The New Year is quietly under way. It is Saturday 3 January 2026, and as I write this, snow is falling steadily outside my window. It is one of those calm, unmistakably beautiful moments that winter sometimes offers. I am thankful that I have nowhere I need to be today. Snow and wheelchairs do not mix well, and what appears peaceful from indoors can very quickly become dangerous outside.

 

This stillness feels symbolic. With the turning of the year has come a change in how I view my life. This is not because circumstances have suddenly become easy, but because something fundamental has shifted. For the first time in a long while, I am not simply surviving. I am beginning to look forward.

 

That shift has been slow, hard-won, and costly.

 

From collapse to survival

 

My journey over the past few years began in October 2023 when I collapsed at home. What followed was not a single event but an extended fight to stay alive. I spent eleven months moving between hospital wards and a specialist neurological rehabilitation centre. Those months stripped life back to its most basic components: pain, uncertainty, dependence, and the relentless effort of simply getting through each day. When I was finally discharged, I felt cautiously hopeful. After such a long period of inpatient care, I assumed there would be continuity and that outpatient services would be in place to support the transition back into life in the community.

 

That hope was short-lived.

 

Every outpatient service I had been referred to, including the so-called Specialist Neurological Outpatient Service, assessed me and concluded that I was too complex for their remit. “Too complex” is a phrase that sounds clinical but functions as an exit sign. It allows responsibility to be declined without saying so directly. In practical terms, I was discharged with no medical care and no structured support.

 

Falling through the gaps

 

I turned to adult social services, believing that this was where support for disabled adults should exist. What I encountered instead was a system overwhelmingly geared towards elderly care. It struggled to comprehend, let alone support, a working-age man in his early fifties who is also a husband and a father of three young children. My needs did not fit neatly into predefined categories. When that happens, the burden shifts onto the individual.

 

Forms, assessments, delays, reassessments, and appeals followed. Months passed with little progress and no sense of urgency. I approached my Member of Parliament in the hope that he might intervene. What I encountered was a lack of authority, competence, and even basic compassion. There was no meaningful challenge to the system and no sustained advocacy.

 

By that point, 2025 had become a battleground. I am a former soldier. Fighting is something I understand. This was not war in the conventional sense, but it was still a fight. It was a fight for access to care, for dignity, and to prevent my family and me from being quietly written off by systems unable or unwilling to deal with complexity.

 

A system not fit for purpose

 

What 2025 demonstrated with uncomfortable clarity is how poorly the NHS is structured for people with complex, overlapping conditions. It remains rigidly departmentalised. Neurology exists in one silo, pain management in another, and mental health somewhere else entirely. Rehabilitation, social care, and community support operate alongside rather than together.

 

There is no genuinely integrated, multidisciplinary approach. Responsibility fragments. Accountability dissipates. The patient is left to coordinate care across multiple departments while unwell, disabled, and often exhausted.

 

The interface between health and social care is even more dysfunctional. Instead of continuity, there is conflict. Support is not offered proactively. It must be fought for, justified repeatedly, and defended at every stage. The human cost of that process is rarely acknowledged. For working-age adults with complex disabilities, this system is not fit for purpose.

 

The ally who made the difference

 

There is one reason I am not still trapped in that fight today: my Wellbeing Worker from the Royal British Legion.

 

The Royal British Legion exists to support serving personnel, veterans, and their families. In my case, my wellbeing worker, Hannah, worked relentlessly on my behalf. She advocated when I no longer had the energy. She challenged decisions, chased referrals, and refused to accept silence as an answer.

 

Without her persistence, experience, and determination, I would almost certainly still be fighting for basic support. That is not speculation. It is a realistic assessment of how fragile access to help can be.

 

The Legion took a holistic view of me as a person, not a problem to be managed. The impact of that approach on my quality of life has been profound.

 

And yet, it raises an uncomfortable truth.

 

The uncomfortable truth

 

It is unacceptable that those who have served this country are forced to rely on charitable intervention to access support that should be guaranteed by the state. Charities should enhance statutory provision, not replace it. When they become the primary safety net, it signals an abdication of responsibility.

 

“Broken Britain” is not a slogan here. It is descriptive. It reflects systems that function unevenly, reward those who can fight hardest, and quietly abandon those who cannot. My experience is not unique. It is simply visible.

 

A hard-won turning point

 

Despite everything, 2025 did not end in failure. By the final months of the year, new medical referrals were finally accepted. Neurology and pain specialist appointments were confirmed, with my first appointment scheduled for 13 January 2026. Whether these lead to positive outcomes remains to be seen, but access itself represents progress after prolonged exclusion.

 

More significantly, adult social services finally funded a personal assistant.

 

David began working with me on 15 December 2025. Within weeks, the impact has been tangible. Consistent, practical support has transformed my ability to engage with the world. It has reduced isolation, increased confidence, and created space for something beyond endurance.

 

What remains difficult to accept is how unnecessary the battle should have been. No one should have to fight for over a year to secure support that is clearly life-changing. No one should require a charity advocate simply to be heard.

 

Drawing a line

 

When the clock struck midnight on 1 January 2026, I made a deliberate decision. I would not forget what had happened or minimise it, but I would draw a clear line under it.

 

That chapter began with my collapse in October 2023. It continued through the fight to survive, eleven months of hospitalisation, and a year spent battling systems not designed to cope with people like me.

 

That chapter is now closed.

 

2026 and the decision to fight forward

 

2026 is about looking forward. It is about rebuilding a life within new limits, not denying disability but refusing to be defined solely by it. It is about discovering what I can still achieve, where I still need support, and how to live in a way that provides purpose and restores a sense of achievement.

 

This is not naive optimism. It is grounded, earned positivity.

 

I intend to use my experiences constructively. Not out of bitterness, but out of responsibility. Through my blog, I will continue to write honestly about masculinity, disability, identity, and the realities of navigating health and social care systems that are fragmented and often hostile to complexity.

 

Building on the blog’s success, I am launching a YouTube channel to reach a wider audience. @DustyWentworthTalks will cover the same themes as my writing. It will be grounded in lived experience, not abstraction. It will be candid, challenging, and real.

 

Across my social media platforms, I will be using #Fightback throughout 2026. This is not a slogan. It is a statement of intent. This is about recovery, rebuilding, and purpose. It is about turning experience into advocacy and using whatever platform I have to highlight systemic failures and help others feel less alone.

 

Moving forward with intent

 

I have no illusions about the road ahead. Disability does not disappear because a calendar changes. But momentum matters. Support matters. Direction matters.

 

For the first time in a long while, I am not simply reacting to crisis. I am shaping what comes next. That is worth fighting for.

 

Follow the journey

 

If this resonates with you, I invite you to follow my journey as it unfolds. Visit my website dustywentworth.com, where you will find links to my blog and social media platforms. You can read my written work at dustywentworth.blogspot.com and subscribe to my YouTube channel @DustyWentworthTalks so you do not miss any videos once publishing begins.

 

This is my fight forward.

 

You are welcome to walk it with me.