Posted on August 31, 2025

You often hear people, after a major life event, talk about some kind of rebirth — how they’ve discovered a new passion for life and no longer want to waste a minute. That wasn’t me.

I wasn’t reborn. I was broken.

At first, I was confused, angry, suicidal. I grieved for the man I used to be — because he was gone. What was left felt like a shell: no identity, no sense of self, and the crushing weight of being a burden on my wife. I couldn’t see how life could hold any purpose or meaning anymore.

The Day Everything Changed

On 23rd October 2023, I collapsed at home and was rushed to hospital. Stroke was ruled out, but scans revealed I had an ACA aneurysm.

Errors and delays meant that by the time doctors carried out a lumbar puncture, the 12-hour window for accurate results had already passed. It wasn’t done until 16 hours later, making it inconclusive. Instead, I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND) — a debilitating condition that disrupts signals between the brain and body.

I spent four months in hospital before being transferred to a specialist neurological rehabilitation centre.

The Day I Was Supposed to Die

On 3rd April 2024, everything changed again. The aneurysm they had described as “stable” ruptured.

I was rushed to Addenbrooke’s Hospital for emergency surgery. Doctors told my wife not to expect me to survive. I was unconscious for four weeks.

When I woke, more than 14 years of memory were gone. The sight in my left eye was lost. My hearing was severely impaired. My speech was compromised. In my mind, I was still a 36-year-old infantry soldier, but I was trapped in the broken body of a 50-year-old man. It was utterly terrifying.

After weeks at the Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital and further time in the rehab centre, I felt I was making no progress. I became angry, bitter, and deeply depressed. After eleven months in clinical services, I discharged myself in September 2024.

The Unseen Battle of Coming Home

Being home wasn’t easy. Becoming a wheelchair user didn’t just change my mobility — it changed my whole life.

We already lived in a bungalow, which you’d think would be ideal. But no. I needed a ramp to get through the front door. My wheelchair wouldn’t fit through the bathroom, the bedroom, or the back door to the garden. By November 2024, we had to move into a wheelchair-accessible home.

Even then, the adjustment was overwhelming. I had children I couldn’t remember being born, a wedding day I couldn’t recall, and a crushing sense of vulnerability. As a soldier and private military contractor, I had known fear, but never vulnerability. Out there, training and trust in my team always kept it at bay. Now it was everywhere.

How a Diary Saved My Life

In hospital, an occupational therapist had suggested the Dairium app to keep a diary. With FND, spasms and tremors made typing impossible, but the app had a talk-to-type function. Out of boredom, I gave it a try.

One entry became two. Two became three. Soon I was recording everything: my daily routines, my fears, my anger, my suicidal thoughts. The diary saved my life.

I still remember one Friday night, lying on the ward, planning my suicide. I had written a letter to my wife, obtained the means, and all that was left was to choose the moment. I opened the app to record my thoughts — and staring back at me were my own words. Suddenly I asked myself: is this really how my story ends?

From then on, writing became my lifeline. It gave me a way to pour out feelings, to question myself, and eventually to glimpse something beyond despair.

The Love That Rebuilt Me

The greatest catalyst in my recovery was my wife. Through everything, she had stood by me — advocating for me in hospital, caring for our children, and facing the possibility I might not survive. When I offered her an ‘out’, telling her she deserved freedom from the burden I had become, she gave me a blunt, unrepeatable reply. She wasn’t leaving.

At home, she poured her love into our new house, creating a safe space for all of us to heal. What had happened to me traumatised the whole family, not just me.

And then came the moment that changed everything. It wasn’t physiotherapy, medication, or surgery. It was love.

One night, my wife initiated sex. It was the first time since my illness that I felt like more than a patient. I was her husband, her lover, a man she still wanted. In that moment, I realised: if she could see me, love me, and want me despite everything I had lost, then maybe I could learn to love myself again.

That night marked the beginning of rebuilding my fractured sense of identity and masculinity.

A New Me, Shaped by My Brain

Brain damage rewires you in strange ways. Foods I once hated I now liked. Drinks I loved tasted flat. My personality shifted — no filter, just thoughts said out loud. Old me hated DIY; new me loves it. I’ve repaired furniture, restored tables, and even modified our sofa.

But the greatest change of all was writing. Dyslexia had always kept me away from words. Now, writing was my passion.

One afternoon in May 2025, I was re-reading my diary entries when it struck me: if I created a blog, I could expand beyond the diary — and I could do it independently.

So on 14th May 2025, I published my first blog.

From Therapy to a Public Voice

At first, I didn’t think about readers. I simply wrote about whatever was on my mind — fears, frustrations, resilience. Yet within three months, my blog had been read over 4,200 times.

One piece, about the government’s welfare reforms, was picked up by the BBC, leading to an interview on BBC Radio Norfolk.

Dr. John Barry, co-founder of the Male Psychology Network, read my blogs and invited me to write for The Male Psychology Magazine. My first article was accepted and published. Then a second. Then a course review on masculinity was published on the Male Psychology website.

From diary entries in a hospital bed to published articles and BBC interviews — my writing had become more than therapy. It had become my voice.

Finding Purpose in Words

Writing is not easy for me. Tremors, seizures, and fatigue mean I can only write in short bursts, often late at night. I use talk-to-type, then edit through spellcheck, and finally polish it by hand. Each blog takes time and effort — but every one I publish feels like a victory.

And it gives me something greater than an audience.

My blog is my way of communicating — my voice without the speech issues, my way of being seen without the anxiety of tremors and spasms. When I see the reads 📚 climb, it makes me smile. It tells me people are listening. My words matter.

Through writing, I have found purpose. And with purpose, I have begun to rebuild my identity.

Only the Beginning

This isn’t the end of my story — in many ways, it’s only the beginning.

I share daily updates and promote my blogs on my Facebook profile, while my Facebook page is used for more formal announcements and micro-blogs. Soon, I’ll take another big step by launching my own website, so I can fully own my platform and grow my writing further.

Life is still difficult. Chronic pain, spasms, and disability are part of my everyday reality. But while my aneurysm may have taken the sight in my left eye, it has given me a new way to see the world.

If you’d like to explore more of my journey, you can read my blog.

And if you’ve faced adversity and found that, despite the pain, it left you with an unexpected blessing — I’d love to hear your story in the comments. If you know someone who might benefit from this story, please share it with them.