This is my journey, my story. I didn’t find out until I was in my forties that I had cerebral palsy, later finding out that I had been diagnosed at the age of 2. That is a sentence I never thought I would have to write.
And the more time passes, the more weight that silence carries.
I lived with quiet – but it was never peaceful. I learned how to adapt, how to keep going, how to appear fine. But I always sensed something wasn't right.
I struggled physically and mentally in ways others didn’t, and I had no answers for why. When you’re a child, you don’t think to question trust, or the silence around you. You don’t see dishonesty. You believe, you trust.
Now, I shudder at the secrets I was made to live alongside. I look back at my ignorance, because no one had the courage or were willing to tell me the truth about what I was dealing with – about myself.
It’s not the condition itself that leaves you feeling angry or numb – it’s the secrecy, the decision to withhold something so central to who you are. That’s the trauma.
The knowledge was there. It was written in medical notes. But it was never spoken. Never shared. And because of that, you grow up having to second-guess your way through life.
I internalised my struggle, thinking it was me, my fault, something wrong with who I was – not something I could name and work with.
Even now, after knowing the truth, I carry irritation, and a persistent discontent that I didn’t get to live my truth. I was denied the opportunity to understand myself and while it may not have changed everything, it would have helped me with some of my internal struggles.
And there’s no way to sugar-coat any of it.
Some days I still feel disbelief, numb, and detached. Other days I feel overwhelmed by how much of my life was shaped by something I had no chance to prepare for. I’ve thankfully found a way to keep going, even without all the answers.
This is about trauma, and a question of honesty. About what happens when it’s missing. And about what it takes to finally start living in your truth after years of not knowing who you are. There is still silence, but not from me.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be entirely at peace with what happened to me. But I am speaking more about it now. It's time. I’m writing about it. I don't want to sit silently beside those secrets any more.
