This is proving difficult
I started this post over two weeks ago—but then I was rudely interrupted by another scare. I was doing my beginner’s Tai Chi (in the comfort of my own kitchen—no one needed to see how uncoordinated I can be) when I suddenly lost balance, went lightheaded, got strange headaches, became hot and unbearably thirsty. I had to sit down. It wasn’t strenuous—just gentle. Then panic set in. Was it another TIA?
At around 7 am, I called my youngest, who immediately dropped everything and drove me to Stepping Hill Hospital (home of the stroke unit, so we skipped the GP). Four hours and a CT scan later, the verdict was relief: it was a virus, not a TIA—just dehydration. Phew. Still drained, but safe.
Side note: Thank you, Stepping Hill staff—you were magnificent. And thank you, my daughters, for your unwavering support and love.
Jumping to the Worst-Case Scenario
I tend to do this—panic first, ask questions later. Why? Maybe insecurity. Maybe an “all-or-nothing” mentality I’ve carried since my teens (Small Faces’ All Or Nothing could’ve been my anthem).
But was I wrong to worry I was having another TIA? No—I did what made sense: I took it seriously. I followed my instincts. That’s okay.
Feeling Lost
They tell you recovery from a mini-stroke can leave you tired. That you might experience post-stroke fatigue. That your brain might exhaust itself just on autopilot.
But what they don’t mention is the moment you look in the mirror and think:
“What the fuck has happened to me? I don’t know who I am anymore.”
I’ve always had mood swings—anger, self-loathing, fleeting joy, flashes of inspiration. Now they come faster, without warning. There’s no “normal” anymore—just emotional chaos. And that’s where I am: maybe not in medical crisis, but profoundly displaced.
So I’ve started reading, talking to a therapist (thanks to my employer for that support), and trying to piece myself back together.
Fatigue Without Rest
Post-TIA, I rested for a month, then eased into work: one day, then two, now four. Performance-wise, I’m fine. But internally… there’s a weariness that sleep doesn’t cure.
This is cognitive fatigue—the mental exhaustion when your brain works overtime just to keep up appearances. Overtly, it might look like yawning or eye-rubbing—but it’s quieter, insidious. It creeps in as boredom, flatness, low motivation—only you notice. It drains colour from life, makes hobbies feel pointless, makes even connection feel like effort.
The Emotional Undercurrent
A TIA is a brain injury and that inevitably brings an emotional baggage and grief – a quiet grief, a grief with no funeral, no flowers, no name.
Grief after a brain injury often follows the stages: denial, anger, bargaining (“if only…”), depression, and acceptance. The last one—acceptance—can take years or may never arrive.
“Even ten years on I struggle knowing my life isn’t the same,” said one survivor I read about.
headway.org.uk
I can often shift through all five of these stages in a single day. Confidence slips. Control fades. The person I was seems distant. Others see me, but not what’s missing.
That something missing? It’s me—not entirely gone, but not who I recognize anymore. It’s commonplace after brain injuries—something I need to treat with patience. Hard for an “all-or-nothing” person like me, but necessary.
The Relationship Tension
This loss shows most in relationships. Such as in a recent clash with my other half: she remembers something I said. Wanted to know why. But I didn’t remember the context of what caused it. I don’t really remember the words or their meaning. I’m not sure that I even know the version of me who said it.
How do you explain yourself when you can’t even explain yourself to yourself?
Coping Without Clarity
What helps? Not much, yet. But I’m building a small emotional first aid kit:
- Say less. Feel more. Let the storm pass.
- Move my body: morning Tai Chi, walks, water, breath.
- Don’t chase meaning—let it come.
And above all:
I’m not broken. I’m overwhelmed. This isn’t the end—it’s just the middle.
Still Me, Somehow
I’m writing this because this phase—this invisible side of recovery—rarely gets spoken about. There’s no drama, no finale, just a slow rediscovery of self.
If you’re here too—doubting, disconnected, not recognising yourself—you’re not alone.
This isn’t the recovery I expected. It’s slow. It’s confusing. It’s messy. And for now, that has to be enough.