Posted on 21 October 2025

Two years ago, my life changed in an instant.

I had no idea that one ordinary morning would mark the beginning of a journey that would test every part of who I am.

October 23rd, 2023 — a date that changed my life forever.

It began like any other day, until suddenly it wasn’t. I collapsed without warning at home. When the ambulance arrived, stroke was ruled out, but that was only the beginning of what would become a long and life-altering journey.

Doctors didn’t think I’d survive. Yet somehow, I did.

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The Eleven-Month Inpatient Battle

What followed were eleven long months as an inpatient — three different hospitals, two stints at a Neurological Rehabilitation Centre, and countless challenges along the way.

I was fighting battles not only for my health, but for my identity, my independence, and ultimately, my future.

Those months were some of the hardest of my life. Every day brought new challenges: learning to move again, to speak clearly, to remember, to rebuild. The neurological rehabilitation process was gruelling, but it gave me structure and purpose.

I learnt to celebrate the smallest victories — a little more strength, a memory resurfaced, a flicker of independence regained.

When I was finally discharged in September 2024, I thought the hardest part was behind me.
I was wrong. Survival had been the first battle; rebuilding my life was the next.

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Navigating a System Stretched Thin

Upon discharge, many referrals were made to various NHS and community services. Sadly, very few resulted in any real support. Most of the professionals I eventually spoke with politely informed me that there was nothing more they could do.

Adult Social Care agreed I needed dedicated care support. However, one by one, private care companies stated they could not meet my specific, complex needs. Eventually, it was decided that I would be better supported by a personal assistant — someone directly employed to manage my personal care and assist me in accessing the community.

That plan was approved in principle, but as of September 23rd, 2025, Social Care informed me they were severely short-staffed and unable to move forward with the recruitment process.

So the plan — like so many other vital supports — currently sits in limbo.

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Seeking Advocacy, Finding Visibility

Frustrated by the lack of progress, I raised my concerns with my MP on September 26th in a virtual meeting.

We discussed the ongoing absence of vital NHS medical support and the unacceptable delays within Adult Social Care.

He assured me he had written to both the Integrated Care Board (ICB) and Adult Social Care on my behalf, but as of now, I have yet to receive any meaningful updates.

It’s easy to feel invisible in these moments — to feel as though you are shouting into a void.

But I am determined to keep fighting, because silence helps no one.

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The Unexpected Lifeline

Amidst all of this systemic frustration, the greatest source of support has come not from the NHS or local authorities, but from my Royal British Legion Wellbeing Worker, Hannah.

Her help, encouragement, and unwavering belief in me have been nothing short of life-changing.

Without her, I genuinely don’t know how I would have coped over these last few months.
She has been my advocate, my motivator, and often my voice when I have been too exhausted to speak up for myself.

For that, I will always be profoundly grateful.

“Sometimes, the people who make the biggest difference aren’t part of the system — they’re the ones who care enough to see you as a person, not a case number.”

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A Setback, Not the End

Regrettably, the last five weeks have been some of the hardest since leaving rehabilitation.

A severe and aggressive flare-up of symptoms has left me bedbound again — a reality I hoped I would never return to.

At the time of writing this (mid-October 2025), I am still waiting for a doctor’s appointment on October 27th, hoping it will bring some answers, or at the very least, some necessary support.

It is disheartening to feel myself slipping backwards after having come so far.
The progress I made during rehabilitation feels fragile, as though it is slipping through my fingers.

But I am striving — striving to stay focused and to remind myself that recovery is not a straight line.

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Rediscovering Me: Grieving and Growing

The memory loss caused by the subarachnoid haemorrhage fractured more than just my recollections — it fractured my sense of self.

My likes, dislikes, interests, and entire sense of identity were blurred, leaving me unsure of who I am now, and who I want to become.

It is a strange feeling — grieving for the person I used to be while simultaneously trying to embrace the person I am becoming.

So much of this journey has been about rediscovery — about learning, again, what brings me joy.

I am still struggling to find hobbies or pastimes that truly connect, but I am trying to stay open, to explore, and to rebuild.

“Grief and growth can coexist — you can mourn who you were and still find beauty in who you’re becoming.”

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Two Years On: Choosing Hope and the Path Ahead

As I reach this two-year anniversary of the collapse that changed everything — that left me disabled, in a wheelchair, and facing an entirely new version of life — I am choosing to focus on what comes next.

My plan for the year ahead is simple, but hopeful:

• Re-establish consistent medical support and continue advocating for the care I urgently need.
• Rebuild a sense of identity by exploring new hobbies and creative outlets.
• Expand my writing, and experiment with other forms of creativity as ways to express myself and document this journey.

2025 has been full of setbacks and frustrations, but I am learning that recovery is not linear.

It is not a straight path from A to B — it is a winding road of ups, downs, detours, and unexpected discoveries.

This journey is mine alone. It is deeply personal, and comparing my progress to others only adds unnecessary pressure.

My goal now is to embrace my pace, to honour my journey, and to celebrate each small victory along the way.

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Gratitude and Growth

None of this — not the survival, not the perseverance, not the determination to keep going — would have been possible without my wife.

Her love, patience, and unwavering belief in me have carried me through my darkest days.

She reminds me daily that I am more than my injuries, more than my setbacks, and that there is still so much left to live for.

As I look ahead to 2026, I do so with cautious optimism.

I want to build on the foundations I have laid — to grow, to develop new skills, and to keep moving forward, no matter how slowly.

I don’t know exactly what the future holds, but I do know this:

I’m still here. I’m still fighting. And I’m still rebuilding me.