10 years

 10 years.

It’s been a decade now, living with a brain disease.
And I find myself looking back on what I wrote five years ago, trying to remember who I was then.
Scared. Proud. Tired. Hopeful. All at once.
Honestly? Not much has changed, and yet everything has.

When I hit the five-year mark, I wrote about showing up. About the quiet resilience that lives in everyday choices. About the fear I still carried, and the pride I was just beginning to let myself feel.
I still stand by every word of that post.

But now, five years on from that, I’ve learned even more. I’ve learned that pride doesn’t have to feel loud or defiant, sometimes it’s just looking at who you’ve become and thinking, you did okay.
I’ve learned that fear might never fully leave, but it softens over time. You make room for it, but you don’t let it take over the whole house.

And I’ve learned that while your body may feel like a battleground some days, your life can still be full. Still joyful. Still deeply, beautifully yours.

The thing about living with something chronic is that it changes you, not all at once, but slowly, over time. And not just in the obvious ways. It teaches you patience, sharpens your empathy, forces you to let go of perfection. You get better at listening to yourself. You learn which battles are worth fighting and which days are for resting.

Have there been setbacks? Of course. But also so so many wins. Big and small. So much life packed into these 10 years. Work I’m proud of. Relationships that hold me steady. A deeper understanding of who I am, and what I need.

At year five, I wasn’t sure what the next five would hold. And I still don’t know what the next five after this will bring. But I’ve made peace with that. Because ten years in, I’ve realised this journey is less about control and more about trust. Trusting myself. Trusting that even if the road twists, I’ll find a way through.

So here’s to ten years.
To the version of me who wrote that five-year post, thank you. You helped me get here.
To anyone out there who’s in year one, or year three, or year twenty. Keep going.
You’re doing more than you know. 💙

life is a climb but the view is great

This year marks ten years since I was diagnosed with a brain disease. To mark it, I climbed Mount Snowdon with my best friends.

The last decade has been full of uncertainty, appointments, and learning how to live alongside something I never planned for. Climbing the mountain was not about proving strength. It was about marking time. About celebrating being here. About doing something meaningful with people who understand your pace and walk it with you.

As Miley Cyrus once said, “Life is a climb, but the view is great.” That felt especially true standing at the top, exhausted, emotional, and grateful.

I am so proud of my girls. Especially one of them who discovered she has a fear of heights halfway through the climb and still kept going. That alone deserves a medal.

Together, we also raised over £3,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital , which makes the whole experience even more special.

Ten years ago, I had no idea what life would look like now.
Today, I know this much. I am still here, still capable, and deeply grateful.