTER 22   Support, or Lack of It

CHAPTER 23   The Journey Begins

CHAPTER 24   Meet Me Halfway

CHAPTER 25   Coming Home

CHAPTER 26   A New Challenge and a Royal Wedding

CHAPTER 27   PAH: The Aftermath

CHAPTER 28   Taking on the World

CHAPTER 29   Facing Demons

CHAPTER 30   Coming to America

PROLOGUE

The sound of gunfire echoed through the receiver of the telephone.

As I stood there in the kitchen of the home we had created together, the past five years flashed before my eyes. Would our daughter remember him? Would she remember how he made her laugh, how they’d sang and played together, how they’d danced to Magic Dance by David Bowie in Labyrinth and mocked me for never quite getting the appeal?

Dean, tell me what’s happening. My heart was racing, and my blood was pumping. But to my husband on the other side of the world, I appeared as I always did—calm and together. You never show them how you really feel. You keep it to yourself. You have to hold it together, because when you fall apart, everything falls apart.

This was my life. I stayed home with the baby and managed our various businesses, including our security company we’d set up when he left his life as a Tier 1 operator with the UK Special Forces. He was away more than he was ever home. And on his return, I was usually cleaning blood off his shirts or hoovering sand and residue from his rolling thunder bags—residue that often transferred to all our own things, such as in an embarrassing episode traveling through airport security when my ten-month-old’s push-chair tested positive for explosives, and I had to convince customs that I and my baby girl had no intention of blowing up the plane that day.

While he was on the ground with clients, I was home sorting logistics, typing up security proposals, writing evacuation plans, and keeping him updated with real-time data from various sources about wherever he happened to be in the world at that time. Wherever there was trouble in the world, Dean was usually not very far away.

But this call—it was different. He sounded different. Not scared; that wasn’t a sound I would recognize anyway. It was worry, anxiousness, and disturbance in his voice. I had to stay calm and focused. I needed to get as much information as I could, as I had no idea how long the line was going to stay active. I needed his exact location, who he was with, and what the current situation was. Every little detail could prove to be crucial information.

It was 2014 in Libya, and I would actually be surprised if I didn’t hear gunfire in the background. Over the summer of 2014, Libya descended into civil war between two opposing militia both with an aim of taking control of the government after Gaddafi was taken out. Arab Spring had brought a new way of life to Northern Africa and had given ISIS a fresh opening on the Mediterranean coastline. Dean had been there before, during and after it all, and the ringing sound of bullets and fireworks was never far away when he called. This time, however, the sound was different. The blasts sounded close by, multiple; and my sixth sense, my gut feeling or whatever you may call it, told me this time it was different.

I knew he was on the ground near the UK Special Forces troops; however, I was acutely aware they were there to observe only. If there was trouble on the ground, Dean would be on his own.

He had allies there though. Dean always made friends with the locals, and they were always drawn to him. If they were in trouble, he would protect them against anything. That was what worried me. The selfish part of me wanted him to walk away from trouble and put us to the front of his mind. But my heart knew different. That was why we fell in love—neither of us was the type to stand back and watch someone get hurt. We were both raised tough. We learned to look after ourselves and look after the vulnerable, and I knew neither of us could ever walk away from someone in danger.

The gunfire was getting louder and louder. I heard the phone drop to the ground as loud bangs pierced into my ear. The sound penetrated my ear so much I had to pull it away to stop my eardrums exploding. These bangs were coming directly beside the phone. Is he being fired upon or is Dean the one firing? I can’t tell. In this situation, he must keep his focus. Do I hang up the phone? What if he needs me? What if I can’t get back through?

He had other colleagues and business partners who should have been helping him. But as usual when Dean was on the front line taking risks; they could often be found sipping wine and counting the profits.

Who could I call? There was no one. Dean was on his own, and I couldn’t hang up.

As I sat there on the kitchen floor, another loud bang came, this time much closer to me. The kitchen door flew open, and a three-year-old came running in, saying, Mummy, I’m hungry!

Hungry. Wow, she picks her moments. Why doesn’t she understand appropriate timing yet?

But up I got up from the floor, phone still in hand; painted on that big mum smile; placed my hand over the receiver; and asked her quietly what she would like. When you live this kind of life, you have to balance everything. She didn’t understand what I did or what I was doing at any given moment in time any more than he understood what the other side was like. I had to keep the chaos as calm and normal as I could for both of them.

I was the mum, wife, businesswoman, housekeeper, peacekeeper, and family accountant. And I had to be all these things at the same time, while not allowing any role to influence the other. I gave Anthony Gatto a run for his money! Everything had to operate together while carrying its individual traits and skills. With Mollie’s demands the most pressing priority, I quickly pulled together some snacks with questionable health benefits—though at this point, I genuinely didn’t care. I turned on some back-to-back Peppa Pig in the lounge and got back to the call as quickly and calmly as I could.

I listened for a while and then heard his voice. Babe, can you check with the embassy? The Zintanis are attacking the freeway. They have the civilians pinned down in their cars and are firing from the bridges. They have an elevation advantage, and these people have no way to get out. Our guys are not allowed to engage and can only observe.

I tried to gauge which bridge and where they could be, but the gun fire was getting louder, and I need more information. Dean?

They are on their own, Alana. He paused. I have weapons. I can’t leave them.

"Dean?"

Alana, I love you.

A hail of gunfire rang through my ears as the line went dead. I’m not ready for this.

CHAPTER ONE

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GROWING UP

I remember vividly one Sunday morning in June. It was cold and misty—typical Scottish summer weather—the morning my early childhood life was about to change. Mum had told me Dad was coming to pick me up for the day, and he would no longer be staying with us.

Up to this point, I’d had a happy upbringing. Financially, we had nothing, but happiness and love were never far away. Our previous home had been repossessed due to the inflation of the eighties, and we now lived in social housing. But again, it wasn’t something my mum ever allowed to be a negative in our life; she made every house she ever had a home. I had my parents and my brother. Friday evenings were spent at my beloved Great-Aunt Molly’s house. And every Saturday, Molly, who was well into her sixties at this point, would go with me to the market and shop for all the local elderly people before going to Granny and Grandad’s house. Grandad was Molly’s younger brother. We would fill our tummies with warm, homemade soup and porridge. Money was in short supply, but I never felt underprivileged. How could I with that much love and warmth? I thought those feelings of love, safety, and warmth would never end.

Staring through that window that misty June morning, my little seven-year-old eyes filled with confusion. I looked up at my big brother for reassurance, and he looked down at me and said, Dad’s moved out; they are getting a divorce.

Just like that. He was never one for sugarcoating things. I held on tight to him that morning and wondered what we had ahead.

My father was the love of my life. I was—and in many ways still am—100 percent a daddy’s girl. We grew up in an area where so many fathers were absent or unknown, and I saw every day the effects this had on kids. I was one of the lucky ones in a sense. Dad wanted to be in our lives, and Sundays became his day. My dad wasn’t one for the deep and meaningful life lessons, survival crafts, or university plans. But what he did teach me—and in many ways, it was a much more valuable contribution to my life—was how to be a pool shark. Shooting pool with my dad on a Sunday was to become the new highlight of my week. Even when I was a small girl, he never let me win or took it easy on me. He knew, in real life, you don’t get given chances or an easy ride. If I was going to learn, I was going to learn properly, with no quarters given. This would prove useful in later life.

My mum was a strong and beautiful woman, but she had a craving for love and a weakness for men—and usually the wrong men. Following the breakup of her marriage, she soon fell for a younger guy from work. The rebound relationship became a whirlwind romance, and before long, he had moved into our family home. That home was a three-bedroom apartment in a social housing area in Aberdeen, Scotland. To say my dad was furious was an understatement. This guy was thirteen years my mother’s junior, and I think Dad had always thought there might be a chance one day they could give it another try. But Mum had moved on and was ready to live her new life with this guy, a guy she felt would give her the happiness she craved so badly.

Life began to get into a little routine. My brother and I went to school during the week. Finishing school on a Friday afternoon, I would head to Aunt Molly’s house. Saturdays were for running errands and visiting my grandparents. And Sundays were all about shooting pool with my dad.

As always, money was tight at home. Dad was a bus driver and gave what he could by way of child support. Mum worked as a receptionist and cleaner, and her boyfriend, as a bartender. The absence of financial security in my life was never a negative to me. It was my earliest lessons in both working for the things you want and giving back. Even at that early age, I always had a side hustle—raising cash both for a treat and for helping others. I did my first sponsored famine around this time and raised almost $100 for kids in Africa. It was all over the news at the time—children starving in Ethiopia. It broke my heart, so I decided to raise funds to help them by putting myself in their shoes for forty-eight hours. It was a natural instinct for me even at seven; someone was in trouble, and I needed to help. This was something bred into me by both my mum and my aunt. No matter how little you had, if you had anything at all, then you had enough to help others.

Finding new ways to earn extra cash was one of my favorite things in life—still is really. One Sunday morning, we went to a car boot sale, similar to a swap meet in the United States. This was always an exciting thing for me. We would collect up all the things we no longer used or needed. My grandad would give us things he had made from old junk. I would spend Saturday evening cleaning them all up and making them presentable for selling. I was eight years old but already growing an independent streak. I made my own meals and looked after myself, for the most part.

Returning that evening, all of us were very tired. I drew the short straw to put the kettle on and make everyone a cup of tea. I issued the acceptable amount of complaints before conceding and headed through to the kitchen with everyone’s order. I boiled a full kettle and poured it into our very large, very eighties metal teapot with the brown wooden handle.

Now, I was grown, but I was still only eight and wasn’t quite at the right height to be comfortable pouring tea into the cups on our countertop. I looked around for something to give me more of a height advantage. I looked over at the pile of unsold items from the swap sale. There sat the old stool my grandad had made from the scraps of wood he’d found. No one had bought it that day, which surprised me. He was such a craftsman and was always making things, even before it was cool to upcycle. It was perfect to get me to the height I needed to pour the tea. I grabbed it and positioned it perfectly. I balanced myself on it and began to pour.

I poured the first cup barista style, perfectly. Then I stepped over to the left to pour the next cup. I hadn’t checked my footing; the stool began to wobble and immediately gave way underneath me. The next few seconds went in slow motion—a few seconds that would dictate the course of the life ahead of me.

Losing my balance, I tumbled to the ground. There was a brief pause and then tremendous pain—pain that, even after having two children and multiple operations, I’ve never since experienced anything that compares. The whole pot had come flooding down on top of me, covering me in boiling water, as well as the steel boiling jug landing on me. For a brief moment, I was frozen. Call it shock, my body going into protective mode, who knows. I screamed out in pain, collected myself off the floor, and ran through to the sitting room. Mum, her boyfriend, and Thomas were sat watching TV. Mum told me later, the way I carried myself she thought I had been stabbed. They quickly realized I was burning; the pain was clear in my eyes, and the fear, mirrored in my mother’s.

Scooping me up, they rushed me into the bathroom and began showering me in cold water, showering down my pink-and-white Minnie Mouse sweater. Mum’s boyfriend decided to take it off. In his head, this was the right thing; the idea of getting the water onto the boiling skin was all that was running through his head. But my skin was boiling, secreting, and had already begun to stick to my clothes which had melted into my skin. When he ripped off my sweater, much of the skin from my chest came with it. Mum instinctively soaked large wet bath towels in cold water and wrapped me in them and, bundling me into the car, rushed me to the emergency room.

Arriving at the hospital, it was a bit of a circus. This was back when hospitals in the United Kingdom still had sisters in charge of the wards and a time when these ladies of God were not to be messed with. When I arrived at the hospital, the sister wasn’t there—possibly on a break, who knows—but no one seemed to know what they were doing. They started covering me in wet towels; everyone was rushing around as my skin was bubbling in front of them.

It was then the sister entered. Stop! she bellowed.

Everyone stood at attention as if they were all trainee soldiers on exercise. She quickly took control and made fast assessments. She was firm and scary, but sometimes that is exactly the type of woman who is needed in a situation of crisis.

I was severely burned and placed into an incubation unit with no contact allowed. Burns are incredibly susceptible to infection, and the priority is always to avoid this by all means possible. My mum was given full protective clothing, and I was placed onto the bed naked in the middle of the room. All the staff looked like extras from ET, and I couldn’t tell my mum from the nurses.

Sunday was usually the day with my dad. Due to the swap sale, I had missed the day with him. When the ER called him, he was at the snooker rooms and a fair few beers in at this point. I don’t know how he felt receiving that call; having kids myself, I could never imagine the feeling of not being there when my kids were in pain. He ran straight out of the bar and jumped on the bus to get to me.

As he boarded the bus he looked down and saw a teddy in the gutter—a disgusting, old, one-eyed teddy. In his currently intoxicated head, he felt he was going to hospital; of course, he had to bring me a gift. He picked up the wet, filthy abandoned teddy; brushed it down; and popped it in his pocket to give to me on arrival. You can imagine his disappointment when the sister immediately removed and bagged the teddy, telling him his kind gift would most likely kill me. Thought that counts, I guess!

He did get the teddy back and we kept Ugly for several years after that before she got lost.

Dad was placed in protective clothing and could only stare at me through the window of the glass room.

A few days passed with round-the-clock care. But the doctors were becoming concerned. I had begun vomiting continuously. I was experiencing extreme pains and fevers. At first, these were symptoms the doctors had put down to shock from the injuries. But after a few days and more worrying symptoms, I was sent for tests.

That was when it was discovered I had appendicitis and required an emergency appendectomy. I was immediately booked in for surgery, put on nil by mouth, and preparations began. In very little time, they had me on the gurney on the way to the operating theater.

Unfortunately, on the way, my appendix burst, spreading poison throughout my body. Time was of the essence, and the doctors had to move fast. I was incredibly lucky to actually already be in hospital. If I hadn’t been in, there’s a high chance I wouldn’t have made it on time.

I spent the next four to five months in hospital, receiving skin grafts, working on rehabilitation, and recovering. The main scarring was around the chest and arms. And after a few skin grafts, it was confirmed I would most likely be scarred for life.

Strangely enough, I loved my time in hospital. I was in for a number of months. And little did I know, my hospital schooling would prepare me for later in life. During the COVID-19 outbreak in 2020, there was a lot of concern over whether kids would cope with the aftermath of such a long period of homeschooling and social isolation. I remembered my time in the hospital and knew it would have pros and cons so put that into practice when managing 2020.

This is, by no means, saying the CV-19 situation was handled well or correctly. What I mean is you have to be able to not only adapt but also continue to thrive during any given situation. A bad time should not allow for complacency in life. That was as true with my hospital stays as it was with stay-at-home orders.

Although a lot of the time in hospital I was in pain (getting my dressings changed was the worst, and I avoided it like the plague), the majority of time I observed the nurses and helped them with things like bed changes and reading to the other kids. Every day, I would read to Gemma, a young girl my age who had been hit by a car and was in a coma. I formed a friendship with her even though she had never spoken to me. I would talk to her multiple times daily over the course of many months, and in many ways, I felt she understood me. She was there for me as much as I was there for her. It’s strange to say, but I told her so much; I could literally tell her anything. I will always have a special place in my heart for that girl.

What may surprise many is that this was a happy time for me. From a young age, I always found the positives in any situation and learned to make the best of the environment I was in. This one was no different. After the year that had started with Mum and Dad separating, it was nice to have some routine and stability. The food was good, the nurses were amazing, and I got to play in the playroom and watch movies (Return to Oz was on repeat). It was, despite everything, a good time.

Mum and Dad would visit. But eventually they had to have separate visiting schedules, as arguments would generally erupt, with Dad feeling resentment toward Mum’s partner for allowing me to be making tea at such a young age, Mum standing up for him, and then the two just bickering. Separate visits was definitely easier. My accident wasn’t really anyone’s fault. But often in stressful situations, people need to have someone to blame, as blame is a simple emotion that’s easier to control than understanding and forgiveness. Sometimes, things just happen. It can’t be controlled or changed. It just is. Learning to accept that is a tough lesson but an elevating one.

Every day at 2:00 p.m., I had to do a dressing change on my scars. I avoided this like the plague. I think this was the point of my life when I perfected the art of procrastination. I would go to the TV room around 1:15 p.m. and pop on Return to Oz, when the nurse came looking for me at 2:00 p.m., I would try (and fail) every day for an extension!

I also, however, perfected the art of stoicism at this point. This was due to one particular day when I was getting my dressings changed and my mum had come in to be with me. It hurt, oh yes it hurt, and I was happy to show it. My mum sat and held my hand; she gripped it tightly and looked into my eyes. Only now as a mum, I can really feel her pain. But her faced changed, and it wasn’t pain anymore; she had gone white, and all of a sudden, she collapsed. The nurses immediately rushed to her and got her back up to the chair. The feeling of her little girl being in pain was enough to completely drop her blood pressure and faint—a mother’s love. After that, I never cried out in pain in front of people again; even when I was having my babies, you would be hard-pressed to hear me scream.

The pain wasn’t the only reason for Mum’s collapse. This was around the final months of my time in hospital, and at this point, I was allowed home for weekends; it was like day release from prison for good behavior. That weekend, I went home, and early that Sunday morning, I woke to enjoy my day with the family before getting ready to head back to the hospital. During breakfast,