HONESTLY THOUGH… What A Week

17th March marked nine years since I asked for a divorce. Nine years. And if I’m being honest, the four years that followed were hell. The kind that strips you back, changes you, forces you to rebuild from nothing.

But this week felt different.

I woke up and something in me just said go. Not tomorrow, not when you feel ready, just go.

So I did.

There’s a hotel ten minutes from my house, the one I drive past at least four times a day. For years I’ve ignored it. But this time my body basically dragged me there. I walked in, went straight to the gym, and life did that weird thing it does sometimes.

I bumped into a friend I’ve known for over 16 years. Our kids went to junior school together. I’d completely forgotten she worked there, and somehow we now live on the same side of London. What are the chances?

She gave me a tour and I instantly loved it. I could feel this itch to get in the pool before I’d even left. So I went home, grabbed my swimming stuff, and went straight back. No overthinking, no talking myself out of it. I joined for three months, which takes me nicely to mid June, just in time for my summer place.

I got in the pool and it was warm, properly warm. I did some lengths, joined in water aerobics which was… fine, then did more lengths.

Then I got out and felt dizzy.

So I sat down for five minutes. No panic, no drama, just listening. Got changed, went upstairs, and carried on. I got on the bike, remembering what my physio said, swimming, bike, rowing and weights are the best things for my knee. And for once, I actually listened.

Then I discovered the hydro massage chair, which honestly felt like I’d accidentally booked myself into a spa day.

After that I popped into Aldi, because obviously that’s part of the fitness journey now. I went in for room diffusers and came out with a pounding headache. Not subtle either, the full “you’ve pushed it today” kind.

And for once… I listened.

I knew I needed protein, so I grabbed a tuna and pasta salad and ate it in the car like it was urgent. Slight issue, I haven’t had pasta in months, so of course my stomach had something to say about that. But it passed, and it actually filled me up.

Picked my daughter up from college after that, in what can only be described as suspiciously good weather for England, sixteen degrees and sunny. I arrived at the gym in coat, scarf and layers like I was heading to the Arctic and left basically ready for a beach holiday.

That afternoon was real life again.

My daughter had a call with a neuropsychiatrist who was referred by her Neurologist … and honestly, it didn’t go well.

You know when there are so many doctors involved that you don’t actually know who is responsible for what anymore? Everyone has a role, but no one seems to have the full picture.

So there we were, trying to explain everything… again.

Her history. Her symptoms. What’s been happening. What’s changed. What hasn’t.

All within a limited window where you can almost feel the clock ticking in the background.

It’s like you’re expected to summarise your entire life, her entire life, in under an hour, and somehow not miss anything important.

And then… just like that… the call ended.

No real conclusion. No clarity. Just that abrupt ending that makes you wonder if they’ve already mentally moved on to the next patient.

And that’s the part I can’t get my head around…

How can someone make sense of something so complex over the phone?

No eye contact. No presence. No space to really be heard.

Just minutes… and then it’s over.

Which, let’s be honest… That’s the reality of it.

There isn’t enough time. There isn’t enough space for the full story. And yet, the full story is exactly what matters.

Because without it, things get missed. Things get labelled.

And in our case… physical symptoms keep getting put down to mental health.

And that part? That’s the most painful.

Because when something real is happening in your body and it’s brushed off, you’re left stuck. Not treated, not understood, just… managed.

A few days later, I sat down and wrote everything out properly. I sent it to her and to the neurologist.

Every detail. Every concern. Every question we didn’t get time to ask.

Now we wait.

They’ll either ignore it… or they’ll reply.

And honestly though… that waiting might be one of the hardest parts of all.

And then… plot twist.

I woke up the next day with a full blown streaming cold. Not a cute sniffle, the full four boxes of tissues situation. Three chicken soups, endless honey and lemon drinks, and me wrapped in a blanket questioning everything.

So it turns out, I’m probably not allergic to chlorine after all. All that side eye I gave the pool, completely unfair. It was just my immune system deciding to join the party a day late.

Typical.

Old me would have taken that as a sign to stop. Cancel the gym, write the week off, start again “next Monday”.

But not this time.

Because this isn’t failure. This is just life, with a side of germs.

And here we are, Sunday. I finally feel human again. Not one hundred percent, still a bit foggy, still a bit “do I need a nap or am I fine”, but getting there.

And next week… I go again.

But this week isn’t just about the gym.

There’s something else sitting quietly in the background.

My ANA test came back positive. Homogeneous.

Which, if you’re not familiar with that, don’t worry, neither was I.

All I really know is this. It’s an autoimmune marker. It suggests my immune system might be a little bit confused, reacting in ways it shouldn’t.

The level isn’t low. It’s one of those results that doesn’t scream panic, but definitely says, let’s look into this properly.

And when you put it together with everything else, the arthritis in multiple places, joints like my knee and shoulder slipping out since childhood, random symptoms that never quite made sense…

It starts to feel like there might actually be a reason behind it all.

And strangely… that’s not scary.

It’s a relief.

Because for years it’s just been bits. Symptoms. Questions. Things brushed off or put down to “just one of those things”.

But maybe they’re not.

Maybe my body has been trying to tell a story this whole time.

And this is the first real clue.

I’ve got my rheumatology appointment on Tuesday, and for the first time, I’m not going in hoping they find nothing.

I’m going in hoping they connect the dots.

Because this week has shown me something really clearly.

Between the gym, the dizziness, the headache in Aldi, the pasta rebellion, the cold, the appointments, the waiting…

My body isn’t the enemy.

It’s been trying to talk to me all along.

And honestly though… I think I’m finally ready to listen.