The Horrid Triad of Physical and Mental Decline

It started with dread

Every morning, before my eyes even opened, the thoughts would come rushing in. My foot — the cursed foot. I would lie there, paralysed by the knowledge that as soon as I swung my legs out of bed and placed my foot on the ground, the battle would begin again. Every step of the day, tens of thousands of them, was a reminder of the injury that had stolen my ease, my joy, and, seemingly, my life.

I could not walk without thinking. Should I push forward onto my toes? Lean back and crunch my stomach? Walk on my heels? None of it felt right. Every single step was wrong, accompanied by a searing frustration that seeped into every corner of my mind. I could not play with my kids. I could not run with them, chase them, or be the dad I had always imagined myself to be. I was trapped — not only by my body, but by my relentless drive for perfection, a standard I now realise was both unattainable and destructive.

The ankle, the bone, and seven years of confusion

It all began with an ankle break on a cricket field. I fell awkwardly over a piece of wood, and though I knew something was wrong, I had no idea that moment would change my life. After the fracture healed, things never returned to normal. For seven years, I struggled with pain and dysfunction, not realising that a condition called OS Trigonum Syndrome was the root cause. A small bone at the back of my ankle had trapped my flexor hallucis longus tendon, causing movement problems I could not understand.

Despite endless rehabilitation, the tendon could not function properly. I spent countless hours strengthening and stretching, pushing harder and harder, but nothing worked. No amount of effort could fix a tendon trapped by bone. The OS Trigonum was eventually removed, but the problems did not stop. Adhesions had formed in the tendon sheath, locking movement further, and by the time they were resolved, some nerve damage had developed in my posterior ankle space.

Because I could not use my left foot effectively, my brain had rewired my movement patterns. I had learned to walk on the outside of my foot, which caused all the tendons on that side to tighten over time. When I put my foot down, it clawed at the floor. Even after the bone was removed and the tendon unblocked, my brain remained stuck in the old movement pathways. That was one of the most frustrating aspects — knowing I had the physical capability to walk better, but being unable to break free from the maladaptive patterns. This is what is known as a functional motor disorder.

When one injury became many

I fell off my bike and broke my collarbone. The fracture did not heal properly, resulting in a non-union that required two surgical revisions. The first plate snapped when I fell again. Two years of trauma and rehabilitation had left my left upper body weak and unable to drive proper movement.

Then came tennis elbow from compensating for the shoulder, which ended swimming — my last remaining form of exercise. From the age of 12, sport and movement had been central to my identity. It was not just something I did. It was who I was. As a diabetes dietitian specialising in exercise, movement was professional as well as personal.

Losing it felt like losing a piece of myself. The repeated injuries, the inability to move freely, the endless rehabilitation — it all caused what I now understand to be biographical interference: a loss of identity that left me feeling unmoored and directionless.

Adding to the weight of it was the slow onset of Dupuytren’s contracture in both hands. Watching my fingers begin to curl as my grandfather’s had done. I underwent radiotherapy to slow its progression.

Learned helplessness

Through all of this, I never stopped trying to fix myself. But I did not know what I was up against. I blamed myself for every failure. Every unsuccessful programme reinforced the belief that I was not trying hard enough. I had built my identity around hard work leading to results. Here, it did not. And because I did not know why, I blamed myself. Over time, this led to something far worse: learned helplessness. I stopped believing things could get better, yet could not stop trying.

I spent hours hyper-focusing on every tiny movement, trying 15 different ways to walk, analysing every step. Even when I sat down, my mind would not rest. I obsessed over posture, pelvic tilt, whether I was breathing into my belly. I could not switch off. I would sit at work staring blankly at my screen, looking busy while my mind spiralled into endless loops of analysis.

Holidays became unbearable reminders of my limitations. In Spain, I broke down every night, unable to keep up with my family. In Thailand, I cried in my mum’s arms, feeling broken and distant — a shadow of the dad and husband I wanted to be.

In my desperation, I even turned to psychedelic-assisted introspection therapy, having read about its potential to help rewire the brain. This reflects how far I was willing to go. I began researching amputation — genuinely believing that losing the leg and replacing it with a prosthetic might be more manageable than what I was experiencing.

The bridge

The lowest point came one cold, grey morning. I left the house, walking faster and faster, my heart pounding as the noise in my head grew louder with every step. I reached a bridge overlooking the motorway. I stood there, staring down at the cars rushing past, and thought: this is it. I cannot do this any more.

But then, a flash of clarity. My children’s laughter. My wife’s smile. Their lives without me. The pain they would feel. No. I could not do it. Not for myself, but for them. I turned away from the edge and walked home, hollow but alive.

That moment was a turning point, but the journey back was far from over. For months I was physically present at home but mentally absent — spending hours staring into space, walking aimlessly in the garden, obsessing over movement. Three people became my lifelines during that time.

The people who held things together

My mother-in-law Izzy stepped in with grace and quiet resolve, caring for Grace and Jude as though nothing was amiss. She gave them love, laughter, and stability when I could not.

My mum was another rock. She came in my darkest moments, when I could not bring myself to leave the house. She was the voice of reason when my mind was chaos, and when I broke down crying over the phone, she was there.

And then there was my wife. She did not try to fix me or offer solutions she knew I would not hear. Instead, she did something far more powerful: she stayed. She held me, sat with me, listened without judgement. Her unwavering presence reminded me, even at my lowest, that I was not alone.

The professionals who found what others had missed

Dr Abid Hussain, the podiatrist at Dr Foot in Birmingham, was relentless in his pursuit of solutions. He saw the complexity of my case and never dismissed me. He helped me get the OS Trigonum removed and referred me to specialists who could make a difference.

Professor Nat Padhair at the London Independent Hospital spotted what so many others had missed. Even after the bone was removed, adhesions were still present, locking movement in place. He referred me for further treatment and testing, and ensured I was on the right path.

Sam Hodges at Birmingham Osteopathic Clinic helped me see something I had not. My obsession with force and perfection had disconnected my body and mind. He started me back at the basics — breathing, stretching, reconnecting movement in a simple, manageable way.

The question that changed everything

The final breakthrough came from Sandra, my therapist at Indigo Therapy. She asked me one question:

That question unravelled the knot in my mind. For years, I had held myself to an impossible standard. If I could not be the active, adventurous role model I had imagined, I thought I had failed. Sandra did not buy into my story. The narrative that was wired deep in my brain. She challenged me to question whether the belief was actually true.

For the first time, I could not convince someone to believe my story. Frustrated, I tried to justify it passionately. I shared my usual examples, my life experiences, insisting on the life I was meant to have. But Sandra pushed me to delve into my core beliefs and question the assumptions underneath them.

The realisation hit like a lightning bolt.

To be a good father, husband, and human, I did not need to move perfectly, embody adventure, or have an impressive physique.

What mattered most was being present, engaged, and giving my children my full attention. Ironically, it was my obsession with an unattainable standard that had been stopping me from truly being there for them. This is what a fixed mindset looks like from the inside.

With this new perspective, I found myself open to possibilities I had previously dismissed. I began to embrace the simple exercises Sam had recommended — stretching my quads, focusing on walking through my hip. Before, I would have dismissed these as too basic. Now I had hope.

Thanks to Sandra’s guidance, I went from fearing simple tasks like walking to the train station to walking my daughter to school for the first time in three years. That is not a small thing.

Questions worth asking yourself

For anyone trapped in a similar cycle, these are the questions I return to regularly:

• What assumptions am I making about myself and my situation?
• What rules have I created for myself, and are they truly serving me?
• Do I really need to be perfect, or is being present enough?
• Is it possible there is a way forward, even if I cannot see it yet?

If your self-talk includes phrases like “I must” or “this is essential” or “without this, life is not worth living” — it is worth questioning the fixed mindset behind those statements. These beliefs feel rigid and immovable. Challenging them can open the door to growth, even within your limitations. It is not easy, but it is possible.

Because sometimes, it is not the body that needs healing, but the stories we tell ourselves.

A final reflection

A realisation struck me while watching I’m Tim on Netflix, a documentary about Avicii and his tragic death. The narrative we can fall into — that the people we love might be better off without us — is never true, no matter how convincingly it repeats.

Now? I am making progress with the functional motor disorder. Moving with presence. Playing with love. Feeling life fully, no longer trapped behind the glass of depression and fixation.

I walked my daughter to school for the first time in three years. It was pure magic.

The future is unwritten. But with great people by my side and a commitment to challenging the stories that hold me back, it shines brighter than ever.

— John