Dusty Wentworth

When I was told to “man up” after my subarachnoid haemorrhage, I just looked at my wheelchair and wondered: what does that even mean now? For as long as I can remember, “man up” has been one of those phrases thrown around casually—on parade squares, in workplaces, in pubs. It sounds simple, even motivational. But in reality, it’s loaded with expectation. It doesn’t just ask a man to be strong; it demands silence, emotional suppression, and the illusion of control. After my aneurysm ruptured, I woke up in a body that no longer played by the rules. PTSD, Functional Neurological Disorder, Fibromyalgia, and brain injury became daily realities. Pain, fatigue, tremors, memory lapses—none of it fits the cultural script of “unshakeable masculinity.” And yet, people still said it: “man up.” But here’s the truth: I’ve discovered more strength in vulnerability than I ever did in hiding behind a mask. Real courage has been admitting when I can’t do something, asking for help, or sittin...