Posted on August 9, 2025

What does a man do when his body turns traitor—when his voice vanishes, his muscles shake, and the only strength left is the will to endure? This is my life with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND)—a battle fought not on foreign soil, but within my own skin.

Yesterday should have been a day of celebration. My new bespoke wheelchair—a bright orange Quickie Nitrum—had just arrived, coinciding with the first anniversary of my discharge from a neurological rehabilitation centre. But as so often happens now, my body responded to the surge of emotion in a cruel and unpredictable way.

By the afternoon, the toll had arrived. Excruciating pain gripped me. My speech was gone entirely. Tremors and muscle spasms rocked my body without mercy. Despite the considerable amount of pain medication I take, the pain always finds a way through.

By 01:30, the spasms had become so violent they resembled a seizure. In moments like that, medication is useless. You have to retreat into your mind, find a fragment of distraction—a mental stronghold—to survive it. Last night, I tried music and breathing exercises. I would call it a partial success at best. My wife, ever watchful, administered my ‘as required’ medication and set my music playing, but there is only so much she can do.

We have a routine for these episodes. Once she has done all she can, she retreats to the spare bedroom to get what sleep she can. That is not selfishness; it is preservation. She has three children to care for in the morning—our three, aged ten, six, and two—who need her energy and attention. Despite the support of a personal care assistant, my wife is still my primary carer. I work hard to limit the burden on her, but the truth is she carries a weight few could shoulder.

A Promise Forged in Fire

I do not remember when the pain eased or when I finally drifted into sleep. I woke at 10:30 to the soft kiss of my wife on my cheek, a fresh coffee in one hand, and a small pile of fourteen morning tablets with a glass of water in the other. All this while simultaneously managing our three children, one of her sister’s boys on a sleepover, and one of our daughter’s friends staying the night.

I honestly do not know how she does it. Through my most difficult moments, her strength has been my anchor. She advocates for me fiercely, with both love and steel resolve.

At my lowest point, I told her that if she wanted to leave, she could. I did not want her to feel trapped with a ‘broken old man’. She is fifteen years younger than me. I thought I was offering her freedom.

Her reply is unprintable—but it was clear, emphatic, and fuelled by love. She was not going anywhere. I had underestimated how deeply she had committed to us, to me. My words, though well-intentioned, wounded her. I regret that. Offering to step aside was my way of protecting her from the life my disabilities impose.

Living with the Scars of Invisible Illness

Exhaustion hangs heavy today, yet I refused to fester in bed. My wife helped wash and dress me, noting again the bruises that now cover much of my body—from my shoulders, across my torso, down my arms and legs. They are the marks left by the sheer violence of the spasms, each one a reminder of the toll this condition takes.

The pain remains high despite slow-release patches, pregabalin three times a day, and oxycodone for breakthrough pain.

Now, as I dictate these words, my children are playing in the pool. Hallie, our youngest, sleeps on the sofa. My wife sits nearby, supervising, listening to music, and working on a jigsaw puzzle. It is these pockets of normality that keep me grounded.

FND could easily dominate my life if I allowed it. The pain, tremors, speech loss, seizures, myoclonus, and a carousel of sensory problems—numbness, hypersensitivity, vision changes, dizziness, memory lapses, brain fog, dissociation—are relentless. On top of that are anxiety, panic attacks, PTSD, depression, and low mood.

And that is just one diagnosis. I also live with combat-related PTSD, fibromyalgia, and a brain injury from surviving a subarachnoid haemorrhage caused by a ruptured brain aneurysm. Life is, to put it mildly, challenging.

Redefining Masculinity

My specialists believe the severity of my PTSD triggered both the fibromyalgia and the FND. They suspect the combined effects may even have contributed to the brain aneurysm. Whether or not that is true is of little consequence to me. The cause does not change the reality.

What matters is that I live with this every day, but I refuse to let it define me. My disabilities are part of my life; they are not my identity.

Resilience is the deciding factor. We cannot always control life’s challenges, but we can control our response. Some days, I want to withdraw completely. But that would achieve nothing. I would still suffer my symptoms—only now in isolation.

So, I choose to get up, to face the day, and to contribute in whatever way I can. I might not change the world, but I have written this blog. I have spent time with my family. I have enjoyed the distraction of the summer sun on my face and the taste of ice-cold lemonade.

For me, resilience is tied closely to my understanding of masculinity—not the distorted version rooted in bravado, but the steady, disciplined kind forged through service, hardship, and responsibility. My years as an infantry soldier, private military contractor, and bodyguard taught me that strength is not about appearing unbreakable. It is about enduring the unendurable, adapting to a fight you did not choose, and protecting those you love, no matter your condition.

In this new life, masculinity manifests differently. It is in refusing to surrender to self-pity. It is in advocating for myself and my family, even when I can barely speak. It is in finding ways to lead, even from a wheelchair. It is in protecting my wife’s well-being by ensuring she has time for herself. And it is in showing my children—by example—that adversity is not the end of the story. That strength can coexist with vulnerability. That being a man is not about the absence of pain, but the presence of purpose.

The Anchor: Why Her Love Matters

All of this—my ability to keep going, my determination to keep fighting—would be impossible without my wife. She is my wife, my best friend, the mother of our children, my carer, my advocate, my anchor. Her love is not passive; it is active, determined, and fiercely protective.

She does not merely ‘help’ me. She stands with me. She absorbs the shocks life throws our way. She manages the chaos of daily life, the children, the appointments, the unpredictable demands of my condition—and still finds joy. Still finds time to laugh.

Her role is complex: carer and partner, mother and friend, protector and comforter. I work hard to shield her from as much of the weight as I can, but she carries it regardless. Not because she has to—but because she chooses to.

I hope my children will learn resilience from watching me navigate life with FND and my other conditions. If my suffering equips them with the mindset to face life’s challenges head-on, to embrace rather than fear adversity, then there is meaning in the pain.

In the end, I do not know what tomorrow will bring. My symptoms may worsen; they may improve. But I know this—I will meet whatever comes with as much strength, discipline, and love as I can muster. And I will not face it alone.

The world tells us that strength is about appearing unbreakable. My life tells a different story.

What does true strength mean to you?