Dusty Wentworth

One year ago, as Christmas lights flickered across Norfolk, I sat in my wheelchair staring at a stack of unanswered job adverts. The season felt distant, muffled by exhaustion and uncertainty. I was no longer thinking about celebration. I was thinking about survival. In October 2023, I collapsed and was taken to hospital. I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder. Scans also revealed a brain aneurysm. I was told it was stable. At the time, the focus was on managing the FND symptoms that had abruptly dismantled my independence. I was transferred to a neurological rehabilitation centre as part of my treatment. In April 2024, while still there, the aneurysm ruptured. What followed was a subarachnoid haemorrhage, a four-week coma, and a life that did not resume where it left off. Independence evaporated. Simple tasks became logistical exercises. I was left living with the consequences of brain injury, severe PTSD from military service, fibromyalgia, Functional Neuro...

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...