Posted on January 15, 2026

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There are moments in life that do not announce themselves as turning points until long after they have passed. Others arrive with brutal clarity, altering the landscape of what lies ahead in the space of a single sentence. Tuesday 13 January 2026 was one of those moments. It was my first medical appointment of the new year, and by the time I left the consulting room, I knew that a door I had been moving towards for the last two years had quietly, decisively closed. The appointment was with my neurologist and focused on my Functional Neurological Disorder (FND). FND remains the most debilitating of my diagnoses, not only because of the severity of its physical symptoms, but because of the uncertainty that continues to surround it. Each consultation carries the same fragile expectation: that a new approach might emerge, a different perspective, or a previously unexplored intervention that could offer some relief. On this occasion, that expectation lasted only minutes. The day began as so many hospital days do, with early preparation, careful timing and the logistical choreography that disability makes unavoidable. My personal assistant, David, was with me, ensuring that transport, access and the practicalities of movement were handled with the calm efficiency that has become second nature to him.

Hospitals are places of both reassurance and unease for me. They are where answers are sought, but also where limitations are confirmed. As we moved through corridors and waiting areas, I tried to remain present, steadying myself against the familiar internal tension that precedes a difficult conversation.

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The Verdict

The consultation itself was conducted with professionalism and courtesy. My neurologist is a thoughtful and conscientious clinician, and I have never doubted his commitment to my care. We discussed the course of my symptoms, the interventions that had been attempted, and the reality of where my condition now stands. It did not take long for the direction of the appointment to become clear. There were no new treatment pathways to explore, no further investigations that might meaningfully change the picture, no clinical strategies left untried. With careful phrasing and evident concern, my consultant told me that, from a medical perspective, there was nothing more that could be done. The words landed with a force that is difficult to describe. In that moment, I felt as though the air had been taken from the room. My breathing became shallow, and a pain gripped my chest with an intensity that felt almost physical, as though something essential had been torn away. It was not simply disappointment; it was the sudden collapse of the quiet expectation that, perhaps this time, there might be something different. Even when one suspects that options are running out, hearing that reality spoken aloud is a different experience altogether.

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The Physical Response

My body responded before my mind could fully process what had been said. Tremors began to shake through me, an all too familiar manifestation of my condition under stress. My speech became intermittent, broken by slurred stuttering that made it difficult to articulate even the simplest of responses. I was acutely aware of how exposed I must have appeared, sitting in that consulting room as the implications of the news reverberated through both my thoughts and my nervous system. David was beside me throughout. For that small mercy, I remain deeply grateful. He listened quietly, absorbing the information with the calm attentiveness that defines his approach to his work and to our friendship. When the appointment ended, he wheeled me out of the consulting room, navigating the hospital corridors as my mind raced and my body struggled to settle. I was not ready to speak. Words felt inadequate to the moment.

Deep down, a part of me had known that we were approaching the end of the clinical road. FND is a condition that often sits uneasily within traditional medical frameworks. It is complex, individual and resistant to simple solutions. Over time, the range of interventions narrows, not because effort has been lacking, but because the limits of current medical understanding are eventually reached. Knowing this, however, did nothing to lessen the blow. There is a particular kind of grief that comes with being told that medicine has no more to offer you. It is the grief of exhausted possibility.

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A Moment of Grounding

Before heading home, David suggested that we stop at the hospital coffee shop. It was a small, practical gesture, but one that proved unexpectedly significant. The transition from a life altering consultation directly back into the world beyond can feel abrupt and disorientating. The coffee shop offered a brief pause to regroup and regain some composure. David is a good friend who hails from Nigeria. He is softly spoken, kind, driven and intelligent, with excellent attention to detail. His perspective is shaped not only by professional competence, but by a deep sense of human responsibility. Interestingly, in the UK approximately 19 per cent of the social care workforce identify as being from an ethnic minority background, and the contribution of international staff is often the backbone of the support system for people living with complex conditions. As we talked, it became clear that what he was offering was not false hope, but a reframing of where hope might now be found. He reminded me that while the clinical world might have reached the end of its capacity to help, we were not without options.

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Life Beyond the Clinical Boundary

He was right. Not all the answers to my difficulties are located within the clinical world. Medicine has its boundaries, particularly in conditions as complex and multifaceted as FND. If the medical avenues had been exhausted, then the task before me was to explore other forms of knowledge, other resources and other ways of living alongside my symptoms. By the time we finished our coffee, I felt a little more grounded. The tremors had eased and my speech had become more reliable. We made our way back out into the cold January air. My wife was waiting for me at home, and the drive back was quiet. I needed the space to organise my thoughts. That evening, I found myself re examining the news through a different lens. In practical terms, my situation had not worsened as a result of the appointment. I was no more disabled than I had been that morning. What had changed was the clarity of the path ahead. One chapter had closed, and with it the lingering uncertainty of whether there might be something else the medical system could offer.

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New Horizons for 2026

In that sense, the news also brought a form of resolution. I now knew, with certainty, that the clinical avenues had been exhausted. For years, much of my energy had been directed towards navigating the healthcare system. That phase of my journey had come to an end. The following morning, David and I turned our attention to what lies ahead. Two thousand and twenty six is a significant year for me. One of my primary goals is to expand my work by launching a YouTube channel. It is a project that represents both a creative outlet and a way of continuing to engage with the world on my own terms.

Living with FND, alongside post traumatic stress disorder, fibromyalgia and the long term effects of brain damage from a subarachnoid haemorrhage, is not something that can be neatly compartmentalised. Recovery, in the conventional sense, is neither simple nor linear. What is possible, however, is adaptation.

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Reclaim‎‎ing Agency

Our next steps are practical. The work begins with identifying non clinical strategies and emerging approaches that may help me live better. This process offers agency. If the medical world has reached its limits, the responsibility for the next phase rests more firmly with me. That is both daunting and, in an unexpected way, liberating. I am no longer waiting for permission to move forward. I am no longer orienting my future around a clinical intervention that may never arrive. Instead, I am free to explore, to experiment within safe boundaries and to define progress on my own terms. The door to the medical world may have closed, but in doing so it has opened another, one that leads not back into consultation rooms, but out onto a different kind of road. Recovery is not solely about destination; it is about the journey itself, the choices made and the resilience built along the way.

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Call to Action

I invite you to join the conversation. Have you ever faced a moment where the traditional path ended? How did you find your own way forward? Please leave a comment below to share your experiences, reflections, or questions. If you believe this piece may resonate with others who are navigating chronic illness, disability, or the limits of the medical system, I would be grateful if you would also share it. These stories matter, and they deserve to be heard.