Dusty Wentworth

Resilience is the ability to adapt well in the face of adversity, trauma, stress, or significant sources of pressure, while maintaining or regaining psychological and physical functioning. It is not the absence of distress, nor is it an inherent toughness that some people possess and others lack. Modern psychological and occupational health research consistently shows that resilience is a dynamic process, shaped over time by skills, habits, relationships, and environments. This distinction matters. When resilience is misunderstood as personal toughness, people are encouraged to endure conditions that are objectively damaging. When it is understood as adaptive capacity, it becomes something that can be developed, supported, and sustained without denying reality. This article sets out what resilience looks like in practice, what the evidence says about its effects on health and performance, and how it can be strengthened at both individual and organisational levels. Resi...

One of the hardest parts of my recovery has not been PTSD, fibromyalgia, Functional Neurological Disorder, or even surviving a ruptured brain aneurysm. Those things are visible enough. They can be named, diagnosed, measured, medicated, explained. The real fight has been with masculinity. Not in the abstract, but in my own life, my own body, and my own sense of self. That fight came in two parts. Waking Up in the Future After my aneurysm rupture, I regained consciousness with significant memory loss. Doctors, nurses, and family kept telling me I was fifty years old. In my head, I was still in my mid thirties. I had not aged into this stage of life. I had arrived in it without warning or preparation. It felt less like recovery and more like waking up in the future. If someone had asked me in my thirties whether I would like to time travel fifteen years forward, I would probably have said yes. You expect things to improve. You assume progress. Instead, I woke into a reality th...

There are moments in life that do not announce themselves as turning points until long after they have passed. Others arrive with brutal clarity, altering the landscape of what lies ahead in the space of a single sentence.  Tuesday 13 January 2026 was one of those moments. It was my first medical appointment of the new year, and by the time I left the consulting room, I knew that a door I had been moving towards for the last two years had quietly, decisively closed. The appointment was with my neurologist and focused on my Functional Neurological Disorder (FND). FND remains the most debilitating of my diagnoses, not only because of the severity of its physical symptoms, but because of the uncertainty that continues to surround it. Each consultation carries the same fragile expectation: that a new approach might emerge, a different perspective, or a previously unexplored intervention that could offer some relief. On this occasion, that expectation lasted only minutes. Th...

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...

I didn’t wake gently. I woke confused.   After nearly four weeks unconscious, the doctors didn’t expect me to survive. But I did. I remember a strange sound—low, soft, like a cow’s distant moo.   When I opened my eyes, I was convinced I’d woken up in a barn-turned-hospital during the American Civil War.   The smell, the air, the eerie stillness—it all felt real. Then the vision faded.   A nurse was beside my bed. I couldn’t quite hear her—my hearing had been severely damaged, and everything felt distant, tilted.   But I was awake.   Still here.   And even though I didn’t know where I was, something deep inside whispered: start something. 🏥 How My Journal Became My Voice It began as a tool.   An occupational therapist suggested keeping a journal—to help me track the moments, emotions, and memories I feared might slip away. With help from a healthcare assistant, I downloaded the Diarium app to my ...

This is not just about policy. It’s about principle. I served this country. I came home injured. But this isn’t a story about a failed veteran. It’s a story about a system that’s failing all of us. Across the UK, over 14.6 million disabled people are living in a state of manufactured scarcity — not because their needs are unclear, but because the systems around them are deliberately designed to delay, deny, and degrade. I know this because I live it. I live with complex, overlapping conditions: combat-related PTSD, a brain injury following a subarachnoid haemorrhage, Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), severe fibromyalgia, partial blindness, significant hearing loss, and neurological seizures and tremors. These aren’t static labels. They interact, compound, and affect every part of my life. Yet, the people assessing me often have no experience of any of them. The Flawed Assessment System Personal Independence Payment (PIP) assessments are outsourced to private contracto...