This is not a diabetes-related post.
I thought long and hard before sharing it.
It may help Grace and Jude in the future.
More importantly, it may help someone out there who is struggling with a major depressive episode, following physical injury and/or disability, or is suffering from a functional motor disorder (FMD).
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 couldn’t 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. Worse still, I couldn’t play with my kids. I couldn’t run with them, chase them, or be the dad I’d 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.
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 issues I couldn’t understand.
Despite endless rehab programmes, the tendon couldn’t function properly. I spent countless hours strengthening and stretching, pushing myself harder and harder, but nothing worked. I didn’t know at the time that no amount of effort could fix a tendon trapped by bone. The OS Trigonum was eventually removed, but the problems didn’t stop. Adhesions had formed in the tendon sheath, locking my movement further, and by the time they were resolved, some nerve damage had developed in my posterior ankle space.
Worse still, due to the trapped tendon, nerve damage, and a long-standing plantar fibroma on the bottom of my left foot, I developed a functional motor disorder. Because I couldn’t use my left foot effectively, my brain rewired my movement patterns. I learned to walk using the outside of my foot, which caused all the tendons on the outside to tighten over time. When I put my foot down, it clawed at the floor, making it impossible to walk properly.
These adaptations were helpful while the damage was still present. But after the bone was removed, the tendon unblocked, and the plantar fibroma treated with a steroid injection and radiotherapy, I should have been able to use my flexor hallucis longus again. However, my brain remained stuck in the old movement pathways, and that was one of the most frustrating parts—knowing I had the physical capability to walk better but being unable to break free from the maladaptive patterns. Every time I put my foot down, my brain defaulted to the old way of moving.
I spent countless hours trying to retrain my foot with no success, and it was utterly soul-destroying. There was always this tantalising possibility that, with just a little more effort, I could rewire my movement and everything would improve. But I never knew when—or if—that day would come. I constantly found myself caught in a mental battle: part of me believed it was possible, while another part doubted it would ever happen. I didn’t want to give up because doing so felt like giving away so much—simple joys like playing with my kids, going on amazing holidays, or just taking a walk. Giving up would have meant letting go of all of that.
At the same time, I struggled to truly believe in progress, and the mental torture of that daily conflict was overwhelming. When I tried to satisfy the voice telling me to keep pushing, the voice urging me to stop and let go grew louder. I might have felt a momentary sense of relief by leaning into one side, but soon the other voice would take over and pull me in the opposite direction. It was like being stuck in an endless tug-of-war, unable to find peace, constantly torn between hope and resignation.
As if that wasn’t enough, I also suffered a major blow to my upper body. I fell off my bike and broke my collarbone. The fracture didn’t heal properly, resulting in a non-union that required two surgical revisions. The first plate they used to stabilise the bone snapped when I fell over, and a second plate was fitted. By then, two years of trauma and rehab had left my left upper body muscles weak and unable to drive proper movement. The injury compounded my already struggling left-hand side and further destabilised my body.
And then, just as I was trying to find my way back, another setback. The strain of compensating for my left shoulder left me with tennis elbow, a painful condition that shut down my last resort for exercise—swimming. For me, this wasn’t just about losing a coping mechanism. From the age of 12, exercise and sport had been central to my identity. It wasn’t just something I did—it was who I was. I was an athlete, someone who thrived on physical activity. And as a diabetes dietitian specialising in exercise, movement wasn’t just personal; it was professional.
When that was taken from me, it felt like losing a piece of myself. The repeated injuries, the inability to move freely, the endless rehab—it all shook me to my core. I was no longer the person I thought I was. It caused what I now understand to be biographical interference, a loss of identity that left me feeling unmoored and directionless.
Adding to the turmoil was the slow, creeping onset of Dupuytren’s contracture in both hands. I watched in despair as my fingers began to curl and stiffen, the same way my grandfather’s hands had become deformed. I couldn’t stop picturing my future—the inability to grip, to hold, to do even the simplest things with my children. I underwent radiotherapy to slow its progression, hoping to delay what felt inevitable.
Through all of this, I never stopped trying to fix myself. But I didn’t know what I was up against. I didn’t know that the nerve damage in my foot, the adhesions, the collarbone trauma, and the tennis elbow had created a problem that hard work alone couldn’t solve. I blamed myself for every failure. Every unsuccessful programme reinforced the belief that I wasn’t trying hard enough. I built my identity around success, around hard work leading to results. But here, it didn’t. And because I didn’t know why, I blamed myself. Over time, this led to something far worse: learned helplessness. I stopped believing things could get better, yet I couldn’t stop trying.
For years, I threw myself into fixing it. I worked harder and harder, believing that if I just pushed more, I could outwork the problem. Every time I failed, I blamed myself. I spent countless hours hyper-focusing on every tiny movement, trying to find the “perfect” way to walk. I’d pace up and down the garden or a quiet alley, trying 15 different ways to move, analysing every step, every shift of weight. I didn’t just lose myself in the process—I lost my ability to live.
It didn’t stop when I sat down. Even when I wasn’t walking, my mind wouldn’t rest. I’d obsess over my posture, my pelvic tilt, whether I was breathing into my belly or sitting “wrong.” I couldn’t switch off, not even for a moment. I’d sit at work, staring blankly at my computer screen, looking busy while my mind spiralled into endless loops of analysis. I wasn’t working. I wasn’t present. I was lost.
The torment spread to every corner of my life. Holidays, once a source of joy, 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.
I reached the point where I genuinely believed my leg was the problem—that if I just got rid of it, I could manage better with a prosthetic. I began researching amputation, thinking it was my only way forward. That’s how desperate I was, how convinced I was that my body had failed me beyond repair.
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 can’t do this anymore.
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 couldn’t 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, or obsessing over movement. During that time, three people became my lifelines, ensuring my family didn’t fall apart.
My mother-in-law, Izzy, was a pillar of strength. She 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 couldn’t. She never complained, never judged, but simply took on the responsibility of looking after them. Her selflessness and love meant my children were spared the worst of my struggle.
My mum was another rock. She offered me both a listening ear and the firm encouragement I needed to keep going. She came to see me in my darkest moments, when I couldn’t 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 to pick up the pieces.
And then there was my wife. She didn’t try to fix me or offer solutions she knew I wouldn’t hear. Instead, she did something far more powerful: she stayed. She held me, sat with me, and listened without judgment or impatience. Her unwavering love and presence reminded me, even at my lowest, that I wasn’t alone. She gave me space to heal, without rushing me or pushing me, and that made all the difference.
The emotional support of my family was crucial, but it was finding the right professionals who turned the tide. Three key people helped me rebuild the pieces that seemed so broken.
Dr. Abid Hussain, the podiatrist at Dr Foot in Birmingham’s Custard Factory, was relentless in his pursuit of solutions. He saw the complexity of my case and never dismissed me, helping me get the OS Trigonum bone removed and referring 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 my movement in place. He referred me for further treatment, testing for nerve damage, and ensuring I was on the right path.
Sam Hodges at Birmingham Chiropractic Clinic helped me see what I hadn’t before: that my obsession with force and perfection had disconnected my body and mind. He started me back at the basics, focusing on breathing, stretching, and reconnecting my movements in a simple, manageable way.
The final breakthrough came from Sandra, my therapist at Indigo Therapy. She asked me one question that changed everything: “Why do you believe you need to move perfectly to be a good dad?”
That question unraveled the knot in my mind. For years, I’d held myself to an impossible standard. If I couldn’t be the active, adventurous role model I’d imagined, I thought I’d failed. But why? Wasn’t love, presence, and care what truly mattered?
That realisation set me free. I stopped demanding perfection and began celebrating small victories—a step taken without thinking, a moment of stillness without pain. I realised how important it is to find the right people—not just experts who understand the physical challenges, but those who hold the space for you emotionally, without trying to fix you.
Now, I share my story for those who feel trapped as I once did.
“Question your assumptions,”.
“Challenge the rules you’ve made for yourself. You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to be present. There is a way out, even if you can’t see it yet.”
Because sometimes, it’s not the body that needs healing, but the stories we tell ourselves. And with the right people by your side, both personally and professionally, the journey to healing becomes possible.
A final realisation hit me came whilst watching I’m Tim on Netflix, a powerful documentary about the rise of Avicii and his tragic suicide. It struck me deeply to see the impact his death had on his family and friends. It reminded me that the narrative we can fall into—that the people we love might be better off without us—is never true, no matter how convincing it sounds after hearing it on relentless repeat.
And now?
I am making progress in tackling the functional motor disorder and walking freely, no longer consumed by obsession. Moving with presence, playing with love, and feeling life fully—no longer trapped behind the glass of depression and fixation on every step.
I walked my daughter to school for the first time in three years today, it was a moment of magic for me!
The future? Unwritten. But with great people by my side and a commitment to challenging the stories that hold me back, it shines brighter than ever!
Cheers
John