It’s strange how quiet a house gets when one little creature isn’t in it.
My dog, Bugsy, is at my Mum’s this weekend. He’s being absolutely spoiled, no doubt about that. She’s probably made him scrambled eggs and is reading him bedtime stories while feeding him snacks off a Royal Doulton plate. He’s living the high life. I know he’s happy. I know she adores having him. And he loves her too.
But the truth? I miss him like hell.
It’s only the second time we’ve been apart since I adopted him a year ago, and I feel a bit like I’ve misplaced a piece of my heart. I keep expecting to hear the jingle of his collar or feel his weight settle next to me on the bed. My eyes keep flicking toward the door like he’s about to burst through it at any second. But he won’t. Not till Sunday.
I miss his presence. His energy. His ridiculous snoring. He’s my baby. My child. My constant.
And yet, there’s something really beautiful about this too.
Letting go, even just for a weekend, is a practice. It’s a reminder that love doesn’t vanish just because someone’s not physically there. It’s about trust. About knowing that connections hold, even when they stretch.
Sometimes we hold on tight because we’re scared. Of change. Of distance. Of losing the very things that give us joy.
But love, real love, doesn’t fall apart when you give it space. It deepens.
I like that I can give Bugsy this time with someone who loves him. That I can share his joy. That I don’t need to control every moment to feel connected. And even though I miss him, I know we’ll both be better for it.
The silence is loud without him. But it’s not empty.
Today, I had a horrible experience in town — and sadly, it’s one that many people with invisible disabilities know all too well.
I parked in a disabled bay. I’m allowed to. I live with multiple sclerosis (MS), a chronic, degenerative illness that affects me every single day, even if you can’t see it.
As I was getting out of my car, a woman approached me and said, “You don’t get to park there.”
I calmly explained that I have MS.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh please, that doesn’t count,” she said.
When I showed her my valid disabled parking disc, she sneered and said, “You can buy those anywhere,” before waving me off like I was some kind of fraud. She didn’t stop there — she berated me in front of strangers, making sure I felt humiliated, belittled, and dismissed. And I think she was filming me, just to twist the knife a little deeper.
This is what public shaming looks like when you live with an invisible illness. This is the quiet cruelty that people don’t see — or choose not to.
Later that day, I went online to my support group, still shaken, still trying to ground myself. I shared what had happened — and the response was overwhelming. Hundreds of people replied. Not only had they been through similar encounters, but many admitted they now prepare for them. Mentally rehearsing what they’ll say. Keeping their documents close at hand. Some even avoid using accessible bays altogether to sidestep the confrontation.
Think about that for a second: people with real, diagnosed disabilities are bracing themselves to be challenged for using a parking spot designed for them.
Yes, we appreciate when others understand that disabled bays exist for a reason — but now it’s gone further. There’s a new layer of judgment: if your disability isn’t immediately obvious, you’re assumed to be lying. The burden of proof is dumped on the person already struggling.
MS is real. The fatigue, the spasms, the brain fog, the pain — it’s all real. And believe me, if I could trade my disabled badge for a healthy body and a regular parking spot, I would.
But here’s the thing: not all disabilities are visible. And just because someone “looks fine” doesn’t mean they aren’t struggling.
To that woman, and to anyone else who thinks they can play judge and jury in a parking lot: your ignorance isn’t just offensive — it’s dangerous. You’re not protecting the system; you’re making life harder for people already carrying more than you can imagine.
So the next time you see someone in a disabled bay who “doesn’t look disabled,” maybe consider this: your eyes aren’t qualified to diagnose anyone. And a little kindness costs you nothing.
Editor’s Note
I hesitated to share this — but the truth is, silence doesn’t protect us. Sharing these moments matters, because every time we speak up, we make it harder for ignorance to win. If you live with an invisible illness, know this: I see you. And if you don’t, I hope this helped you see us more clearly. Everyone deserves the right to move through the world with dignity — no explanations, no justifications.
Nasty old woman shouting and holding up her cellphone.
I never set out to follow Banting or go low-carb. In fact, I didn’t even know what it was. My journey into that world wasn’t about losing weight or “getting healthy”—it was pure survival.
In 2013, my life was a high-stress storm. A massive work project had me running on adrenaline, and my cat, Heathcliff, became critically ill. Pneumonia. Then an abscess on his lung. No pet insurance. The surgery costs were brutal, but Heathcliff had saved me once, and I wasn’t about to give up on him. Through the kindness of friends and strangers, I raised the funds. We got through it—but I paid the price physically. I stopped eating. A few bites of All-Bran was my daily intake. My body withered under the weight of grief and stress.
That’s when my mother introduced me to Tim Noakes and the Real Food Revolution. Whole foods. No sugar. No grains. I figured it was a good way to maintain my new (and unintentional) weight loss. Soon, I was weighing myself daily, chasing a number on a scale. It became addictive. Thus began a 10+ year affair with Banting.
The Highs: Energy and Confidence
At first, the benefits were undeniable. I had energy like never before. I exercised—something I’d never done willingly. My clothes fit better. My meals were neat little protein parcels: ham and cheese with mayo, tuna salads, perfectly roasted chicken. I loved how my body looked.
But like any toxic relationship, it started sweet… until it wasn’t.
When “Healthy” Turns Harmful
What began as a way to feel better spiraled into a full-blown eating disorder. I became obsessed. I was afraid of food. I skipped meals, told people I’d already eaten, took diuretics, over-exercised, and agonized over everything I consumed—including coffee. I believed if I could stay in control, I’d be safe. But I wasn’t.
I believe this obsession was part of what triggered my MS. My body was starving. I was malnourished. I was punishing myself. Eventually, it caught up with me.
Confidence Lost, Not Found
Ironically, the thinner I got, the more self-conscious I became. People praised my appearance, but they didn’t see the anxiety, the fear, the lies. I couldn’t eat out without panicking. I was constantly explaining my “diet.” But the truth is, I was sick—physically, emotionally, and socially isolated.
Why I’m Done with Low-Carb (For Good)
I stuck to low-carb for over a decade. Occasionally, I’d cheat with a slice of cake or a cocktail, but for the most part, I stayed strict. Then came the pandemic and two major MS flares—one that affected my mobility, and the other, my eyesight. Steroid treatments caused rapid weight gain. I gained 20kg, and this time, starvation wasn’t an option.
I couldn’t exercise the same way. I couldn’t deprive myself. My body had changed. I had changed.
Now, I’m under the care of health professionals, and my family knows the signs to look for. I want to lose 10kg—but I want to do it without breaking myself in the process.
Would I Recommend Banting?
Actually, yes. Banting isn’t inherently bad. It helped me regain energy and heal some internal issues—I even reversed a PCOS diagnosis. But Banting isn’t for everyone, especially not for someone with an obsessive nature, or for people whose relationship with food is already fragile.
Right now, my goal is simple: Eat to live. Nourish myself. Be kind to my body.
Will I miss all the cheese? Sure. But not as much as I missed peace.
