Dusty Wentworth

I began posting my blogs never once thinking about readers. Writing was simply therapy—a way to make sense of life after a ruptured brain aneurysm nearly killed me, stealing my memories and identity. I’d been posting for weeks when, one day, I decided to fill out my blog profile properly. That’s when I discovered the analytics tab. Out of curiosity, I clicked to see what it measured… and I was stunned. People were actually reading what I’d written—hundreds of them! Given my cognitive difficulties, I assumed I’d misread the data. I called my wife over to double-check. She confirmed it. They were real. People were reading. It’s no exaggeration to say that, in that moment, for the first time since waking up in hospital over a year earlier, I felt a meaningful life was possible. That small group of blog readers did more for my healing than seven months in a neurological rehabilitation centre ever had. When my brain aneurysm ruptured, it shattered my life into a million pieces. ...

There are moments in life that mark a significant turning point—not because of what you gain, but because of what you finally accept. For me, designing my own wheelchair with Paul from the Mobility Centre was one of those profound moments. Let me explain. After a sudden brain aneurysm, months of grueling rehab, and grappling with memory loss and a diagnosis of Functional Neurological Disorder, one question haunted me: “Who am I now?” It wasn’t just about what I could or couldn’t do, but about my very essence. Looking in the mirror, I saw a stranger. I’d lost my past—and with it, the continuity of my identity. Becoming disabled didn’t just take away my movement; it stripped away everything I thought defined me. So, when I found myself designing a new wheelchair, it wasn’t merely a practical appointment. It was a declaration. When I was first discharged into a Centre for Neurological Rehabilitation, I faced a daunting 30-week wait for NHS wheelchair services. I simply couldn’...