But one year later,

I had a terrible accident as I left a pub one dark night with friends,

in Scotland.

As we followed the path through a forest, I suddenly felt a massive thud,

then a second thud,

and I fell to the ground.

I had no idea what had hit me.

I later found out that when the gate was opened on a garden,

a wild stag stampeded along the path and ran straight into me.

Its antler penetrated my trachea and my esophagus

and stopped at my spinal cord and fractured my neck.

My best friend found me lying on the floor,

gurgling for help through a hole in my neck.

And we locked eyes, and although I couldn't speak,

she could understand what I was thinking.

And she told me, "Just breathe."

And so, whilst focusing on my breath, I had a strong sense of calmness,

but I was certain that I was going to die.

Somehow, I was content with this,

because I've always tried to do my best in life whenever I can.

So I just continued to enjoy each breath as one more moment --

one breath in and one breath out.

An ambulance came, I was still fully conscious,

and I analyzed everything on the journey, because I'm a scientist:

the sound of the tires on the road, the frequency of the street lights

and eventually, the city street lights.

And I thought, "Maybe I will survive."

And then I passed out.

I was stabilized at a local hospital and then airlifted to Glasgow,

where they reconstructed my throat and put me in a coma.

And while I was in the coma, I had many alternate realities.

It was like a crazy mix of "Westworld" and "Black Mirror."

But that's a whole other story.

My local TV station reported live from outside the hospital

of a Cambridge scientist who was in a coma,

and they didn't know if she would live or die or walk or talk.

And a week later, I woke up from that coma.

And that was the first gift.

Then I had the gift to think, the gift to move,

the gift to breathe

and the gift to eat and to drink.

That took three and a half months.

But there was one thing that I never got back, though,

and that was my privacy.

The tabloid press made the story about gender.

Look -- I'm transgender, it's not that big a deal.

Like, my hair color or my shoe size is way more interesting.

When I last spoke here --

(Applause)

When I last spoke here --

(Applause)

at TED, I didn't talk about it, because it's boring.

And one Scottish newspaper ran with the headline:

"Sex Swap Scientist Gored by Stag."

And five others did similar things.

And for a minute, I was angry.

But then I found my calm place.

And what ran through my head was, "They've crossed the wrong woman,

and they're not going to know what's hit them."

(Laughter)

I'm a kindness ninja.

I don't really know what a ninja does,

but to me, they slip through the shadows, crawl through the sewers,

skip across the rooftops,

and before you know it, they're behind you.

They don't turn up with an army or complain,

and they're laser-focused on a plan.

So when I lay in my hospital bed,

I thought of my plan to help reduce the chances

of them doing this to somebody else,

by using the system as is, and paying the price of sacrificing my privacy.

What they told one million people, I will tell 10 million people.

Because when you're angry, people defend themselves.

So I didn't attack them,

and they were defenseless.

I wrote kind and calm letters to these newspapers.

And The Sun newspaper, the kind of "Fox News" of the UK,

thanked me for my "reasoned approach."

I asked for no apology, no retraction, no money,

just an acknowledgment that they broke their own rules,

and what they did was just wrong.

And on this journey, I started to learn who they are,

and they began to learn who I am.

And we actually became friends.

I've even had a few glasses of wine with Philippa from The Sun since then.

And after three months, they all agreed,

and the statements were published on a Friday,

and that was the end of that.

Or so they thought.

On the Saturday, I went on the evening news,

with the headline "Six National Newspapers Admit They Were Wrong."

And the anchor said to me,

"But don't you think it's our job as journalists

to sensationalize a story?"

And I said, "I was laying on a forest floor, gored by a stag.

Is that not sensational enough?"

(Laughter)

And I was now writing the headlines.

My favorite one was,

"The stag trampled on my throat, and the press trampled on my privacy."

It was the most read piece of BBC News online that day.

And I was kind of having fun.

And by the end of my week of media,

I started to use my newfound voice and platform

to spread a message of love and kindness.

And when I had the minute of anger and hatred

towards those press and journalists,

I had to identify my inner bigotry towards them.

And I had to meet and speak with these people

without judgment.

I had to let myself understand them,

and in return, they began to understand me.

Well, six months later, they asked me to join the committee

that regulates the press.

And a few times a year, I sip tea and dip biscuits

with the likes of Daily Mail editor Paul Dacre, who says to me,

"So, Kate, how have your last few months been?"

And I respect them.

And I'm now one of three members of the public

who has a seat at the table --

not because I'm different,

but because my voice counts, just like anybody else.

And the irony is,

every now and again, I'm asked to visit those printing presses

of this declining industry,

because some people think

that the technology I spoke about here, last time at TED, my interactive print,

might actually help save them.

So beware of your inner bigot,

and make friends from your enemies.

Thank you.

(Applause)