I’m crawling out of a flare that felt like it would never end. The kind where your body throws new symptoms at you like darts, and you’re the target taped to the wall. Physically, mentally, emotionally…I’m wrung out. I keep fantasising about pressing pause on life so I can just rest, heal, maybe breathe…but the world doesn’t work that way. The bills don’t stop, the dog doesn’t stop, the body doesn’t stop misbehaving.
So I’ve doubled down on clean living. No preservatives, no processed crap, no “sugar-free” imposters, no flavouring unless I pick the damn leaf myself. Butter? Gone. Even my sugar-free, salt free, preservative free peanut butter got the boot. It’s brutal. But listen, if anyone thinks they’re prying my single-shot cappuccino out of my hands, they’d better come armed. I will bite. And not in a sexy Twilight way.
And then, there’s my boobs. Out of nowhere…enormous. Like, biblical-plague-level enormous. What the actual fuck? I know I’m in peri, been there a while, but does this mean I’ve moved up a level? I feel like a teenager in puberty but without the energy and way too much sass. Add “see gynaecologist” to the ever-growing medical to-do list, which is already topped with an MRI and a specialist visit that my pricey medical aid won’t cover. Health feels like a full-time job these days, except it’s the kind where the boss hates you and the pay is zero.
At least Bugsy knows. He’s been equal parts terrorist and angel…destroying toys, digging craters in the yard, chewing shoes…but the minute he senses tears, he’s there. He licked my face clean the other night when I was falling apart, and on Sunday, when my Mum had a little cry, he climbed onto her lap and did the same for her. The dog has better bedside manners than half the doctors I’ve seen over the last 20 years.
Then I made the mistake of looking through old photos. Me, thin, fit, glowing. Skinny AF. Sure, I was sick then too…scared of eating or drinking anything because I didn’t know if I could get rid of it again…but wow, those legs, that jawline, that flat little tummy and those teeny tiny perfect boobs. Now I see myself and it’s… different. Softer. Rounder. A little padded, a little tired, a bit wobbly. I do all the “right” things, but my body shrugs and does what it wants. It’s frustrating, yes, but also a little funny, like my metabolism decided to take early retirement without telling me, “Fuck you bitch, I’m outta here!”. Probably sipping cocktails in Mauritius without me. And those boobs. Did I mention the boobs?
Some days it feels like grief, losing versions of myself over and over again. Other days I can laugh about it. Today, I’m somewhere in between…sipping my cappuccino like it’s the Holy Grail (which it is), glaring at the mirror, and cuddling the dog who refuses to leave my side or stop chewing my leather boots.
Daily stats: Coffee: 1 (so far) Boobs: 2 (but enormous, deserve their own postcode) Tears: 3 Items destroyed: 2 (RIP boot straps and foxy, the so called indestructible toy) Garden holes: 5 (large enough to bury medical aid paperwork) Medical aid tantrums: infinite Hope: stubbornly hanging on
You’ve just heard the words. Maybe you were in a sterile office with a doctor who looked serious. Maybe you were alone. Maybe someone was sitting next to you, holding your hand—but the moment still felt isolating. However it happened, one truth remains:
Your life just changed.
A diagnosis can drop like an anvil. Whether it’s multiple sclerosis (like mine), lupus, cancer, fibromyalgia, Parkinson’s, or anything else that doesn’t have a quick fix—it shakes you. It doesn’t just change your body. It changes your future, your plans, your sense of self.
How I Found Out—and Why I Felt Relieved
I remember sitting in that neurologist’s office. He didn’t ease me into it. He just said it: “It’s Multiple Sclerosis.”
And weirdly? I appreciated that. No tiptoeing, no sugar-coating. Just the facts. And after years of being dismissed, ignored, and misdiagnosed, finally being heard was a kind of relief.
I know that sounds strange. But maybe you’ve been there too—feeling your body betray you while doctor after doctor says, “There’s nothing wrong.” Maybe you’ve been told to “lose weight” or “just relax,” even while something inside you screams that something’s not right.
That first moment—being told what’s actually going on? It hurts. But it also validates everything you knew in your gut.
The Emotional Whirlwind After a Diagnosis
You don’t have to be brave today. You don’t need to find a silver lining or start fighting. You just have to breathe.
Cry. Sit in silence. Watch dumb dog videos. Scream into a pillow. All of it’s allowed. Because you’re grieving. And that grief is real and valid.
Grief for the version of you who didn’t know. Grief for your body, for the future you imagined. Grief for the control that slipped through your fingers.
What Chronic Illness Took—and What It Gave
For me, MS has taken plenty. I can’t sing anymore. I used to love dancing—can’t do that either. Fatigue is a constant shadow. Pain, spasms, brain fog—they don’t care about my to-do list.
But strangely, this illness has given me things too. It taught me to set boundaries. To trust myself. To question everything. To listen—really listen—to my body.
I’ve become stronger than I ever thought I could be. Not because I wanted to, but because I had no choice.
Living With an Invisible Illness
Here’s the part that’ll really test you: You might still be doubted.
Even now, people see me park in a disabled spot and give me looks. “You don’t look sick,” they say.
Some “friends” even say they don’t believe me. And those people? I’ve cut them out.
You don’t owe anyone an explanation. You don’t have to look sick to be sick. Invisible illnesses are real. And so is your right to protect your energy.
To the Newly Diagnosed: You’re Still You
You might feel like your body is foreign now. Like you’ve lost something essential. But let me tell you something very important:
You are still whole. You are still worthy. You are still you.
This diagnosis is not the end of your story. It’s a messy, complicated plot twist—but you’re still the author.
And when you’re ready—when you’ve had time to sit with it, grieve it, rage at it—there’s a whole world of people out here who understand. People living with invisible illnesses, chronic pain, hard diagnoses.
We are your people.
We’re not inspirational quotes or toxic positivity. We’re the ones who get it. The ones who live in bodies that fight back—but souls that refuse to quit.
Final Thoughts: How to Cope After a Diagnosis
Write. Journal. Let the chaos spill out onto paper.
Find a support system—online or in person.
Follow accounts that make you laugh.
Listen to your body (it’s not the enemy—it’s the messenger).
Don’t waste energy explaining your pain to people who don’t care.
Grieve the life you thought you’d have.
Then start creating a new one.
And if you’re reading this today—fresh off the heels of that diagnosis—I want to say this loud and clear:
You are not alone. You are not broken. You are still here. And you’re going to be okay. Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.
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.
