I live a life with purpose. I’ve built something out of the wreckage of trauma, chronic pain, and total isolation. I’ve become the Disabled Adventurer—an advocate, a content creator, a voice for those too often unheard.
I’ve amassed over 60,000 followers, my accessibility videos are shifting mindsets, and I’ve been invited to sit at tables I never thought I’d reach. My work is being noticed. I’m part of national conversations. I’m earning for the first time from something that gives me meaning. I’m proof that someone can be passionate, driven, and still be slowly breaking behind the scenes.
Because here's the truth: I’m doing it all alone.
I’m 48 years old, living in a flat that’s completely unsuitable for my physical needs. It’s too small, poorly adapted, and about as uplifting as a prison cell. I haven’t had a proper date in years—not because I’m unlovable, but because being disabled and single in this society is a soul-crushing experience. I’ve got 60k followers but not a single friend nearby to have a cuppa with. Weeks go by without seeing another human being socially.
And then there’s the loneliness. The godawful silence when I come back from filming, or an event where strangers smile and say how “inspiring” I am. But they go home to families. To love. I come home to four walls, an NHS profiling bed, a kitchen I can’t cook in, and furniture that doesn’t fit my chair. No one to hug. No one to lean on when it all gets too much. This isn’t a home. It’s a holding cell.
When night comes, I long for sleep to offer even the briefest escape from pain. But instead, I get night terrors—violent, graphic flashbacks from trauma I can’t even describe for fear of traumatising someone else. I wake drenched in sweat, screaming. Sleep offers no relief—only more exhaustion.
Pain rips me out of sleep by 4am. Sometimes it keeps me in bed all day. Other days, it strikes when I’m already drained, my spinal nerve so inflamed it makes me nauseous. It’s vomit-worthy pain. The kind that makes you wonder: Is this really living, or just dying in slow motion?
Even getting outside isn’t simple. Accessibility is a joke. Over 80% of my local high street is a no-go zone. Venues claim they’re wheelchair-friendly until you find a hidden step, a toilet crammed with junk, or a doorway too narrow to pass through. I can’t just “pop out.” Every trip takes planning, research, physical energy I don’t have, and the risk of finding out the hard way that I’m not welcome.
And when I need help? There’s nowhere to turn.
Adult social care tells me there’s nothing they can offer. The mental health crisis team refused to help—twice—because I dared to self-refer, just like my GP told me to. There’s no pathway for people like me, with complex needs that don’t fit into tidy service boxes. I’ve received no rehabilitation, no physiotherapy, just a cocktail of opiates and a shrug. “You’ll be in pain the rest of your life.” That’s the treatment plan. So, what’s the bloody point?
When all the doors that should be open are padlocked with red tape and budget cuts, you start believing the problem is you. That your suffering is too complicated. Too inconvenient.
I’m not writing this for sympathy. Don’t tell me I’m “strong” or “brave.” I’m just surviving. That’s all this is. And this isn’t just my story—this is the story of thousands of others falling through the cracks. People left behind because we don’t fit the mould. Because we need more than the system is willing or able to give.
Stop pretending a wellness course or motivational quote can fix this. They can’t. We don’t move forward by sugar-coating pain. We only begin to heal when we tell the truth. And this—this is the brutal truth.
If you’re reading this and any of it feels painfully familiar, I want to say this: You’re still here. And that matters.
That means something. You’ve made it through nights and mornings and years most people couldn’t imagine. You’ve battled what others wouldn’t survive.
You don’t have to believe in a perfect future. Just believe in what might be. Because if you stop now, you’ll never see what happens next. And sometimes, what might be is the only thing worth holding on for.
I see you and believe in you. But more than anything, I need you to believe in you too. Keep going. Not because it’s easy, or fair, or painless.
Keep going because maybe—just maybe—something better is still out there.