At the end of last year I started to think and pray a lot about writing my own chronic illness themed Bible Study. It’s been a labour of love but here are weeks one and two of the study!
These are intended as safe spaces where you can discuss the study with other Christians and reflect a little as a group – we’re going to be starting with Week 1, Day 1 on Monday 8th September and would love to have you join us! There’s no pressure to join in or contribute, but sometimes it can be nice to be in an environment where you know other people ‘get it’.
Eventually, I am going to publish the study as a book on Amazon but wanted to do a soft launch here – any feedback would be hugely appreciated! I will add the remainder of the study to another post once I have finished editing it, so keep an eye out for the rest coming soon.
I’m back again! It’s been a while since I’ve written and I’ve spent the last 6 weeks in hospital which I think has inspired this post a little.
(Note: the hospital note ‘excerpts’ are fictional, though loosely related to my medical history)
Presenting Complaint
21-year-old female presenting with widespread joint pain, reported fatigue, and possible post-viral symptoms. Multiple prior admissions for unexplained symptoms. Patient appears anxious. History of suspected EDS and functional overlay. Further investigation not indicated at this time.
You don’t write that I had to crawl from the bedroom to the front door because I couldn’t stand upright. That I clung to the banister like it was a rope on the edge of a cliff. That the GP told me, again, it was probably stress.
You don’t mention the way I’d rehearsed my speech in the ambulance. “Don’t say you’re tired. Don’t say you’re scared. Say it hurts. Say you can’t walk. Say the fatigue is overwhelming. Say it like a symptom, not a feeling.” You don’t see the notes I wrote on mu phone because I was afraid I’d get flustered and forget.
You say I “appeared anxious.” As if that explains everything.
You don’t mention that I smiled to be taken seriously. That I didn’t cry because I knew tears are perceived as hysteria. That I lay on the hospital bed with my fists clenched under the blanket, whispering prayers to myself while a junior doctor asked if I might be exaggerating.
You didn’t see me pull on clean socks even though I couldn’t lift my legs. I didn’t want you to think I was dirty. You didn’t see the notebook where I tracked my pain every hour. The part of me still hoping I could prove it.
You wrote “further investigation not indicated.”
I called my mum in the waiting room, whispered, “They think I’m making it up again.” She said, “You’re still breathing. That’s what matters right now.”
That was the first night I started to believe I might survive this, even if the system didn’t believe me.
Mobility and Function
Uses wheelchair part-time. Patient encouraged to mobilise independently. No structural impairment observed. Advised that deconditioning may contribute to perceived mobility issues. Referral to physiotherapy provided.
Perceived mobility issues.
You watched me drag one leg behind the other and called it “perceived.” You watched me tip over sideways from standing and called it “anxiety.” You gave me physio exercises on a photocopied sheet and suggested I just needed to “rebuild confidence.”
You didn’t ask how it felt to move through a world that isn’t made for me. How I still take the longer route through town to avoid the hill, the stairs, the uneven curb. How I once sat outside a building at university in the pouring rain because there wasn’t a ramp out.
You called my wheelchair “part-time,” as if it’s a job I clock in and out of. As if that isn’t your language, not mine.
You didn’t notice how my shoulders dropped with relief when I finally sat in it. How it meant I could go to the shop again, to the library, to the park. How it gave me my body back. You didn’t hear the joy in my voice when I wheeled myself across the hospital car park for the first time in months.
You didn’t see the nurse who brought me a cup of tea and said, “Looks like you’ve done this before.” Like she saw me.
You didn’t write about the stranger in the corridor who told me, “You’re too young for that thing,” pointing to my chair. Or when I replied, “You’re too old to be that rude,” and rolled away smiling. You didn’t document the power I felt in that moment.
I didn’t lose mobility. I reclaimed freedom.
Nutrition and Feeding
Enteral nutrition via NG tube commenced. Patient demonstrated distress during insertion. Limited oral intake reported. Encouraged to increase hydration. Patient appears disengaged from treatment plan.
The first time they inserted the NG tube, I gagged so hard I bruised my own throat. The second time, I asked if I could hold someone’s hand. A junior doctor reached out wordlessly. You didn’t write about her.
You didn’t write about the tape rash on my face or how the pump beeped at 2am like a fire alarm. How I hated being tethered to a machine and loved it, too. It meant I didn’t have to explain, that my body was nourished. It meant I could rest.
You didn’t see me name the tube. Her name was Nelly. Because if I was going to let something live in my body, it might as well have a name.
You said I was disengaged. But I learned how to test the pH myself. I set up the feeds, monitored the pump, calculated the right overnight rate needed. I became a walking spreadsheet, ironic as walking wasn’t possible.
You never asked how it felt to be constantly fed but still hungry – for flavour, for choice, for something warm and familiar. You didn’t mention that I kept imagining my childhood favourite ‘tuna and rice’, picturing the way my mother always served it with a smile. How I wished I could just eat a normal meal but no longer had the energy.
You didn’t see the nurse who brought me stickers to decorate the pump, or the healthcare assistant who used to turn each feed bottle into a different smiley face each night. You didn’t talk about the friend who came to visit and made me laugh so hard until the tube kinked.
I was never disengaged. I was just exhausted. I am. But I am here.
Pain Management
Patient reports widespread pain, self-rated 9/10. No signs of acute distress observed. Request for opioid medication declined due to potential for dependency and possible drug-seeking behaviour. Advised to manage symptoms with paracetamol and CBT techniques.
No signs of acute distress.
I’ve lived in this body for 21 years. I know how to keep my face still when everything inside me is screaming. I know how to breathe through muscle spasms and dislocations and the grinding, electrical throb in my spine. I know how to speak softly so you’ll keep listening.
You don’t see the hours I spent curled around a hot water bottle, willing the pain to plateau. The pain that doesn’t come in spikes but waves – tidal, relentless, cruel.
You declined my medication request and suggested mindfulness. I said, “Do you want me to breathe my way out of a subluxed knee?” You smiled like I’d made a joke.
You didn’t see the nurse who whispered, “I believe you,” and slipped me a heat pack.
You didn’t write about the laughing fit I had with my sister when I was trying to get up the stairs and we both fell down laughing. Not because it didn’t hurt, but because it did – and laughter was the only way through it.
You didn’t see the wall I decorated with song lyrics and pain scale doodles, keeping them within arms-reach in case I needed to put a number to my pain, again. Or the fact that every day I wake up and try. No matter how shitty I feel.
Not because I’m brave. Because I have to.
Discharge Plan
Medically stable. Fit for discharge. Patient advised to follow up with community team and contact GP if symptoms worsen. No additional interventions recommended at this stage.
Medically stable. That was your way of saying, “We don’t know what else to do with you.” Because I certainly didn’t feel stable.
You didn’t mention the way my heart raced as I crossed the threshold. Not because I wasn’t glad to leave, but because I knew I’d be back. Because stable doesn’t mean safe. It doesn’t mean well.
You didn’t see the way I curled up in bed that night, every joint aching from the journey, every nerve on fire. But also: the softness of my own sheets. The cat who lay on my feet. The way I whispered to myself: I’m still here.
Anyone who knows me, knows that I love poetry. I love writing it, reading it, analysing it – there is just something about it that helps to calm me and get my thoughts out on paper. I thought I’d do something a little bit different and start a poetry challenge. Please tag me in your poems (@recovering_my_ sparkle on Instagram) and use the hashtag maypoetrychallenge as well!
A letter to your past self – what advice would you give the younger you?
A place that feels like home – describe a location that brings comfort to you.
Things left unsaid – write about words you never said out loud and what they mean to you.
Roots and wings – write about growth and freedom.
The language of flowers – choose a flower and let it ‘speak’.
Firelight and shadows – explore warmth and fear in contrast using the metaphors of fire and shadows.
Echoes of laughter – pick out a joyful memory and write about that.
The love that changed you – whether it’s romantic or platonic, how did this love shape you?
If your reflection spoke back – what would it say?
A letter from the stars – what would they say?
A scar tells a story – physical or emotional, what do your scars say?
The first time you felt free – capture that moment and the emotions that you felt.
A secret you never said – it can be real or imagined.
A thunderstorm inside you – how does this feel?
Love letter to a stranger – write to someone you’ll never meet.
The ghost of someone still alive – a person who drifted away.
The taste of nostalgia – capture a memory through tatse.
A storm that never ends – what would it feel like to live inside this?
The colour of loneliness – what colour would it be, and why? Is this something you can relate to?
A world without fear – imagine it, describe it, paint a picture (through words) about what it would be like.
If I could hold time in my hands… – Start by finishing this line, what would you do with it?
A place you can never return to – physically or emotionally.
A dream that felt more real than reality – what happened?
Write a poem that ends with a beginning – a cycle, a rebirth, a new start.
A clock that runs too fast (or too slow) – what would it change?
The garden that only blooms at night – what would grow there? What things bloom and thrive in the darkness?
The sound of healing – talk about what you believe healing, recovery, forgiveness, or peace sounds like.
A conversation with the moon – what would you say? What would it reply?
Tomorrow begins with… – finish the thought.
The first line of a new chapter – what do you think is next for you in your life?
I recently wrote, performed and shared this spoken word poem on my TikTok account and it seems that a lot of people could relate to it. If you can relate, I’m incredibly sorry, but I also hope you find some comfort in knowing that you’re not alone in feeling this way.
They say,
“Call for help.”
But I did.
And help came
with flashing lights
and cold stares
and hands too firm
for someone already breaking.
“Trust the system,” they said.
But I did.
And the system strapped me down,
spoke over me
called me non-compliant
when I was just
trying not to fall apart.
Safe?
You tell me what’s safe
about being told
your story is “too much”.
That your pain
needs a label
before it gets attention?
What’s safe
about uniforms
that make your skin crawl,
white coats
that feel like warning signs,
and police who ask questions
but don’t really want the answers?
I learned the hard way:
“Safe” is a lie
when you’ve been hurt
by the helpers.
When your cries
get translated into crazy.
When your trauma
gets brushed off as behavioural.
When your body
is treated
but your soul
is left bleeding in the waiting room.
You see,
no one tells you
how much bravery it takes
just to walk through the door
of a hospital
when the last one left scars.
No one talks about
how the ones with the power
can do damage
with a clipboard and a checklist,
with a shrug,
with a sedative
with a look that says,
“You again?”
This is what it’s like to be afraid
of the people you’re told to run to.
To flinch
when the sirens wail
in the streets.
To go quiet
in the presence of authority
because the last time you spoke –
it cost you something.
So don’t ask
why I didn’t tell you sooner.
Why I waited.
Why I lied and said “I’m fine.”
Because when “help” feels like harm
silence becomes survival.
And I’ve mastered the art
of sounding okay
just enough
to stay alive.
But I’m tired.
I want safe
to mean something again.
I want healing that doesn’t hurt.
I want care that listens before it labels,
that asks before it acts,
that sits with me
before it tries to fix me.
Because I’m not a problem.
I’m a person.
And I don’t want to be saved –
I want to be seen.
Here is a link to the original TikTok incase you want to hear it spoken rather than just reading it:
This post is one that is hugely personal to me and is on a topic that I have spent a long time looking at and learning about. If you have ever prayed for healing – whether that’s mental health, physical health, or emotional wounds – you will know how hard it is when healing doesn’t come in the way you expect.
Perhaps you’ve cried out to God, but your depression still lingers. Maybe you’ve begged for relief from physical pain, but the symptoms persist. Maybe you’ve asked God to heal the wounds of trauma, but you still wake up feeling broken. When healing doesn’t come – or when it comes slowly – it’s easy to feel forgotten, discouraged, or even angry at God.
If you’ve asked God, Why haven’t you healed me? I want you to know that you are not alone. You only have to look through the Bible to see this. Some of the people we most associate with faith wrestled with this question.
Paul, for example, had what he called a ‘thorn in the flesh’. Whilst we don’t know what it was exactly – some people believe that it was a chronic illness, others think it was emotional suffering – but what we do know is that Paul pleaded with God three times to take it away. And God’s response?
“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)
That wasn’t the answer that Paul was looking for. He wanted healing. But instead, God gave him grace. And that’s hard to accept, isn’t it? Because when we pray for healing, we don’t just want grace to endure – we want relief. And when it doesn’t come, it becomes easy to wonder if God is even listening.
I think that one of the hardest things about faith is that we often expect healing to come in a specific way, but God sees the bigger picture.
Does that mean we shouldn’t pray for healing? Not at all. Jesus himself healed people throughout the Gospels. God is a healer, and we should absolutely bring our needs to Him. But sometimes, it doesn’t happen in the way we expect.
Maybe healing is happening slowly, in a process instead of a miracle. Maybe healing isn’t just physical, but emotional or spiritual. Maybe healing comes in the form of endurance and peace in the middle of suffering, rather than the removal of the suffering itself.
One of my favourite reminders of this comes from Isaiah 43:2
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned.”
God doesn’t promise we won’t walk through deep waters or fire. But He does promise to be with us in it.
Holding Onto Faith in the Waiting
So, what do we do when healing feels out of reach? How do we hold onto faith when we’re still in the middle of pain?
Be honest with God – God isn’t afraid of your frustration, your disappointment, or your doubt. If you feel angry, tell Him. If you feel weary, cry out to Him. The Psalms are full of raw, unfiltered prayers – God invites that kind of honesty.
Remember that suffering is not a sign of abandonment – one of the biggest lies we believe is that if we’re still suffering, it must mean God has forgotten us. But the cross tells a different story. Jesus Himself suffered, not because He lacked faith, but because suffering is part of life in a broken world. God’s presence is not proven by the absence of pain – He is with us in the pain.
Look for small signs of grace – sometimes, healing comes in unexpected ways. Maybe you’re not free from illness, but you’ve found a deeper sense of peace. Maybe you still struggle, but you’ve built a community that walks with you. Healing isn’t always about the absence of pain – it’s also about the presence of God’s grace in the middle of it.
Keep hoping, even in the unknown – it’s okay to wrestle with God’s timing. It’s okay to not understand. But don’t lose sight of this: the story isn’t over yet. We may not see full healing in this life, but as Revelation 21:4 reminds us, there is a day coming when:
“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”
And that is the ultimate hope we cling to. One day, all suffering will end. Until then, God walks with us through it.
I recently read Ruth Chou Simons book ‘Now and Not Yet’ and it changed my perspective completely. I highly encourage reading it if you have struggled with trusting God in the waiting. The book touches on seasons of waiting and when life isn’t what we have hoped or planned.
“I truly believe your current season is not wasted,” writes Simons. “God is purposeful about what happens between today and tomorrow, between right now and someday. My prayer is that we stop hiding behind simple platitudes and quick fixes to our unwanted right nows and bravely step into the ways God wants to change us… instead of staying busy trying to change our circumstances.”
If you’ve ever struggled with your mental health or chronic illness and considered medication, I’m almost certain that you will have heard something similar to the following, at least once: “You don’t need meds, just pray harder”, “God is a healer – why rely on medication?” or “Medication is just a crutch; real healing comes from faith.”
These kinds of messages can make us feel guilty for seeking medical help, as if choosing medication means we’re somehow failing in our faith. But here’s what I want to explore today: Can faith and treatment coexist? Can you trust God and take medication? (If you want a quick answer and spoiler then here it is – yes, you absolutely can). So, let’s talk about why.
Let’s be real – there is still a lot of stigma around medication, just in society in general. Thankfully this stigma seems to be lessening over time, but that doesn’t mean it has disappeared. And here’s the thing – mental illness is not always a spiritual issue – but it is always a medical one. Just like some people with diabetes require insulin, mental health conditions sometimes require medication. This doesn’t mean you have a lack of faith, it just means that your brain needs medical support.
Consider this: if someone has high blood pressure, do we tell them to stop their medication and just pray more? No, we would encourage them to use the tools they have available to them – medication included – but to also trust God at the same time.
There is a misconception that if you take medication it means you don’t trust God enough. But look at it from this point of view – what happens if medication is one of the ways that God can provide healing? James 1:17 says:
“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights.”
God has given the wisdom to doctors, scientists and researchers to create medication that can help people. If we believe that God can work through doctors and medicine for physical healing, why wouldn’t we consider this when it comes to mental health?
Faith and medication can work together in a number of ways:
Medication can help stabilise you so you can work on recovery – it doesn’t mean that you are taking a shortcut or avoiding deeper healing. It can give you the stability that you need to do the deeper work.
Seeking medical help can be viewed as a form of stewardship – in 1 Corinthians 6:19-20, we are reminded that our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit. Taking care of our mental and physical health – including using medication – is a way of honouring God by looking after our bodies.
God can work through science – God isn’t against medication – after all, he created the minds that develop it. Throughout history, God has used human knowledge and ability to bring healing.
I’m not going to sit here and tell you that you must try medication – it’s a personal choice and isn’t a one-size-fits-all solution. But there are things you can do when you are considering whether or not to try meds.
Pray for wisdom – ask God to guide you. Philippians 4:6 reminds us to bring everything to God in prayer.
Get advice from others – talk to doctors, family, friends and discuss your concerns and questions. If you talk to someone from your church, find someone who understands both faith and mental health.
Remember that God can use multiple ways for healing – sometimes healing is instant (and this is what we all hope for, isn’t it?) but other times, it’s something that takes time, treatment, therapy, and spiritual growth. Trust that God can work through all of these options.
Jeremiah 30:17 says:
“‘But I will restore you to health and heal your wounds,’ declares the Lord.“
God cares about your healing, in every sense – physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. If medication is part of that process for you, it doesn’t mean you lack faith. It means you are using the resources that God has made available for you.
Before I dive into today’s post, I want to let you know that this blog is a safe space for anyone who is struggling or feeling isolated in their journey. Whether you’re dealing with mental health challenges, chronic illness, or just trying to navigate your faith in a difficult season of life, you’re not alone. This series is going to explore hard truths, share stories, and hopefully encourage you in a real, relatable way.
So, lets jump in!
It’s common in many faith communities to hear well-meaning phrases like, “If you just pray more, you’ll be healed,” or “Faith will fix this.” But, what happens when healing comes right away, or when the struggles feel too big for just prayer alone? Is there something wrong with your faith if you’re still battling anxiety, depression, or other mental health challenges?
I can’t speak for everyone, but I know I’ve struggled with this question. Growing up as a Christian, I have felt guilty for feeling anxious or depressed, as though it meant I wasn’t praying enough, or that somehow my relationship with God was lacking. But the truth is, struggling with mental health doesn’t mean we lack faith. Mental health issues don’t discriminate – they can affect anyone, no matter how strong their faith may be. It’s a misconception that if you’re truly trusting God, you won’t struggle with things like depression, anxiety, or even feeling overwhelmed by life. Struggling does not mean failing.
So, where does that leave us?
When we look at the Bible, we see that mental health struggles are acknowledged throughout Scripture. Even some of the greatest figures of faith faced dark, difficult times. The Psalms are full of David’s cries of despair – his deep sadness and his feelings of abandonment. Take Psalm 42, for example: “Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Saviour and my God.”
David was honest with God about how he felt. And I believe God honoured that honesty. He doesn’t expect us to put on a mask and pretend that everything’s okay when it’s not.
And here’s the tricky part: many of us grow up with an idea that if we’re struggling, it’s because we’re not praying enough, or that God is punishing us for something. We see others who seem to have it all together – who are calm, confident, and free from anxiety – and we thing, “Well, what’s wrong with me?” And the guilt and shame can grow, making it even harder to seek help.
It’s that mindset that I want to challenge today. The truth is, just because we have faith doesn’t mean we won’t face challenges. Jesus himself said, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33) That verse doesn’t say “If you have enough faith, you won’t face difficulty.” It says that, even in the midst of difficulty, we can take heart because Jesus has overcome it all. He’s with us in our pain, our struggles, and our doubts.
And that’s something that’s been something so powerful in my own journey: understanding that God is with me in the struggle. He doesn’t leave us when we’re struggling mentally or emotionally. I’ve learned that struggling with mental health doesn’t mean we’re failing God or our faith – it means we’re human. And God knows what it’s like to be human. He became human in Jesus, and he understands our pain in a way that no one else can.
I’ve also found it hard to accept that, just because I’ve had therapy and take medication, it doesn’t mean I’m not strong enough. But, faith is not about denying reality or pretending that everything is okay. Faith is about trusting God through the hard stuff – through the things we can’t fix on our own. Faith is not a magic fix for our pain; it’s a relationship with a God who holds us, even when we’re at our lowest.
If you’re struggling with mental health today – whether that’s anxiety, depression, stress, or anything else – I want you to hear this: It’s okay not to be okay. Your mental health is just as important as your physical health. And God sees you. He cares about what you’re going through. And he wants to help you through it.
Another scripture that has brought me so much comfort in times of struggle is Philippians 4:6-7. It says “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer or petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”
Now, I know that verses like this can sometimes feel like a ‘quick fix’ that doesn’t address the depth of what we’re going through. But I want to highlight that the peace of God doesn’t mean the absence of struggle. It means that, in the midst of struggle, God’s peace can still hold us. It’s not about getting rid of the anxiety or pain, but about experiencing peace through it.
So, my takeaway message if this: If you’re struggling with your mental health, it doesn’t mean that you’re weak in faith, and it doesn’t mean that you’re doing something wrong. In fact, it might mean that you’re being brave enough to face something difficult – and that’s something that God honours. Don’t let shame or guilt keep you from getting the help you need. Whether it’s therapy, medication, or a supportive community, there is no shame in seeking help. Faith is about trusting God in the journey, not denying that we’re needing help along the way.
So, as I finish, I want to encourage you to take a moment to reflect on how God might be inviting you to trust him with your mental health. What steps can you take to care for yourself, body, mind, and spirit? Maybe it’s something small, like acknowledging your struggles or reaching out for help.
One of my favourite songs is called ‘Flowers’ by Samantha Ebert. It is a song that means an awful lot to me for a lot of reasons, but the main one is this: it is a song that God has used to show me his love and plan for my life on numerous occasions. Here is the story of the first time I listened to the song and how God spoke to me – for some context, this was during my admission to hospital last year whilst I was on the gastro ward just before my transfer back to my local psychiatric hospital.
The day before my transfer back to the psych ward, I had a visit from one of the hospital chaplains. She had visited me a few times during the seven weeks I was there and had always been kind to me, offering words of comfort and prayers during some of the hardest moments of my admission. That day, she told me about a song she had recently come across, one she thought I might like. “It’s called ‘Flowers’ by Samantha Ebert,” she said. “I really think you should listen to it.”
Later that evening, as I lay in my hospital bed, headphones in, I pressed play. The melody was soft, delicate, and the lyrics hit me in a way I hadn’t expected. “I’m a good God, and I have a good plan, so trust that I’m holding a watering can, ’cause flowers grow in the valley.”
Tears welled in my eyes as I listened. The words felt as if they had been written for me, a direct reminder that even in my lowest moments, God had not abandoned me. That He was still here, still holding me, even when I felt completely lost. I listened to the song on repeat until I fell asleep, letting those words seep into the cracks of my broken heart.
The following day, I was transferred back to the psych ward. It was an exhausting process, as hospital transfers always are. The endless waiting, the signing of forms, the final checks and cannula removals, before I was wheeled through the corridors, leaving behind the world of NG feeds and IV drips for another round of locked doors and psychiatric reviews.
I barely had time to settle back into my room before there was a knock at the door. It was one of the occupational therapists, someone I had always found easy to talk to. She smiled at me, holding out a small watering can and a packet of flower seeds. “You missed the group activity this morning,” she said. “We were planting flowers, but I thought maybe you’d like to do it with me now?”
I stared at her, my breath catching in my throat. A watering can. Flower seeds. Flowers grow in the valley. I felt my heart pound, an overwhelming sense of something greater than coincidence washing over me. I blinked back the tears threatening to spill over and nodded, unable to find the words to explain just how much this moment meant to me.
We sat on the floor of my room, scooping soil into small pots, carefully pressing seeds into the earth. As I watered them, I thought about how God had sent me a reminder in the most unexpected way – that I was still being nurtured, that even in this valley, something beautiful could grow.
I’ve included a link to the song here – I really recommend listening to it!
My journey with Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME) is one that I could never have anticipated, and yet it has shaped my life in ways I am still trying to comprehend. It has been four years since I received the diagnosis, which, in the grand scheme of things, is not that long. But to me, it feels like a lifetime. A lifetime of limitations, of losses, of learning to navigate a world that no longer fits the way it once did.
Of all the chronic illnesses I have been diagnosed with, ME is the one I would get rid of in a heartbeat. It is cruel beyond belief. It strips away the ability to live life in any predictable or reliable way. There is no cure, no universally effective treatment – only management, and even that feels like a fragile balance. Some days, I can do more. Other days, even sitting up is too much. The unpredictability of it is one of the hardest things to live with.
There have been times over the last four years where I have been completely bed-bound, unable to do anything but lie in the dark, too exhausted and in too much pain to even sit up. Those periods were terrifying, but I always held onto hope that I would find my way back to a more functional state. And, at times, it did. There were moments when I could leave my flat for short trips, where I felt like I was reclaiming slivers of my old life. But now, since sepsis, those moments are fewer and farther between.
I can now only leave my flat for essential appointments, the ones that must be attended in person. Anything that can be done from home, I do remotely. My world has shrunk in ways I never thought possible. I require a wheelchair to mobilise outside because my legs are too unstable to carry me for any meaningful distance. Inside my flat, I often rely on a walking stick to move between rooms. Even then, most of my day is spent in bed, waiting for the couple of ‘functional’ hours I am granted each day. Those brief windows of time where I feel somewhat capable of doing small tasks, of engaging with the world beyond my bed.
One of the most distinct and cruel markers of ME is the way your body punishes you for overstepping its limits. When I push too hard, even slightly, I pay for it. The flares are brutal, and the warning signs are unmistakeable. When I have overdone it – whether that means sitting up too long, engaging in too much conversation, or even just focusing too hard on something – I feel it almost immediately. My legs burn as if they are on fire, a sensation so intense that it is impossible to ignore. It is my body’s way of screaming at me that I have no rested enough, that I have ignored its pleas for stillness.
The thing about ME is that it is not just about fatigue. That word does not do justice to the bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of sleep can fix. It is like being weighed down by an invisible force, making every movement feel like wading through cement. It is pain that radiates through my muscles and joints, an unrelenting ache that never truly disappears. It is cognitive dysfunction – brain fog so thick that I forget simple words mid-sentence, struggling to focus, and sometimes feel as though my mind has simply stopped working altogether. It is sensory overload, where lights are too bright, sounds are too loud, and even the touch of fabric on my skin can feel unbearable.
Since sepsis, my body has become even more fragile. I used to have at least a little energy to ration throughout the day, but now, every action comes with a cost. The simplest tasks – brushing my teeth, getting dressed, making a cup of tea – feel monumental. I have to think about every movement, weigh whether it is worth the energy expenditure, knowing that if I push too far, I could be bedridden for days. My life has become a delicate balancing act between doing too much and not doing enough.
Sleep offers no relief. No matter how many hours I spend resting, I wake up just as drained as before. And even on nights where exhaustion consumes me, sleep doesn’t always come easily. The pain, the discomfort, the sheer weight of my body’s brokenness keeps me tossing and turning, desperate for rest that never truly arrives. When I do sleep, I wake up feeling like I have run a marathon in my dreams, my muscles aching as if I had been fighting through the night.
The isolation that comes with ME is another layer of cruelty. I have lost the ability to maintain relationships the way I once could. I miss out on gatherings, on conversations, on simply being able to exist in the world in a way that feels normal. Friends and family understand to an extent, but unless someone has lived through it, they can never fully understand. My dad was actually diagnosed with ME when I was a baby and, though he doesn’t struggle any more, it means that my family have a very good understanding of my day-to-day life.
I miss spontaneity. I miss being able to say yes to things without immediately calculating the toll it will take on my body. I do not know what the future holds for me in terms of ME. It is scary waking up each day, not knowing how the day will go, what your body will cope with. And it is terrifying when you experience a decline – is this what is going to tip your body over the edge? Is it just a temporary flare, something that’s going to stick around for a long time, or, god-forbid, be permanent?
What I do know is that, since sepsis, things have been worse than ever before. I have lost more than I ever thought I could, and I am still trying to come to terms with that. But I have also learned resilience in a way that few people understand. I have learned to exist within my limitations, to navigate a life that looks nothing like the one I imagined. And, most of all, I have learned that survival is not just about living – it is about adapting, about finding ways to exist within the cracks of what was lost, about holding onto hope even when it feels like everything is slipping away.
My next post is going to talk about what people with ME want you to know, as well as exploring some of the ways other people with the condition describe it to others.
I got to see the musical Dear Evan Hansen on their UK tour last month – it’s a show I’ve both wanted to see for a long time, yet also been sceptical about watching. I’d read the book and watched the film, both of which made me sob, and I didn’t hugely want to bawl my eyes out in the middle of the theatre. But it was absolutely phenomenal. Yes, I did cry a bit, but I didn’t make a fool of myself.
It is a show that isn’t afraid of the darker, more taboo subjects – when you hear the plot it seems strange that it would make a good show, but it absolutely does. It delves into the theme of mental health (in particular depression and suicide), loneliness, and the power of connection with others. It is an emotional show, that teaches the audience that, they too, can be found.
You are not alone – the song that is most well known is “You Will Be Found” – a song I fell in love with the first time I heard it. It reassures people that even in their darkest moments, there is always someone who cares. Evan begins by feeling invisible, but he discovers throughout that others feel the same and also yearn for the same sense of connection that he does.
It’s okay not to be okay – the mental health theme that is prominent portrays struggles with honesty and remind us that it’s okay to admit when things aren’t going well and to seek help. Vulnerability is a strength, not a weakness.
Authenticity matters – yes, Evan’s decision to fabricate a relationship with Connor in order to comfort his grieving family isn’t a particularly thought through thing, but it comes from a well-meaning place. We are shown that pretending to be someone you’re not has consequences, but that opening up and being true to ourselves helps to foster connections with others, and there will be people out there who accept us for us.
Words and actions have power – the letter that Evan writes becomes a symbol of hope for so many people. Small gestures of kindness and honesty can make a significant impact. However, we also have to be mindful that our words and actions can hurt, as well as uplift, others.
Connection heals – the characters in Dear Evan Hansen are all yearning for connection in one form or another. Their shared pain and support helps them begin to heal.
Grief is complex and personal – there is no right or wrong way to grieve. The Murphy family all grieve in their own way and process what has happened in different ways – the song Requiem demonstrates this perfectly.
Seek help when you need it – Evan struggles in silence for a lot of the show, but his journey demonstrates the importance of seeking support. We don’t have to face our challenges alone, even though at times it feels this way.
It’s okay to start over – by the end of the show, Evan acknowledges his mistakes, embraces the truth, and is beginning to rebuild his life. It is never too late to grow, change or start again. Everyone makes mistakes and they don’t have to define us as long as we learn from them.
If you haven’t seen the show I thoroughly recommend it – or watch the film. I think there’s a lesson for everyone in it. Just remember to have some tissues handy!
Therapy is a powerful tool that anyone can benefit from – it can help with personal growth, healing, self-discovery and compassion towards both yourself and others. Yet, despite more and more people speaking about therapy and what it entails, there are still myths surrounding it which can cause hesitation and doubts about whether it is something to consider.
Therapy is only for people with ‘serious’ mental health issues:
Therapy isn’t just for those with severe mental health issues or those in crisis. It is a resource that can be used by anyone facing life challenges, seeking personal growth, or wanting to understand themselves better. I had a Psychology teacher when I was studying for my A Levels who told me that she really strongly believed that everyone, mental health conditions or not, should have to have therapy at some point in their life – and looking back, I absolutely agree!
Talking to friends and family is just as effective as therapy:
I am absolutely NOT wanting to dismiss the invaluable support that friends and family can offer you – I have incredible support from my family and friends and I wouldn’t be able to do life without them by my side. Therapy, however, offers something different. Therapists are trained professionals who are there in a neutral, non-judgemental capacity. They use evidence-based techniques to help you process emotions, identify patterns, and develop coping strategies.
Therapy takes forever to work:
How long therapy takes to work is entirely dependent on your goals and needs. Some people find huge benefits within a few weeks, whereas others benefit more from long-term work. It’s something to discuss with your therapist as they are in the best position to help you determine what is best for you.
The therapist will judge me or think that I am broken beyond repair:
Therapists are there to provide empathy and understanding, not to judge you. They aren’t there because they think you are broken and need fixing – they just want to help you work towards your goals in a partnership with you.
Therapy is all about your childhood experiences:
For some people, talking about their childhood is absolutely necessary. And for most people, looking at past experiences can be helpful, but therapy isn’t solely focused on the past/your childhood. The therapeutic process should be tailored to address your current concerns, whether they stem from past or present experiences.
My therapist will solve my problems for me:
As nice as this would be, it’s simply not possible for the therapist to do the work for you. Ultimately, change has to come from you – the therapist can help you and give suggestions and guidance, but you have to be the one to make those changes. One of my most commonly used phrases in my therapy sessions used to be “but I’m paying you to agree with me” which would inevitably result in an eye roll and being reminded that she definitely is NOT there to agree with me – it would be nice if she did, but then no progress would be made and therefore it would be a huge waste of time – for me and for her.
Believing myths like the ones discussed here can prevent people from seeking therapy when they need it most. So it’s important to challenge these misconceptions so that people are informed and have an accurate depiction about what therapy is like. If you’ve been hesitant about therapy, remember: it is a tool for everyone! Taking that first step could be the start of the rest of your life and provide the transformation and growth that will turn your life around.
She ordered a skinny, zero sugar vanilla latte. I ordered a caramel latte – no ‘skinny’ or ‘sugar free’ in sight.
She said she worries that she’ll never get back to work, is sad that she is missing out on all the life experiences she was looking forward to because chronic illness is cruel. I said I agreed, but that at least she’d learn there’s life beyond an eating disorder.
I tell her that it’s ok to feel lost and alone – because it’s not a feeling that will last forever.
She tells me that she’s scared she’ll always feel like an outsider or that something is ‘wrong’ with her. I tell her that she’ll find her people. People who love her and understand her, and that she’ll finally learn there is nothing wrong with her after all.
She told me that she feels on edge and frustrated whenever she has to use a walking stick or wheelchair. I tell her it’ll become second nature and people won’t care about it.
She asked me if I believed that God has a plan for her life. And for the first time in a long time, I could tell her I did.
Living with chronic illness is a journey that is full of challenges – physical, emotional, social – you name it, it can be a challenge. Among these, loneliness is something that is incredibly common but is also underestimated by a lot of people. Chronic illness fundamentally reshapes your entire life – activities that one brought you joy may no longer be possible due to pain or fatigue, friends and family may struggle to understand your limitations which also leaves you vulnerable to feelings of loneliness.
Social events often require energy and effort that a lot of people with chronic illness are unable to participate in. Spoon theory is a good way to describe the energy limitations that are imposed on someone with a chronic health condition, and often we simply lack the ‘spoons’ needed. This can lead to feelings of isolation as being around friends and family is how we feel connected and is something that people need – we use solitary confinement in prisons as a punishment because it removes that connection that all humans need.
As well as this, when people misunderstand our illness or limits that we have, it can lead to a lack of empathy or patience. It’s understandable that, unless you’ve got a chronic health condition yourself, you can’t fully comprehend what life is like. And as chronic illnesses are so unique and symptoms vary drastically from person to person there can be misunderstanding between individuals with the same condition. It often feels like no one understands what life can be like, and this is a lonely place to be!
Loneliness doesn’t just stem from chronic illness either – it can actually worsen it. Social isolation can exacerbate feelings of depression, anxiety, and hopelessness, which can, in turn, amplify physical symptoms. It can feel like a never-ending cycle that is impossible to break.
But despite the loneliness that you may feel, there are other ways to connect with people. I have found communities online that have allowed me to connect with and speak to other people with chronic illness who understand what life can be like. For me, social media is my connection to the outside world – if I didn’t have access to it then life would feel even more isolating for me. I sometimes take breaks from social media as it can feel overwhelming at times, but I do miss the sense of community and understanding when I am away from those groups.
If you know someone who is living with a chronic illness, remember that your understanding and patience can make all the difference. Reach out, listen without judgement, and offer support in whatever way your loved one needs. Offer to pop round for a cup of tea or to go to drop off some shopping. Ask if they want to chat on the phone or over facetime. Find out if they need help with jobs around the house and offer to go over and help them get some bits done. Whatever is needed at the time – knowing that they have people who love and care about them will undoubtedly make the person struggling with chronic illness feel valued and connected to you!
When I was diagnosed as autistic, I started to read (probably a little obsessively) up on the condition. I wanted to know everything and anything about it, and read about other people’s experiences as well. Here are some of my top books that I have come across!
To the outside world, Emily looks like a typical girl, with a normal family, living an ordinary life. But inside, Emily does not feel typical, and the older she gets, the more she realises that she is different. As she finally discovers when she is 16, Emily is autistic. Girl Unmasked is the extraordinary story of how she got there – and how she very nearly didn’t.
In this simple but powerful memoir, we see how family and friends became her lifeline and how, post-diagnosis, Emily came to understand her authentic self and begin to turn her life around, eventually becoming a mental health nurse with a desire to help others where she herself had once been failed.
Ultimately uplifting, Girl Unmasked is a remarkable insight into what it can be like to be autistic – and shows us that through understanding and embracing difference we can all find ways to thrive.
In 2021 Ellie was diagnosed with autism and ADHD and although it felt like the light had finally been switched on and she wasn’t just ‘broken’, the room before her was messy from a lifetime of being misunderstood. She quickly found that she wasn’t the only one, in fact 80% of autistic females remain undiagnosed at age 18 and only 8% of adults affected by ADHD have a formal diagnosis. Even with a diagnosis, most are left asking, what now?
Ellie’s mission is to change that. To challenge the common misconceptions about neurodivergent conditions that are preventing marginalised people get the diagnosis they need, and to provide simple, actionable resources so that they can live without the fear and shame that she did.
UNMASKED is Ellie’s kind and supportive guide that sheds light on everything from masking to the diagnostic process and from sensory overload to navigating the workplace, so that every reader can better understand themselves and others, and ultimately, make society more inclusive.
Laura James found out that she was autistic as an adult, after she had forged a career for herself, married twice and raised four children. This book tracks the year of Laura’s life after she receives a definitive diagnosis from her doctor, as she learns that ‘different’ doesn’t need to mean ‘less’ and how there is a place for all of us, and it’s never too late to find it.
Laura draws on her professional and personal experiences and reflects on her life in the light of her diagnosis, which for her explains some of her differences; why, as a child, she felt happier spinning in circles than standing still and why she has always found it difficult to work in places with a lot of ambient noise.
Have you, a friend or family member been living with undiagnosed autism?
For every visibly Autistic person you meet, there are countless ‘masked’ people who pass as neurotypical. They don’t fit the stereotypical mould of Autism and are often forced by necessity to mask who they are, spending their entire lives trying to hide their Autistic traits. In particular, there is evidence that Autism remains significantly undiagnosed in women, people of colour, trans and gender non-conforming people, many of whom are only now starting to recognise those traits later in life.
Blending cutting-edge research, personal insights and practical exercises for self-expression, Dr Devon Price examines the phenomenon of ‘masking’, making a passionate argument for radical authenticity and non-conformity. A powerful call for change, Unmasking Autism gifts its readers with the tools to uncover their true selves and build a new society – one where everyone can thrive on their own terms.
The modern world is built for neurotypicals: needless noise, bright flashing lights, small talk, phone calls, unspoken assumptions and unwritten rules – it can be a nightmarish dystopia for the autistic population. In Untypical, Pete Wharmby lays bare the experience of being ‘different’, explaining with wit and warmth just how exhausting it is to fit in to a world not designed for you.
But this book is more than an explanation. After a late diagnosis and a lifetime of ‘masking’, Pete is the perfect interlocutor to explain how our two worlds can meet, and what we can do for the many autistic people in our schools, workplaces and lives. The result: a practical handbook for all of us to make the world a simpler, better place for autistic people to navigate, and a call to arms for anyone who believes in an inclusive society and wants to be part of the solution.
During the first thirty years of her life, comedy script writer Sara Gibbs had been labelled a lot of things – a cry baby, a scaredy cat, a spoiled brat, a weirdo, a show off – but more than anything else, she’d been called a Drama Queen. No one understood her behaviour, her meltdowns or her intense emotions. She felt like everyone else knew a social secret that she hadn’t been let in on; as if life was a party she hadn’t been invited to. Why was everything so damn hard? Little did Sara know that, at the age of thirty, she would be given one more label that would change her life’s trajectory forever. That one day, sitting next to her husband in a clinical psychologist’s office, she would learn that she had never been a drama queen, or a weirdo, or a cry baby, but she had always been autistic.
A summary of my book:
1. I’m diagnosed with autism 20 years after telling a doctor I had it.
2. My terrible Catholic childhood: I hate my parents etc.
3. My friendship with an elderly man who runs the corner shop and is definitely not trying to groom me. I get groomed.
4. Homelessness.
5. Stripping.
6. More stripping but with more nervous breakdowns.
7. I hate everyone at uni and live with a psycho etc.
8. REDACTED as too spicy.
9. After everyone tells me I don’t look autistic, I try to cure my autism and get addicted to Xanax.
10. REDACTED as too embarrassing.
‘Fern’s book, like everything she does, is awesome. Incredibly funny, and so unapologetically frank that I feel genuinely sorry for her lawyers.’ – PHIL WANG
Ellie Middleton is back with a new, practical book to help you work WITH your neurodivergent brain rather than AGAINST it. In each chapter, she writes about the eight executive functions that neurodivergent people struggle with including working memory, prioritisation and emotional regulation and shares 5 simple tips for readers to try out, including:
– Creating a launch pad to remember the essentials when you leave the house – Drawing a car park of ideas to help visualise your thoughts and manage impulse control – The 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 mindfulness technique to prevent spiralling and regulate emotions – Breaking up each day into Four Quadrants to approach every day with more flexibility
This isn’t another journal or planner that claims to organize your entire life because Ellie is the first to admit that she doesn’t have things under control 100% of the time. This also is not a book about how to fit into the neurotypical way of doing things (aka masking). Instead, Ellie reveals why society tells us that we ‘should’ do things (read: patriarchy, ableism, White supremacy) and shows us how we can all free ourselves of those expectations, feel empowered and, ultimately, be more YOU.
Growing up, Chloé Hayden felt like she’d crash-landed on an alien planet where nothing made sense. Eye contact? Small talk? And why are you people so touch-oriented? She moved between 10 schools in 8 years, struggling to become a person she believed society would accept, and was eventually diagnosed with autism and ADHD. When a life-changing group of allies showed her that different did not mean less, she learned to celebrate her true voice and find her happily ever after.
This is a moving, at times funny story of how it feels to be neurodivergent as well as a practical guide, with advice for living with meltdowns and shutdowns, tips for finding supportive communities and much more.
Whether you’re neurodivergent or supporting those who are, Different, Not Less will inspire you to create a more inclusive world where everyone feels like they belong.
Written by two late-diagnosed neurodivergent women and the founders of fast-growing online community @IAmPayingAttention, HOW NOT TO FIT IN is an handbook-meets-rallying cry.
Foregrounding real experiences with autism and ADHD, this book explores the journey of discovering, accepting and flourishing with your neurodivergent brain. It explores why getting diagnosis can be so fraught and gendered, and how to navigate a world which centres neurotypical brains in the realms of relationships, careers, friendships and finances.
By reading this book, you’ll:
Start to understand why so many people are being diagnosed with ADHD and autism right now
Learn the impact that not knowing your own brain can have on your mental health
Find the confidence to ask for accommodations and adjustments at work – without apologising
Have the chance to note down how this journey is evolving for you in chapter-by-chapter workbook sections.
… and, most importantly, get to know yourself and your needs better.
Featuring the latest research and thinking on neurodivergence, contributions from dozens of experts and the real stories of people just like you, this innovative book – which has been written and designed especially for *spicy* brains – is essential reading for anyone whose brain seems to see the world in a different way.
In this ground-breaking debut, Charli Clement combines their own experiences alongside unique short profiles from individuals with chronic illness, to provide an intimate and insightful look at the complexities of living as an autistic and chronically ill person.
From navigating your diagnosis and healthcare, learning how to manage pain and your own sensory needs to dealing with ableism, medical misogyny and transphobia, Clement offers practical advice and delves into the unique challenges faced by individuals living in this intersection.
With a focus on the unique neurodivergent experience and an exploration into disability pride and joy ‘All Tangled Up in Autism and Chronic Illness’ is a necessary and empowering resource for autistic and chronically ill people as well as for family members, friends, and healthcare professionals.
I could go on and on about the books that I’ve read or heard good things about, but for now I’ll leave it at this. Happy reading!
Autism (or Autism Spectrum Disorder – ASD) is a neurodevelopment condition that impacts social interaction, communication, and behaviour. Whilst a lot of the research into ASD focuses on children, it’s important to remember that autism doesn’t just disappear with age – autistic children grow into autistic adults. Those with autism face unique challenges that can hugely affect mental health.
Adults with autism are at a higher risk of developing mental health conditions compared to the general population – it is estimated that between 70-80% of autistic individuals will experience mental health difficulties in their life. Common co-occuring conditions include anxiety disorders, depression, PTSD and OCD.
There are so many factors that can contribute towards mental health struggles:
Social isolation – many autistic adults struggle with building and maintaining relationships because they have difficulties in understanding social norms or managing in social situations due to becoming overstimulated. This can cause people to become isolated and increases feelings of loneliness, which is a huge risk factor for poor mental health.
Masking and burnout – masking is extremely common in autistic adults (with women being more likely to do this) as people try to suppress their autistic traits in order to fit in. This can help them to manage situations but in the long run it is exhausting and can lead to burnout with increased anxiety and depression.
Unemployment or underemployment – many adults face barriers to stable employment due to misunderstandings about their abilities or things like finding the work environment too overwhelming and overstimulating. This can lead to financial issues and impact self-esteem and feelings of worthlessness.
Sensory overload – when in an environment that is too loud, bright, or busy can overwhelm someone who is autistic, and this can cause long-term emotional and physical fatigue.
Lack of understanding and support – there is often a lack of empathy or accomodations and autism is still something that is very misunderstood. As well as this, when diagnosed in adulthood you are told that yes, you have autism, and may be offered a follow up session to discuss this, but then you’re on your own.
There are many ways that people can support the mental health of autistic adults – whether that’s support from other people, or support from yourself.
Build supportive networks – it can be helpful and beneficial to try and make connections with people who have similar experiences, and is definitely positive to try to form relationships with others who have a respect for neurodiversity and don’t see it as a negative thing.
Practice self-care and sensory regulation – you might need to spend time in quiet spaces, utilise things like weighted blankets, or sensory lighting as well as engaging in hobbies and activities that bring you joy. Making regular space for decompressing and relaxing can ultimately help you to avoid burnout and shutdowns.
Educate others – raising awareness of autism and mental health in both professional and personal capacities will help bring about more understanding and inclusion.
For far too long, autism and mental health have been stigmatised, leading many adults with ASD to feel invisible and misunderstood. By promoting neurodiversity barriers can be broken down and more and more people will come to understand that autism isn’t a problem to be cured or fixed, but a different way of experiencing the world.
Whilst mental health problems are not an inevitable part of living with autism, they are more likely as the world refuses to accommodate or understand neurodiverse needs. If you are an autistic adult, or someone who loves one, remember that seeking help is a positive thing – with the right support good mental health is more than achieveable!
Last year I was diagnosed with Autism. It was a diagnosis that had been brought up a few times in the past, but until recently I wasn’t open to the possibility of an assessment. I’d rather unpolitely told my key worker when I was under the Child and Adolescent Mental Health Service to stick it. But last year I had my assessment as I decided that I’d lived long enough feeling like something was wrong with me and I needed answers.
For so many people, myself included, being diagnosed as autistic can feel like that one missing piece of the puzzle has finally slotted in to place. It is a moment of clarity that can explain years of feeling different and misunderstood. But it can also bring about other emotions – relief, confusion, grief, and sometimes joy. More and more people are finding out that they’re autistic as adults as we finally recognise what autism looks like and how it might present. This comes after years of trying to navigate a world that wasn’t built for them.
ASD is a historically under-diagnosed condition especially in women, people of colour, and those who don’t have obvious behavioural challenges. Many of us who are diagnosed later in life grew up at a time when autism awareness was limited and only really associated with children or those presenting with stereotypical traits.
For me, I spent years of my life feeling like something was wrong with me. I never seemed to fit into the typical mould that my peers did – I wasn’t interested in the same things as them, I preferred to spend time alone, and I really struggled with forming and maintaining friendships. So when I received my diagnosis I felt a huge wave of relief because there was finally an explanation for why I had felt different my entire life. It provided validation and allowed me to stop beating myself up for my difficulties.
I started to feel all the feelings – I felt sad, frustrated, angry and overwhelmed, with relief mixed in for good measure.
I was angry with myself that when CAMHS discussed the possibility of me being autistic, I told them to stick it and refused to discuss it any further. I felt angry with myself that I never went ahead with an assessment. I was frustrated that no one else noticed the signs prior to this, especially when everything began to feel incredibly obvious.
Why did I feel like this?
Because if I had been recognised as autistic 5, 10, 15 years ago I’d have probably achieved my degree. I’d have been able to understand myself better and make adjustments that may have made university and work more feasible. I might not have chronic mental health issues or have spent so long in environments that are so unsuitable for neurodiverse individuals. I’d have had years to wrap my head around it all. I began to feel like life could look so different for me.
But I also began to learn that autism isn’t something for me to fix. And I started to feel relief that at least I could start to make adaptations to my life that will benefit me from here on. I realised that I could start to embrace myself in an authentic way and that I could celebrate my strengths and skills.
Yes, receiving my diagnosis meant I had to make a huge shift in self-understanding. I had to begin unlearning societal expectations that I’d spent years trying to adapt to. I realised that my diagnosis didn’t change who I am – I have always been autistic and will always be autistic – and that is ok! I now get to try and build a life that allows me to honour my needs, strengths, and individuality.
The last time I was lucky enough to see Wicked on their UK tour – I treated myself to front row seats and loved every second!
It’s no secret that I love the musical Wicked – I’ve been lucky enough to see it 7 times and seen 5 amazing Elphaba’s and 6 incredible Glinda’s perform. I used to dream of performing in a West End pit orchestra (and still do if I’m being honest) and Wicked would definitely be my dream show. I absolutely adore every part of it.
When we think of Elphaba and Glinda, it is easy to see them as opposites. Elphaba, the misunderstood outsider stands in direct contrast to Glinda, the sparkling picture of popularity. But the truth is far more nuanced than this. I think everyone has an inner Elphaba and Glinda – often one side more pronounced than the other, but there nonetheless. They’re not just fictional characters; they are symbols, mirrors for the parts of ourself we often hide or struggle to embrace.
Elphaba: For the Misfits and the Rebels
Elphaba is for every person who has felt like they don’t belong, like they’re too much or not enough all at once. She is for the ones who see the world differently and refuse to accept it as it is. She represents the misunderstood, the outcasts, and the rebels who dare to question the rules.
She is for:
Every undiagnosed autistic girl who never quite fit in
Every child who was labelled “too much” for simply being themselves
Every loner who found refuge in books, dreams, or the stars
Every person who stood up for what’s right, even if it meant standing alone
Everyone who has learned to find power in the very things other people tried to shame them for
Elphaba reminds us that being different isn’t a curse – it’s a gift. Her story is a testament to the strength it takes to stay true to yourself in a world that demands conformity.
Glinda: For the Dreamers and the Evolving
Glinda, on the other hand, is for the ones who thought they had to play by the rules to be loved. She represents the perfectionists, the people-pleasers, and the dreamers who eventually learn that authenticity matters more than appearance.
She is for:
Every girl who thought fitting in was the only way to matter
Every person who hid their insecurities behind charm and a dazzling smile
Every perfectionist who learned that growth comes from vulnerability
Everyone who discovered that true power lies not in being adored, but in being brave
Every friend who realised that love isn’t about staying the same, but growing together
Glinda shows us that it is never too late to rewrite your story. She reminds us that even the most sparkling facade can hide a heart searching for something real – and that transformation is possible.
Elphaba and Glinda teach us that there is no single way to be strong, no one path to belonging. Elphaba’s defiance shows us the power of staying true to ourselves, while Glinda’s evolution reminds us that growth and change are part of the journey. Together, they challenge us to embrace both our shadows and our light, our flaws and our potential.
Whether you see yourself in Elphaba’s fierce independence, or Glinda’s journey to authenticity – or perhaps a little of both – their stories are for all of us. They remind us that the labels the world gives us don’t define who we are. What matters is how we choose to rise, love, and grow despite them.
So, who are you today? The rebel standing tall against the storm? The dreamer learning to let go of perfection? Maybe, like Elphaba and Glinda, you are a little bit of both – and that’s where the magic truly happens.
Three years ago Dr Alex George decided to post a picture of himself holding the medication that he takes for his mental health. The idea behind it was to challenge the stigma around medication and mental health. When he first started taking medication he felt ashamed – a feeling that so many people have felt at the prospect of needing medication to help manage their mental health. Since then thousands and thousands of people have also joined in, posting pictures of their medication on the 1st of every month in an attempt to help remove the shame and stigma associated with meds.
I used to think that taking psychiatric medication was something to be ashamed of. I worried it made me ‘weak’ or demonstrated that I wasn’t trying hard enough. There was a part of me that believed that I should simply ‘push through’ and try to manage on my own. But here’s the truth: there is NO shame in taking medication for your mental health. Those thoughts that I had were planted by a society that still stigmatises mental health struggles and the tools we use to manage them.
When someone needs glasses to see clearly, insulin to manage diabetes or an inhaler because they have asthma, there is no hesitation. We simply accept that they need medication to help. So why is there so much stigma around mental health medication? Your brain is just as much a part of your body as any other organ and, sometimes, you need extra help.
Psychiatric medication doesn’t change who you are as a person. It doesn’t erase your personality or take away your emotions. It simply helps to create space for you to be more yourself.
Medication for mental health is just a different part of the ‘toolkit’ you can use to manage your mental health, just like talking therapy is a different way to benefit yourself. It doesn’t get rid of your struggles or do the work for you, but it does help make things more manageable. It can clear the fog long enough for you to engage in support like therapy and to help you implement the tools that you need in your day-to-day life. For some people it is medication that can get you to a point where you can get out of bed in the morning. For others it helps to lessen the anxiety that you feel or to manage unwanted thoughts and feelings.
It’s not a perfect process by any stretch of the imagination either. Finding the right medication and dosage can take a long time – I tried 11 different medications at various doses and for varying lengths of time before landing on a combination that works for me. I still struggle, and it doesn’t really help lift my mood much, but it definitely helps prevent me from hitting rock bottom. And choosing to explore the option of medication and being open to the possibility of taking meds isn’t a failure, it’s another way of saying “I deserve to feel better, and I am willing to try whatever it takes.”
Meds don’t come without potential complications, either. They can make things worse to begin with, and they take a while to fully kick in. There are also potential side effects to contend with (and sometimes additional meds needed to combat various side effects) or withdrawals if you are coming off a medication you’ve taken for a long time. But by acknowledging that you deserve to feel better you are deciding that your mental health matters and that you are wanting to take care of yourself. This isn’t a sign of weakness – it’s a sign of incredible strength.
If you’re on medication for your mental health, considering it, or simply curious about what it could do for you, remember this: there is no right or wrong way to look after your mental health. Some people find healing in therapy, some by exercising, some by taking medication. Often it is a combination of different approaches that can make the most difference. And if you’re feeling hesitant or alone because of the stigma, know that you are not alone. Here is what I wish I could tell my younger self:
Taking care of your mental health – however that may be – is an act of love. You are not weak. You are not broken. You are brave, resilient, and deserving of every tool available to help you live the life you want.
So, let’s keep talking about this. Let’s challenge the stigma and remind each other that there’s no shame in doing what you need to feel better. Because you – and your mental health – are worth it.
Mending the Broken 