Tactical Living — Building Systems Around Limitations By Dusty Wentworth

✍️ Reframing Limitations

I didn’t choose tactical living.

It was either that, or collapse.

Two weeks after regaining consciousness from brain surgery, I knew life would never return to what it was. I’d survived a subarachnoid haemorrhage — the result of a ruptured brain aneurysm — and the aftermath was brutal. I couldn’t walk. I’d lost sight in my left eye, most of my hearing, and my speech was compromised. My memory was fractured, my cognition unpredictable. And layered beneath it all was combat-related PTSD, tangled with Fibromyalgia and Functional Neurological Disorder — each diagnosis amplifying the next.

The effects were extreme.

And if I was going to stand any chance of rebuilding a life, I had to do things differently.

This blog isn’t about resilience in the glossy, inspirational sense. It’s about tactical living — the kind that emerges when survival demands strategy. It’s about designing systems that honour limitations, protect energy, and make space for meaning.

Because when your body redraws the map, you don’t just keep walking.

You learn to navigate.

This is the story of how I started to rebuild — not by returning to who I was, but by designing a life around who I am now.

🧩 Understanding Your Limits as Data

Before I could rebuild anything, I had to stop fighting the facts.

There’s a strange kind of grief in realising your body no longer behaves the way it used to. I spent weeks trying to push through — to force routines, conversations, even thoughts — as if sheer willpower could override neurological damage. But it couldn’t. And every time I ignored my limits, the cost was steep: pain, confusion, exhaustion, collapse.

Eventually, I stopped asking, “How do I get back to normal?”

And started asking, “What is my body trying to tell me?”

That shift changed everything.

I began to treat my limitations like data. Not failures. Not flaws. Just information.

If my speech faltered after too much stimulation, that was a signal.

If my memory slipped after a long conversation, that was a boundary.

If my pain spiked after scrolling social media, that was a clue.

These patterns weren’t just symptoms — they were parameters. And once I started tracking them, I could begin to design systems that worked with them.

🛏️ A Room with No View

After surgery, I was moved from Addenbrooke’s Hospital to the Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital — closer to home, but still far from well. My room had frosted glass, no view, and after just a few days, it felt like a prison cell. My PTSD was spiralling. I’d been unconscious for four weeks, and none of my medications had been reinstated. Reality was slipping.

I knew I had to act. Not dramatically. Not perfectly. Just intentionally.

So I built a routine:

Wake up. Transfer into my wheelchair.

Morning tea. Make my bed.

Breakfast with the news.

Lay out clothes. Toilet. Shower. Dress.

The rhythm was simple, but it gave me structure.

Medication rounds, doctor visits, physio sessions — they became anchors.

Each step helped me orientate myself.

Each repetition laid a foundation.

This wasn’t recovery. Not yet.

It was stabilisation.

It was data collection.

It was the beginning of tactical living.

🧠 Expanding the Routine, Testing the Edges

After a month at the Norfolk and Norwich, I was transferred to a specialist neurological rehabilitation centre. The move was disorientating and frightening. I arrived in a haze, still fragile, still adapting — and was greeted by staff with warm familiarity:

“So nice to see you again.”

“Welcome back.”

Back? I had no memory of ever being there.

It wasn’t until later that I learned I’d been a resident before — receiving treatment for Functional Neurological Disorder when my brain aneurysm ruptured. The subarachnoid haemorrhage had wiped that chapter from my memory.

That revelation was surreal.

It made everything feel both familiar and foreign — like walking into a life that used to be mine, but no longer belonged to me.

Over the next few weeks, I worked with speech therapists, physiotherapists, occupational therapists. I had sessions with a neuropsychologist and a psychiatrist. The basic routine I’d built in hospital began to expand.

But I knew I needed more than structure.

I needed data.

I needed to map my capabilities — to find out what I could do, where the edges were, how far I could push before things broke down.

And that’s where the tension began.

I wanted to test myself.

To stretch. To explore. To learn.

But the system around me was cautious. Understandably so — but frustratingly so.

I was often told to take it easy, to slow down, to rest.

But tactical living isn’t just about rest.

It’s about reconnaissance.

It’s about gathering intel from your own body — even if that means occasional setbacks.

I wasn’t trying to rush recovery.

I was trying to understand my terrain.

🛠️ System-Building with Intention

The rehab centre had its own rhythms — timetables, protocols, therapeutic goals. But I quickly realised that if I wanted to recover on my terms, I’d need to build systems that worked for me, not just around me.

I started small.

I tracked my energy levels.

I noted which activities triggered fatigue, which ones sharpened my focus.

I began to treat my body like a feedback loop — not a broken machine, but a responsive system.

There was friction, of course.

Staff were kind, but cautious.

They saw risk where I saw opportunity.

They wanted to protect me from overexertion — I wanted to understand what overexertion looked like, so I could navigate it better.

So I started building my own scaffolding:

Micro-routines: Short, repeatable actions that gave structure without rigidity.

Recovery windows: Intentional rest periods, not passive downtime.

Cognitive mapping: Journalling what I could remember, what I struggled with, what patterns emerged.

Boundary-testing: Trying things just outside my comfort zone, then observing the fallout.

This wasn’t rebellion.

It was research.

I wasn’t defying the system — I was augmenting it.

I stopped seeing myself as a passive recipient of care.

I became a strategist — someone designing a life around fluctuating capacity, not waiting for stability to arrive.

🧠 Tactical Living as a Philosophy

Thankfully, not all of my memory was gone.

I could still recall my time in the military — and in this strange new world I now inhabited, that memory became my anchor.

The military had taught me how to endure.

How to push through pain and fatigue.

How to focus on the goal, lead with quiet strength, and cultivate mental resilience.

It had also taught me emotional regulation.

Self-discipline.

A kind of internal order that, in the chaos of recovery, felt like a lifeline.

In the rehab centre, I began to notice something unsettling.

The traits that had kept me alive — stoicism, discipline, grit — were now being questioned.

Society seemed to label them as toxic.

Outdated.

Unwanted.

In clinical settings, stoicism can be mistaken for emotional suppression.

Discipline can be seen as denial.

But for me, these traits weren’t armour — they were tools.

I didn’t care if they were unfashionable.

Not then.

Not when I was at my most vulnerable.

Because those pillars — the ones I’d built my life on — were the very ones keeping me afloat.

They weren’t toxic.

They were tactical.

They helped me:

Regulate emotion when my brain felt scrambled.

Push through fatigue when my body wanted to quit.

Maintain focus when the world blurred.

Lead myself when no one else could.

Tactical living became a philosophy — one rooted in resilience, discipline, and self-leadership.

Not performative masculinity.

Not bravado.

But a quiet, strategic strength that had been forged in battle and now repurposed for healing.

🌍 Tactical Living in Civilian Life

That moment was a catalyst.

Not for despair — but for self-generated recovery.

I realised I couldn’t wait for the system to catch up.

I had to lead my own rehabilitation.

That meant applying everything I’d learned — about limits, data, routines, and philosophy — to civilian life.

I began to build:

A home environment that reduced sensory overload and supported independence.

A digital toolkit — timers, reminders, voice notes — to support memory and cognition.

A pacing strategy that balanced effort with recovery, allowing for sustainable progress.

Creative outlets — writing, photography, reflection — that gave meaning to the process.

I also began to share my story.

Not to inspire, but to connect.

To offer a framework for others navigating invisible battles.

To show that tactical living isn’t just survival — it’s strategy with soul.

💬 Closing Reflections: Tactical Living Is Not a Choice

I didn’t choose tactical living.

It chose me.

But now that I understand it — now that I’ve seen how powerful it can be — I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Because tactical living isn’t just about surviving.

It’s about designing a life that honours your reality.

It’s about leading yourself when the path disappears.

It’s about building systems that protect your energy, amplify your strengths, and make space for meaning.

If you’re navigating illness, trauma, disability, or any kind of invisible battle — know this:

You don’t have to wait for permission.

You don’t have to fit someone else’s model of recovery.

You can build your own.

You can live tactically.

And that, in itself, is a form of strength.

#Dustywentworth