Posted on September 7, 2025

When I was told to “man up” after my subarachnoid haemorrhage, I just looked at my wheelchair and wondered: what does that even mean now?

For as long as I can remember, “man up” has been one of those phrases thrown around casually—on parade squares, in workplaces, in pubs. It sounds simple, even motivational. But in reality, it’s loaded with expectation. It doesn’t just ask a man to be strong; it demands silence, emotional suppression, and the illusion of control.

After my aneurysm ruptured, I woke up in a body that no longer played by the rules. PTSD, Functional Neurological Disorder, Fibromyalgia, and brain injury became daily realities. Pain, fatigue, tremors, memory lapses—none of it fits the cultural script of “unshakeable masculinity.” And yet, people still said it: “man up.”

But here’s the truth: I’ve discovered more strength in vulnerability than I ever did in hiding behind a mask. Real courage has been admitting when I can’t do something, asking for help, or sitting with emotions instead of burying them. Resilience isn’t about fighting until you break; it’s about adapting, redefining, and refusing to measure yourself by outdated standards.

The “man up” mentality is a trap. It isolates men, discourages honesty, and feeds the myth that masculinity is proven through silence and endurance. For those of us living with disability or invisible illness, it can be downright destructive. Strength, I believe, lies in truth—in being open about pain, in choosing connection over isolation, in finding dignity in adaptation.

The Reality of Strength: A Life Beyond Survival

Since becoming disabled, I’ve also been told more times than I can count how “strong” or “inspiring” I am. But here’s what most people don’t want to hear: most days I don’t feel strong. I don’t feel inspired. I feel trapped.

Survival may keep me breathing, but it doesn’t give me a life. Existing is not the same as living. I didn’t come through trauma, illness, and injury just to end up sidelined while life carries on without me. A wheelchair doesn’t just limit where I can go; it’s a constant reminder of what I’ve lost.

The deepest loss isn’t always visible. When my brain aneurysm ruptured, it didn’t just damage my body—it fractured my identity. My memory was torn apart. My personality shifted. Even something as simple as taste changed. I woke up in a body that no longer felt like mine, carrying the memories of a man in his mid-thirties, trapped inside the broken body of someone twenty years older.

And society doesn’t make it easier. Friends and family sometimes long for the “old me”—a man who no longer exists. Meanwhile, the very systems meant to support disabled people seem designed to forget us. The NHS tells me repeatedly: “there’s nothing we can do.” Referrals vanish. Appointments never materialise unless I chase endlessly. Adult Social Services crawl at a snail’s pace, dropping cases or leaving them to languish. Unless you fight constantly, you disappear.

So I endure: waiting lists, lost referrals, broken promises, and the exhausting effort of demanding to be seen. And I resent it. I resent being told to be “grateful” for survival when that survival has stripped away agency, opportunity, and dignity. Survival without life is not a gift—it is a sentence. A slow, grinding sentence carried out in waiting rooms and bureaucracy.

Finding Beauty Beyond Survival

And yet, sometimes, there are moments that remind me life can still be more than endurance. Recently, I managed to get out to a small nature reserve near my home in South Norfolk.

As a wheelchair user, access to green spaces isn’t always straightforward. But when it’s possible, the impact is profound. Fresh air, open sky, birdsong, the simple presence of trees and water—none of it can be replicated by medication or therapy. Nature stills the noise of PTSD, eases the tension of pain, and whispers that beauty exists beyond the four walls I often feel imprisoned by.

This is why accessibility matters. Thoughtful design and inclusive planning aren’t “nice extras”—they are lifelines. They are the difference between mere survival and having moments of peace, joy, and connection.

That short outing left me lighter in spirit. Proof, again, that life—even with its losses—still has space for beauty, if only the world makes space for us.

True Strength: Vulnerability and Dignity

True strength is not about “manning up.” It is not about silence, endurance, or wearing masks until they suffocate you. Strength is vulnerability. It is adaptation. It is fighting for dignity, even when systems fail you.

Survival alone is not enough. Every human being deserves the chance to live, not just exist. For disabled people, that means more than medical stability—it means agency, inclusion, and access. It means society recognising that we are not inspirational props, not burdens to be managed, but human beings still capable of meaning, connection, and joy.

My wheelchair doesn’t make me less. It simply forces me to live differently. And perhaps, in that difference, there is a lesson worth hearing: survival matters only when it makes life possible.

A Call to Action: Redefining Strength

So I ask you—what does true strength mean to you? And how might we build a world where survival is not the end of the story, but only the beginning of living?