Dusty Wentworth

  The Public Loves Resilience Because It Costs Them Nothing Resilience is one of those words people like to use about disabled people. They say it with admiration. They say it with warmth. They say it as though it is always a compliment. But I have become wary of the word. Not because resilience is false. Disabled people are often resilient. Chronically ill people are often resilient. People living with pain, trauma, neurological conditions, fatigue, mobility loss, and bodies that no longer obey instruction often have to adapt in ways most people never see. The problem is not resilience itself. The problem is how easily society praises it while refusing to ask why so much of it is necessary in the first place. Resilience is praised most loudly by people who do not have to pay the cost of it. That is the uncomfortable truth. When a disabled person manages to leave the house, people see determination. They do not see the planning behind it. They do not see the medication, the pacing,...

  Why Disability Pride Month Isn't for Me July marks Disability Pride Month. For many disabled people, it is a time to celebrate identity, community and acceptance. I genuinely respect that. Everyone has the right to decide what disability means to them. Personally, however, it is not something I identify with. If I could wake up tomorrow free from Functional Neurological Disorder, Fibromyalgia, PTSD, the lasting effects of a ruptured brain aneurysm, and the limitations that made me a full-time wheelchair user, I would do so without hesitation. I do not feel pride in becoming disabled. I feel pride in adapting to it. There is an important difference. My disability has changed how I live my life, but it has never changed who I am. I am a husband, a father, a writer, a veteran and a friend. I happen to be disabled. It is part of my life, not the definition of my identity. That is why Disability Pride Month has never resonated with me. None of this is a criticism of those who find mea...

  The Silence of Assumption We are taught that a man's strength is measured by the space he commands and the weight he can lift. But what happens when the body stops cooperating? There is a particular kind of silence that follows disability. It is not the silence of sympathy, but the silence of assumption: the immediate belief that because a man can no longer run, fight, climb, or carry, he has somehow become less of a man. This idea is deeply rooted in our culture. Historically, strength has been measured in purely physical terms: broad shoulders, hard manual labour, endurance, and fierce self-reliance. From childhood, many boys are taught that their worth is directly tethered to what their bodies can achieve. Then one day, for some of us, the body changes. Whether through a spinal injury, a neurological condition, chronic illness, an accident, a stroke, or an aneurysm, the measures we once used suddenly no longer apply. The world notices. People speak more slowly. They offer pity...

  Redefining the Man in the Mirror I spent most of my adult life in environments most people would cross the street to avoid. The Army first, then private military contracting, then close protection. War zones. High risk operations. Situations where the wrong decision carried permanent consequences. I was fit, strong and trained to operate under pressure. My confidence was not bravado. It was earned, tested repeatedly in places that stripped away pretence very quickly. What I discovered after being medically discharged with PTSD was that civilian life was harder for me than any operational theatre. The ordinary rhythms of day to day existence unsettled me in ways combat never had. High risk environments made sense. Instinct had value there. The version of myself I understood was still useful. Then my body began to fail. Fibromyalgia came first. Doctors linked it to PTSD. I carried on as trained, pushing through, minimising symptoms, treating pain as background noise. Until Oc...

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...

Resilience is often described as the ability to endure, to withstand pressure, to keep going when circumstances are hostile or uncertain. Yet for those who have had their lives interrupted by illness, injury or profound loss, resilience is not an abstract concept. It becomes a daily practice, a series of deliberate choices, and at times a hard won act of defiance against despair. Over the past two years, resilience has been the central theme of my life. It has shaped how I have faced the consequences of neurological injury, institutional barriers and the quiet erosion of confidence that prolonged dependence can bring. This is a reflection on that period, and on my determination to rebuild. In October 2023, I became an inpatient. What was initially a hospital admission extended into a prolonged stay and then into a neurological rehabilitation centre. From October 2023 through to September 2024, my world narrowed to wards, treatment rooms and carefully scheduled routines. Reh...

The New Year is quietly under way. It is Saturday 3 January 2026, and as I write this, snow is falling steadily outside my window. It is one of those calm, unmistakably beautiful moments that winter sometimes offers. I am thankful that I have nowhere I need to be today. Snow and wheelchairs do not mix well, and what appears peaceful from indoors can very quickly become dangerous outside. This stillness feels symbolic. With the turning of the year has come a change in how I view my life. This is not because circumstances have suddenly become easy, but because something fundamental has shifted. For the first time in a long while, I am not simply surviving. I am beginning to look forward. That shift has been slow, hard-won, and costly. From collapse to survival My journey over the past few years began in October 2023 when I collapsed at home. What followed was not a single event but an extended fight to stay alive. I spent eleven months moving between hospital wards and a spec...