For those who read The CP Diary articles, thank you. You’ll already know the story behind my words – the cerebral palsy, the autism, the anxiety. You’ll know the confusion and upset that comes from living with a disability without knowing you have one, the disillusionment and potential fallout that follows much later, when that light-bulb moment comes.
You’ll know the exhaustion that comes from having to explain yourself to others when you barely understand yourself. You’ll also know the emotional and mental toll that comes from growing up without answers.
I didn’t grow up with a diagnosis. I didn’t have the language or the support that could have helped make sense of what I was experiencing. Failing in school. Instead, I had challenges I couldn’t explain, feelings I didn’t understand, and a life I had to keep moving through anyway. Life doesn't pause while you figure yourself out. You learn how to cope while you are still hurting.
People often assume that because I write about my experiences, I must be past them – but I’m not. I still struggle with the enormity of my life, and some days it feels like I’m only just starting to understand the impact it’s had on me. Living with a disability, an unknown disability for as long as I have – isn’t just a moment; it’s ongoing. It follows you into your adulthood, into your relationships, and into the quiet parts of your mind, often – as disbelief.
I have finally said it – losing my twin has tipped my trauma and depression has finally caught up with me.
Depression isn't always obvious. I show up to write, but I barely physically function – depression doesn’t discriminate, it doesn't disappear just because you're slowly showing up. With depression you barely get to function, but you're still expected to carry on, to show up. You can be capable and still emotionally struggle. You can be mentally strong and still tired. Depression doesn’t care how long you’ve been coping. It arrives because a life lived with trauma, without support eventually takes its toll.
Every day, it’s me holding everything together. No safety net, no backup. Just me. And I have learned that even resilience has a breaking point.
That’s why I ask for kindness.
Not sympathy.
Not pity.
Kindness.
Kindness towards people whose lives you may not fully understand. Kindness towards invisible struggles. Kindness towards the person who seems fine but isn’t. Because disability, trauma, and mental health don’t always look the way you expect them to.
I write because talking about this helps. It helps me process a life I’m still trying to come to terms with. It helps others feel less alone in their own battles. If nothing else, this space reminds me – and maybe reminds you – that showing up is still something.
Even when it’s difficult.
Even when it’s lonely.
Even when no one sees the effort it takes.
Please be kind: We all need more of that, and some of us need it just to get through the day.
