I was walking, just walking, and suddenly the signal from my brain went silent like a dropped call. It’s the second time this has happened to me. It’s really strange because it takes a moment for the signal to reconnect, and during that moment, which feels far longer than it actually is, my arms flail about trying to find something to grab hold of, even though it is an entirely pointless exercise. I hit the ground hard, narrowly escaping hitting my head against a brick step. I’ve torn the same calf muscle four times. I know the pain intimately, like a pain you thought you’d outgrown but still clings like smoke to your clothes.
But this isn’t about the fall. Not really. It’s the shrinking in someone’s eyes when I say, “I have MS.”
Multiple Sclerosis.
You’ve heard the name. Maybe you’ve seen a celebrity wear a ribbon or a TikToker do a day-in-my-life with a cane and a glossy filter. But unless it’s in your body, or someone you love is limping through this mess, you don’t really know.
So let me tell you.
MS is a full-time job I never applied for
Multiple Sclerosis is an autoimmune disease where your body, your own beautiful, broken, fiercely trying body, decides to eat away at your nerves. The myelin sheath that protects your neurons gets attacked, and like frayed electrical wires, the signals get patchy. Delayed. Disrupted. Or gone entirely.
It’s not predictable. It’s not curable. It’s not one-size-fits-all. No, yoga and oat milk matcha spirulina chia smoothies are not going to cure it. Yes, I’ve tried.
But more to the point, it sure as hell isn’t funny.
For me, it means:
Pain that stabs and twists like barbed wire in my calves.
Spasticity that locks my legs in place like rusted bolts.
Hands that stiffen and fingers that won’t move.
Fatigue that isn’t “tired.” It’s “my bones have been replaced with concrete and I can’t lift my arms to wash my hair.”
Brain fog that makes me lose my train of thought mid-sentence, or forget words like “kettle” and “Thursday.”
Vision blurring, numb hands, trouble swallowing, and the occasional delightful surprise of losing control of my own limbs.
Painful electrical pulses that shoot through your body, anywhere, any time, every day. The ones I rarely talk about out loud.
And let’s not forget the big daddy of dickheads. The hug that crushes your lungs and stabs you in the chest if you try to take a breath or move before it’s done torturing you.
And stress? It pours gasoline on all of it.
Stress is not just a trigger; it’s a loaded gun
When I’m stressed, when life delivers too much grief, too many bills, too many people expecting me to perform wellness like a broken-down show pony, my symptoms flare.
I lose strength. I lose sleep. I lose pieces of myself.
The problem is, the world doesn’t see the flare.
They see me cancel plans. They see me slow down. They see me quiet. And instead of understanding or patience, I get comments.
“Must be nice to lie in bed all day.”
“You don’t look sick.”
“We all get tired, you just have to keep going.”
“Are you sure it’s not all in your head?” >> No fucking shit, Sherlock! Look at my MRI, my head is full of it.
This is not your punchline
I’ve heard the jokes. Seen the memes. Watched people laugh about forgetting their keys and say to me, “Oops, maybe I also have MS!” (Yeah, not funny.)
I’ve watched people roll their eyes when I say I can’t drive today because my left foot won’t lift properly. I’ve had colleagues act like I’m milking it. I’ve had doctors talk over me, then prescribe yoga and mindfulness when what I need is a damn MRI. I’ve had strangers verbally attack me because I parked in a disabled zone.
I’ve seen pity turn into boredom. Sympathy into silence. And let me tell you: nothing hurts like being dismissed when you’re already fighting your own body just to exist.
What I want you to know
I didn’t choose this.
MS took my ability to dance, to sing, to be spontaneous. It took my certainty. It took the version of me that used to trust my own body and enjoyed life. It took the me that loved to be spontaneous, adventurous, playful. But let me tell you, it didn’t take my fight. I will not sit down and be quiet. I will keep going. I will keep fighting. It did not take my voice.
And so I’m using it.
To say:
Please stop downplaying invisible illness.
Please stop measuring someone’s pain against how well they can smile through it or hide the shit show that’s going on inside them.
Please stop expecting people with chronic conditions to perform gratitude like it’s a damn talent show.
Chronic illness is hard enough without having to fight for legitimacy and dignity.
And I’m tired. So fucking tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of barely surviving. Tired of pretending I’m fine when I’m hanging on by a thread. I don’t get to rest. I don’t get to fall apart. I have to take care of myself, every meal, every bill, every damn decision, in a body that betrays me and reacts to everything I do or feel. And no one sees the cost.
I’m still here
I am still here. Still trying. Still waking up in this fucking body I didn’t choose, but have no choice but to live inside. Yes, there is a lot wrong with me, no, I don’t enjoy it, and no, it’s not funny.
Sometimes I cry from the pain. Sometimes I scream from the frustration. Sometimes I laugh, because if I don’t, I’ll unravel completely.
But I am here. Bruised, exhausted, aching, but here.
And if you’re reading this and you have a chronic illness too, I see you. You’re not lazy. You’re not faking. You’re not alone.
You’re carrying a battle inside your body that most people can’t even imagine.
And you’re still here, too.
What about you? Have you ever had to defend your pain? To justify your limits? Tell me. I’m listening.
This morning, before I’d even opened my eyes, I knew. Not from a calendar reminder or a “you’re due for a flare-up” ping. Just the weight of my own body. Heavy. Cement-heavy. Fire-in-my-veins heavy.
Welcome to the delightful surprise party that is chronic illness. No RSVP needed. You just… wake up in it.
The Flare Days You Don’t See Coming
Some flares sneak up on me. Others kick the door down and announce themselves with full-body spasticity, shooting nerve shocks, and hands that feel like they’ve been beaten with hammers. Today it’s the latter.
My feet and calves are twitching like live wires, and my hands are stiff, aching, and protesting even this act of typing. Vision? Blurry. Pain? Electrical. Plans? Cancelled.
And here’s the kicker: I used to ignore this. I’d push through. Slam a Red Bull, down some coffee, and throw myself into work like I was invincible.
Spoiler: I’m not.
Before Chronic Illness, “Rest” Was an Afterthought
Rest used to mean feeling guilty. Lazy. Weak. I grew up in a culture of “hustle harder” and “push through the pain.” Rest was what you earned once everything else was done, except everything else was never done.
So I’d rest, sure. For twenty minutes. While scrolling. Or I’d lie in bed with my laptop, answering emails like a good little burnout-junkie.
Turns out, that’s not rest. That’s just horizontal productivity.
Now? Rest Is a Ritual
Rest is no longer a break; it’s a boundary. It’s a ceremony.
The bed is made, properly made. Soft, high-quality linen. No scratchy textures. My skin is too sensitive, and my nervous system too fried, for anything but comfort.
Sounds of nature fill the room. Crickets. Forests. Sometimes just silence, blessed and still.
Lavender floats through the air, either from a candle or a diffuser, because my brain needs cues that it’s safe to exhale.
Baths with Epsom salts when I can manage it. Lavender-infused again. Heat is magic. Fun fact: so is Lavender.
And always, always tea. Sometimes a fancy store-bought herbal one, sometimes a wild little blend of whatever’s in the fridge: fresh ginger, honey, lemon, mint, berries. I long for a proper teapot with a built-in infuser. I’ll get it one day, fingers crossed.
There was a moment, a real one, when I realised: rest is not a luxury. It’s not a nap. It’s not working from bed. It’s not multitasking with a heating pad on.
Rest is permission. Permission to shut off. To stop proving yourself. To not be available to everyone all the time.
I finally saw what my body was begging me for: clear boundaries. Not “I’ll just do this one last thing.” Not “It’s fine, I can take that call.” But a full switch-off, emotionally, physically, and mentally.
Friday to Monday. No clients. No guilt.
Just… recovery.
If My Body Could Speak…
It would say:
“You call this rest?! Give me real rest or I’ll force it out of you.”
And honestly? Fair.
Because my body has forced it out of me before. Through flares. Through burnout. Through collapse.
Rest Isn’t Weakness, It’s Wisdom
If you’re living with chronic illness, or even just carrying too much life in your bones, you don’t need permission to rest. But I’ll give it anyway:
Let your rest be lush. Let it be soft. Let it be sacred. Let it be enough.
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A few nights ago, I dreamt my best friend stole my boyfriend—and to add insult to injury, everyone was mad at me for not being happy for them. Excuse me?? In what universe is that a reasonable emotional response? Apparently, in Dreamland, I’m the villain for having feelings. Love that for me.
Then last night I dreamt I was pregnant. I’m 48. My ovaries audibly laughed when I woke up. But in the dream, I was wearing my boyfriend’s graphic tees, proudly showing off my bump like some Pinterest-worthy mum-to-be. The subconscious is wild.
In real life, I’ve been having weird, sweat-inducing, doubled-over-in-agony pelvic pains and suspect it’s time to say goodbye to the IUD that’s been living rent-free in my uterus for a while now. I’ve been dreading having it removed. Not quite as bad as having it inserted, but still—hello!!! A little anaesthesia wouldn’t hurt.
I mentioned this to my Mother, and, bless her, she warned me to be careful I don’t fall pregnant. At 48… with cyst-infested ovaries? It would be an act of the divine. (SFX: angels singing)
Still, the dream left a strange warmth behind. I don’t have children—I couldn’t (unless you count the four-legged, fur-covered kind)—but that dream baby felt oddly real. Maybe it’s just hormones. Or gas. Or the fact that I became an aunt again recently, and my new niece is absolute perfection. I’d love to be more present in my nieces’ and nephews’ lives, but I live on the other side of the world. I suppose that makes me a digital aunty. A pixelated presence with a Wi-Fi connection and a whole lot of love.
It’s weird. And a little sad. Call me old-fashioned, but I want to hug the people I love. Not just double-tap their faces on a screen.
Speaking of hugs—Bugsy (my dog) prefers his affection delivered in flying leaps and enthusiastic face-licks. Not exactly subtle, but I get the message. Imagine if humans did that. Note to self: Get some tea tree face wash.
So yes, last weekend we stayed up talking till 3 am, laughing like teenagers, like there wasn’t a chronic illness or middle age looming in the background. Was it irresponsible? Definitely. Was it worth it? Absolutely. Sometimes, connection matters more than rest. (MS doesn’t care about my emotional growth. It wants naps. Now.) Still, sometimes the pain is worth the priceless joy of two souls connecting.
Which brings me to today: I am completely out of spoons. No cutlery left in the drawer. My battery is flat, my tank’s empty, the engine won’t even turn over. I had another one of those weird spells yesterday where I just… shut down. One minute I was upright, the next I was horizontal and unconscious—like a phone that forgot to warn you it’s on 1%. It’s happening more often. Still trying to figure out what it is.
I made a beautiful lunch disguised as breakfast. (Don’t come for me, I don’t eat before 11 am unless bribed.) Toasted seed loaf, smashed avo, egg, spinach, feta, and edible flowers—because I’m clearly in my edible flower era. They make the plate look happy. And honestly, if your food can’t spark a little joy, what even is the point?
Anyway, I’m rambling. That’s what happens when you’re sleep-deprived and slightly hormonal with a head full of dreams and a body full of meh. Someone, please bring me coffee. Or a hug. Or maybe just a soft place to nap where no one expects anything from me for at least 12 hours.
Yes—self-care has become a buzzword, often reduced to bubble baths, expensive skincare, and perfectly curated “wellness” routines on social media. But self-care isn’t just about face masks and herbal tea. It’s about taking care of yourself in ways that actually make a difference—physically, mentally, and emotionally.
If you’ve ever felt like self-care is just another thing on your to-do list, this is for you. I’ve struggled with this myself—especially with guilt. If I take time to rest, I feel guilty for not being productive. If I set boundaries, I feel guilty for disappointing someone. And that guilt? It spirals into overthinking, stress, and eventually, complete exhaustion. So, I’ve had to learn—the hard way—that self-care isn’t a luxury. It’s survival. Here are practical, realistic self-care ideas that actually help—without the pressure, guilt, or fluff.
Mental Self-Care: Taking Care of Your Mind
✔ Say No Without Guilt – Protecting your energy is self-care. If something drains you, it’s okay to say no. Your time and peace are valuable. This is something I still struggle with, but when I do say no, I feel a massive weight lifted off my shoulders. ✔ Curate Your Social Media Feed – Unfollow accounts that make you feel bad about yourself. I did this recently, and I swear, my anxiety dropped overnight. ✔ Brain Dump Before Bed – If racing thoughts keep you up at night, try journaling or making a list of worries before bed. Getting thoughts onto paper helps clear mental clutter. Or so I’ve been told, I have yet to try journaling. ✔ Schedule Worry Time – Instead of spiralling into anxiety all day, give yourself a dedicated 10-15 minutes to sit with your worries. It tricks your brain into worrying less. (I was sceptical about this one, but it actually works.) ✔ Learn Something New (For Fun) – Read a book, listen to a podcast, or take an online class—not for productivity but because it excites you.
Physical Self-Care: Taking Care of Your Body
✔ Move, Even a Little – If you don’t feel like working out, just stretch for five minutes, take a walk around the block, or dance to one song in your kitchen. It all counts. I used to think exercise had to be all or nothing, but even small movement helps my mood. ✔ Hydrate, But Make It Fun – If plain water bores you, add lemon, cucumber, or mint. Herbal tea counts, too! I used to be terrible at drinking enough water until I started using a bottle with a straw—turns out, small tricks help. ✔ Eat Something That Makes You Feel Good – Not diet culture “good,” but actually good—whether that’s a nourishing meal or a comforting treat. I used to guilt myself over food choices, but now I try to listen to what my body actually needs. ✔ Rest Without Guilt – Naps are productive. Taking a break isn’t lazy—it’s how you recharge. This one is still hard for me, but I’m learning that burnout helps no one. ✔ Do a Body Check-In – Instead of ignoring tension or stress, take a second to ask, What does my body need right now? A stretch? A deep breath? A snack? Listen to it.
Emotional Self-Care: Taking Care of Your Heart
✔ Give Yourself Permission to Feel – Whatever you’re feeling—anger, sadness, frustration—it’s valid. You don’t have to “fix” it immediately. I used to push my feelings away, but that just made things worse. Now, I let myself feel them without judgment. ✔ Stop Doomscrolling – Social media and news cycles can be overwhelming. Take breaks when needed. I’ve noticed that when I unplug, even for a few hours, my stress levels drop significantly. I stopped watching the news a few months ago, it has been a massive help to my mental well-being. ✔ Reach Out to Someone You Trust – A quick text or call to a friend can be grounding. You don’t have to go through things alone. I have a habit of isolating when I’m struggling, but I always feel better after reaching out. ✔ Create a Comfort Playlist – Songs that make you feel safe, nostalgic, or happy. Music is powerful. I have a playlist for when I need to feel strong, and another for when I just need to cry it out. Both are self-care. ✔ Celebrate Small Wins – Give yourself credit for the things you do, even if they seem minor. Got out of bed? That’s a win. Responded to one email? Win. I am still struggling with this one because I tend to put a lot of pressure on myself to constantly be making progress.
Final Thoughts: Keep It Simple & Sustainable
Self-care isn’t about doing everything perfectly—it’s about small, consistent actions that help you feel better. Forget what social media says it “should” look like. Real self-care is about what works for you. And for me? That means learning to let go of guilt, taking breaks without self-judgment, and reminding myself that I deserve care, too.
Pick one or two things from this list and start there. No pressure, no guilt—just small steps toward feeling better, one day at a time. 💛
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.
