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...

It’s the 28th of August already—can you believe it? Where did the summer go? One moment I was bracing myself for six weeks of school holidays, and the next I’m sitting in the garden, basking in the sunshine, kids playing in the background, reflecting on how fast it’s all flown by. Now, to be clear, I wasn’t worried about the usual summer holiday challenges—you know, keeping the kids entertained without requiring a bank balance that rivals Elon Musk’s. No, my real anticipation came from the fact that this was my first summer as a dad in a wheelchair. If you’ve read my earlier holiday blog (Wheelchairs, Lovebirds, and Little White Eggs: A Summer’s Day in the Garden Jungle), you’ll know I had more than a few doubts about how this would play out. Would I keep up? Would the kids adapt? Would I spend most of the summer watching from the sidelines while they ran rings around me? Well, let me tell you—none of that happened. Game Changers and Wheelchair Bandits Early on, my new Quic...

Welcome to the latest post in my Summer Holiday Series—a light-hearted chronicle of chaos, cuddles, and caffeine-fuelled survival—as a full-time wheelchair user and father of three energetic small humans: Lily (10), Harry (6), and Hallie (2). This is our first summer holiday navigating this new chapter together, and what a start it’s been! Today’s theme? Lovebirds, trampolines, and salad-based revelations. A Slow Start… With Pastries (Because I’m Not a Monster) The day began the only way any respectable British summer day should: slowly. Think less “early riser” and more “professionally horizontal.” A leisurely breakfast of pastries, toast, and strong coffee set the tone—because in this house, carbs are love, and caffeine is survival. My youngest, Hallie, managed to butter both the toast and her eyebrows. Harry was deeply suspicious that pastries aren’t, in fact, a major food group. Lily, mature beyond her years, merely rolled her eyes and reached for the Nutella like a sea...

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’...