I used to say I’d never do a marathon again, or at least not for a very long time.
After running the London Marathon in 2017, aged 18, and crossing the finish line in 4:46:24, I was absolutely shattered. It was one of the hardest yet most exhilarating things I’d ever done. But after it was over, I genuinely thought, once is enough. I’d ticked it off the list. Job done.
London Marathon 2017
But this year, something changed.
As marathon season rolled around, I watched so many of my fellow club runners taking on big races — their training updates, their excitement on race day, the proud medal photos after. One by one, people started signing up for the next year. I kept telling myself I wasn’t tempted… but, clearly, I was lying to myself.
Before I knew it — caught up in the hype, the energy, and that classic runner’s FOMO — I’d signed up too on the spur of the moment.
And ever since then, I’ve felt a strange mix of excitement and apprehension. Because this time, it all feels so much bigger.
The Goal (and the Pressure That Comes With It)
Post marathon celebration
When I ran London back in 2017, my goal was simple: just finish. There was no pressure, no time target, and definitely no structured plan. I ran when I could, especially paying attention to the key Sunday long slow runs, and went into race day with only one mission – to make it to the finish line.
It worked; I got there. But this time around, that’s not enough.
Now, I want a personal best, and ideally, I want to break 4 hours.
With my current half marathon PB and average times between 1:49 and 1:51, I know sub 4 is theoretically within reach. But theory and reality are two very different things, and a time is never guaranteed. All sorts of unpredictable things could slow me down; a niggling injury I might pick up, the weather conditions on race day, or just how much energy I have and how strong I’m feeling on marathon day. Even the sheer difficulty of keeping up a consistent pace across 26.2 miles is no mean feat, regardless of other factors!
This time, however, I’m not content with just ‘winging it’ – I’m older, stronger, fitter and wiser. I want to see what happens when I really give it my all.
And here’s the thing: no one else is putting pressure on me. It’s entirely self-inflicted. I want to see what I can do with proper training, structure, and commitment. But that’s also what makes it daunting. Because once you set a goal, you give yourself something to lose. How disappointed will I be if I don’t quite manage to break 4 hours? It’s difficult to tell.
Doing It Properly This Time
When I trained for London, my ‘plan’ was basically: run often enough and hope for the best. I’d increase my long runs gradually each week, throw in a few shorter sessions here and there, and cross my fingers that it would all be fine on the day.
And, to be fair, it was fine. But I know that approach won’t possibly cut it for a sub 4 hour marathon.
This time, I want to do it properly – with structure, purpose, and professional guidance. Intervals, a tempo run and a slow long run are the basics, with some strength work and cross training scattered into each week, but I really feel I need a concrete plan in front of me this time. I’ll officially start training in January, but right now I’m doing the groundwork: researching, thinking through my approach, and liaising with a coach to get a plan in place.
It feels serious now – and that’s both exciting and terrifying.
Finding structure
The more I read about marathon training, the more I realise how overwhelming it can be. There are so many plans out there – beginner, intermediate, advanced, low mileage, high mileage, heart rate, pace-based – and they all promise results. But which one is right for me? How am I meant to know what fits my lifestyle and goals? It is a real minefield.
That’s exactly why I’ve started investigating working with a running coach.
I’ve realised that I don’t just want a cookie-cutter plan – I want personal guidance. Someone who understands my goals, my current fitness, my schedule, and my tendency to overthink. Someone who can help me balance the mileage, speed work, and recovery without burning out and injuring myself. Someone who knows what it takes to run a sub 4 hour marathon strongly and confidently.
It feels like a big investment, both in time and cost, but if I’m serious about doing this properly, I think having a coach will be key. After all, I wouldn’t try to build a house without a blueprint, so why should marathon training be any different?
Strength Training: The Missing Piece
When I trained for London, I didn’t do a single strength session. I thought running was enough – and for a ‘just finish’ attempt, maybe it was. It got me round, it got me to the finish on The Mall. But for performance? Not a chance.
Now, I know strength training isn’t optional. It’s essential for staying injury-free, improving form, and building endurance. Stronger runners don’t just move better; they recover faster, handle higher mileage, and cope with fatigue more efficiently.
Still, I’ll admit the strength side feels unfamiliar. I’m figuring out what to prioritise: squats, lunges, deadlifts, and core work seem to be the big ones – and how to fit it into my week without overloading myself. I have never found strengthening work much fun and would much rather just do running!
Fuelling: Learning the Science Behind It
My 2017 fuelling strategy was… basic and minimal, to put it kindly. I stuck to a banana just before the long run, and during? My plan was essentially, ‘grab a gel when I feel tired.’ Somehow, it worked in the sense that I didn’t hit the wall too dramatically, but it’s definitely not the most scientific approach.
This time, I want to learn the science behind fuelling properly. That means practising nutrition during training, figuring out which gels or drinks work best for me, trialling different pre and post run food and drink, and training my gut as much as my legs.
Fuelling can make or break a marathon. It’s about timing, testing, and understanding what your body needs over hours of effort. I’m already reading up on carb-loading, fuel timing, and even hydration strategies; things I barely gave a thought to last time.
It’s a steep learning curve, but it’s also part of what makes this round so interesting. I’m not just running. I’m learning how to run smarter.
The Mindset Shift
The mental side of running feels like a whole new challenge. Back in 2017, I didn’t know what to expect, so I just ran. I had no idea how tough those last miles would feel, or how much of it would come down to sheer grit.
Now, I know exactly what’s coming. I have a pretty good idea of what ‘the wall’ feels like, how the crowd noise blurs when you’re deep in fatigue, and how easy it is to start doubting yourself. That awareness is both powerful and intimidating.
So this time, I’m going to work on my mindset as much as my mileage: learning to trust the process, stay patient, and zoom out when training feels tough. A coach might help here too: keeping me accountable, realistic, and focused when my brain inevitably spirals mid-training block.
Feeling in the Dark (and Learning as I Go)
The funny thing is that even though I’ve run a marathon before, it still feels completely new. I know what it’s like to run 26.2 miles, but I don’t yet know what it’s like to train properly for it. I feel as in the dark as I did the first time.
And honestly? That’s what makes this both exciting and extremely scary.
Right now, I’m researching, planning, and building a foundation for January. Being someone who cannot resist stationery, I’m also on the hunt for a marathon log/journal or anything I can use to physically write down my training runs and reflect on how they felt. I feel a bit in the dark, yes – but I also feel motivated. Because this time, I’m not winging it. I’m taking the time to understand what I’m doing and getting help where I need it: whether that’s through structured plans, strength work, or guidance from a coach.
Looking Ahead
January marks the official start of my marathon training journey, but the mental prep has already begun. I know this training block will be tough. Marathon training means sacrificing plans, late Saturday nights and my cherished Sunday morning lie ins to run in all kinds of weather on a grey, cold January morning. I know there’ll be days when I question why I signed up again.
But deep down, I also know why I did.
Because there’s something special about chasing a goal that scares you a little. About taking something you once did ‘just to finish’ and seeing how far you can push yourself when you give it everything, how strong and tenacious and stubborn the human spirit is, how fast my legs can go.
So here’s to marathon training, round two — to structure, strength, fuelling, and a coach to pull it all together. To nerves, excitement, and the satisfaction of seeing progress unfold.
And hopefully, come race day, to crossing that magical finish line again — a little faster, a lot stronger, and even prouder of the sheer effort and determination it took to get there.
Every November 10th, World Keratoconus Day brings attention to a rare and challenging eye condition that can alter life in ways few would imagine. As someone living with keratoconus, this day is an opportunity to not only share my story but also to help others understand the reality of life with this progressive eye disease, as well as the challenges and resilience it calls for.
Living with a visual impairment like keratoconus can be especially challenging for young people. This condition often hits during adolescence or young adulthood – a pivotal time when self-image, confidence, and independence are all being shaped. For me, being diagnosed at 15, just before my GCSEs, was a defining experience. It is generally a time when academic performance matters so much, and self-confidence is already fragile. As my vision deteriorated rapidly at this crucial point in my life, and I had to miss a lot of school due to endless eye appointments and an operation, I wasn’t only worried about the physical implications but also about how it would impact my academic performance, social life, and future prospects.
The diagnosis was followed by a treatment called corneal collagen cross-linking (CXL), a procedure meant to halt the progression of keratoconus. While CXL can stop the corneal thinning from worsening, it can’t restore the vision that’s already lost, so even with treatment, my sight remained compromised. The impact of this experience on my GCSEs and my self-confidence was significant. At a time when I should have been focused on my studies and friends, I was grappling with a diagnosis that left me feeling uncertain about my future. My self-esteem took a hit as I struggled to adjust to a life where seeing clearly was no longer possible.
Since then, my journey has been shaped by both the limitations and resilience that come with living with keratoconus. Now, years later and after trying several contact lens options over the years, I rely on scleral contact lenses to see, yet even these aren’t a perfect fix. The lenses give me a semblance of functional vision, but they come with their own set of daily challenges. They’re uncomfortable, often painful after a few hours, and sometimes feel like sandpaper against my corneas. I have never got used to the feel of them or the daily strain they have on my day to day life. My right eye is permanently distorted, and my left eye remains blurred without the lenses, forcing me to squint to see even the basics. Without them, navigating the world is almost impossible – tasks as simple as recognising faces or watching the TV are out of reach.
Living with keratoconus affects more than just how I see the world; it changes how I navigate it. Each day brings its own set of challenges. I wrote in a previous blog about how this visual impairment has long-term life impacts, affecting things many people take for granted (link at the end of this blog.) For every social interaction, every trip to the shops, and even every walk down the street, I’m reminded that I see the world differently, with more effort, and often with more anxiety. Sometimes I wonder how it would feel to have normal vision again. To be able to wake up in the morning and see the world without any blur. To be able to read a book or watch a film/TV programme without any squinting. To be able to drive at night without any worry or stress, and to be able to function at my job and work normally without having to regularly self-administer eye drops and squint at the screen.
Visual impairments are often misunderstood, and for those of us with conditions that aren’t correctable with standard glasses, there’s a lack of understanding from the general public. Many people don’t know about keratoconus, or they’ve only vaguely heard about it, which is part of why World Keratoconus Day is so important. Living with keratoconus isn’t just a physical challenge; it’s an emotional and social one, too. For me, lenses are a lifeline, but they are also a daily discomfort and a reminder that my vision isn’t the same as everyone else’s.
Awareness is essential, not only for people to gain a better understanding of the condition but also for others who might be living with undiagnosed keratoconus. The symptoms – blurred vision, double vision, sensitivity to light – can be easy to misattribute to other causes. Often, it’s not until the condition progresses significantly that people seek help. By raising awareness, we can help people recognise the signs earlier, possibly slowing the progression through early interventions.
I believe in science and its power to transform lives. With each year that passes, advancements in medical technology offer new possibilities for people living with conditions like keratoconus. This belief in science fuels my hope for a better future, one where a breakthrough treatment or even a cure could make clear vision possible. I hold onto the possibility that researchers will continue to unlock the secrets of the cornea, developing solutions that can relieve the pain, discomfort, and limitations keratoconus brings. Science has already brought relatively new treatments like corneal collagen crosslinking, which successfully halted my keratoconus progression, and I trust it will continue to progress. Until that day comes, I’ll keep supporting the journey of awareness and research, knowing that science has the potential to uncover something that will benefit those with this debilitating visual impairment.
For my other blogs about living with this eye disease, please see below:
When the world shut down during the first lockdown, life felt uncertain, heavy and isolated. Desolation, grief and despair were all around us. There was nothing to look forward to and every single day felt the same. It was at this point, the start of the first lockdown, that I discovered #3Positives on twitter. The idea entails what it says; encouraging participants to share three good things that happened at the end of each day, no matter how small. This simple concept helped me to reframe my days more positively in the era of self-isolation, even finding the smallest rays of light on the hardest days. In the height of lockdown, my top positives of the day heavily involved doing jigsaw puzzles, the great weather and being able to hang my washing outside, enjoying music, baking and going for my daily walks to find some comfort in nature.
What began as a short-term coping strategy quickly grew into something I genuinely looked forward to doing each evening. The #3Positives community provided a sense of connection to others, too, as I read others’ posts and shared my own, realising we were all finding these small moments of joy together. It also instilled in me a sense of accountability as I recognised that people would come to expect my daily posts! Over time, this practice became one of the most meaningful parts of my daily routine and has stayed with me well beyond the lockdown era.
The Practice of Finding Three Positives
Originally coined on twitter by Kerry Pace of Diverse Learners, used to reframe tough school days
Every night before bed since the first lockdown, I take a moment to tweet my #3Positives, even if the day has been, quite frankly, awful and one I wish to forget (which there has been many.) Being neurodivergent and also having anxiety, I have always been exceptionally good at reflection, which has both positive and negative sides! To date, I haven’t missed a single day (apart from one random Saturday recently, where I completely forgot for no obvious reason – and then quickly tweeted them on the Sunday morning instead when I woke up!)
It doesn’t matter how small they are – it could be something as simple as enjoying a favourite meal, a kind word from someone or noticing a beautiful sunset. The aim is to find those small but meaningful parts of my day that uplift me. It’s not just a habit anymore; it’s something that helps me end each day on a hopeful note, regardless of what challenges it held. When my head touches the pillow, the simple act of listing three positive moments on twitter just beforehand means that my brain is naturally drawn to thinking about those little moments that went right, instead of what I didn’t do or wish I could change. This doesn’t automatically stop my negative thinking, low mood or worrying (I wish it was that simple!) but the number of nights my negative emotions have taken over has definitely markedly reduced since taking up #3Positives.
Kerry Pace’s post on LinkedIn, explaining the #3Positives origins, practice on twitter and how it benefits us neurodivergent people in particular!
On low energy or challenging low mood days, where everything feels overwhelming, heavy or flat, this practice becomes particularly powerful. Instead of ending the day feeling defeated and hopeless, I actively focus on things that brought me comfort or a bit of joy. The act of looking for positives – especially when it’s hardest to find them – helps me value life’s smallest blessings and keeps me resilient through tough times. I still have plenty of down days. Often, it is when the positives are hardest to see that this ritual makes the biggest difference.
Surprisingly, tweeting three positives isn’t just beneficial on hard days; even on good days, it has proved to be grounding and enriching, providing depth, perspective and appreciation. Reflecting on those bright spots reinforces joy and reminds me to be present and grateful for the good moments that can easily be taken for granted.
Shifting My Perspective and Actively Seeking Positivity
The practice of finding three positives each day isn’t just limited to the evenings; it has also transformed how I move through my days. Knowing that I’ve committed to sharing three good things each night has shifted my perspective, making me more intentional and actively focused on seeking out moments of joy, comfort or satisfaction. Instead of passively waiting for something positive to happen, I’m now looking for it throughout the day. This could be something simple such as a walk to enjoy some fresh air and nature, reading a good book, or even the way the sunlight filters through the trees. Suddenly, my day to day life is filled with small actions and observations centred around positivity, and I’ve found that I’m more present, mindful and aware of the good things around me as a result.
Simply knowing that, in the evening, I’ll be able to identify three little positives in the day serves as a powerful source of comfort and reassurance leading up to, and throughout, a day or event that I’m particularly dreading or feeling anxious about. Whether it’s a warm morning cup of coffee, a kind word from a colleague, or a fleeting moment of laughter, focusing on these little positives genuinely helps shift my mindset and provides a glimmer of hope on harder days that I know are upcoming.
Noticeable to myself is that this approach has shifted and rewired my outlook. On harder days, instead of focusing on what went wrong, I’m now naturally drawn to what went right or what was good in the day – even if it’s something really small, like relaxing under a blanket with a cat or enjoying the scent of a wax melt. Over time, my mind has become trained to prioritise the positives, which has helped me to stay balanced and find meaning even in life’s challenges and struggles. This simple commitment to positivity has built a lasting resilience that has transformed my entire approach to each day.
Sometimes, it isn’t until I reflect on the positives that I realise it’s been quite a good day, and that’s why it’s so powerful!
A Community of Positivity and Connection
#3Positives (volume one) even got its own scrapbook!
One of the most unexpected and rewarding parts of joining #3Positives during the coronavirus pandemic was the sense of community it brings. Less so now, as a lot of people stopped once life had returned to normality, but there is still a small cohort of us that have recognised the benefit beyond that weird time and have continued it in our lives.
Posting my three positives each night has connected me with people I may not have encountered otherwise, all sharing their own daily highlights. Seeing others’ reflections fills my feed with reminders of the beauty in every day moments, from a stranger’s smile to a favourite meal at home, being able to hang the washing outside to watching a film, and it often encourages me to appreciate things I might have overlooked, reciprocating the moments of happiness.
Interacting with others in this way has created a powerful sense of solidarity and support. There is something incredibly uplifting about witnessing others’ joys and celebrating with them, even if we’re miles apart. When I read comments from people who say that my }#3Positives brighten their day, I’m motivated to keep going with it, knowing that this small act doesn’t just help me – it brings a bit of light to others, too.
How a Small Habit Became Life Changing
At first, this was just a way to survive the isolation and uncertainty of the pandemic. I never intended to continue practicing it long term, let alone to still be doing it four years later! But over time, sharing three positives each day has reshaped my entire perspective. I’ve been amazed at what a lasting impact it has had on me; I am able to be more present, more resilient, and more appreciative of life’s small blessings. This little ritual has taught me that no matter what a day brings, there’s always something good to be found.
As someone who has been diagnosed with depression and anxiety, I know how challenging it can be to find hope or light in each day, especially when mental health struggles make even small tasks feel overwhelming to achieve. When I first started practicing #3Positives, I never imagined it would become such an anchor in my life. What began as a small, daily habit to get through the isolation and uncertainty of the lockdown turned into a lasting and transformative practice that has redefined how I approach each day, becoming an incredibly powerful tool for managing my mental health. Perhaps it is because of my vulnerability to mental illness that it has struck a chord and resonated with me so much, providing me with meaning. It has helped me to break the cycle of negative thinking and gloom, giving me something constructive to return to, a steady reminder that even on the hardest days, there are moments of light and beacons of hope worth acknowledging.
Practising gratitude and seeking the good in every day is no secret to better mental health – there is plenty of research showing its positive effects on mood and general wellbeing. Studies have long shown that actively focusing on what we’re thankful for in our lives can reduce stress and even boost resilience to life’s challenges. By actively looking for positives, even on the toughest days, we essentially train our brains into a more positive mindset, shifting our focus away from what’s going wrong. This can help reduce negative thinking and replace it with a healthier, more balanced outlook on life. The more we practice gratitude, the easier it becomes to find joy and contentment in daily life. For me, the #3Positives habit has become a powerful tool for cultivating this mindset, helping me not just cope with life’s challenges, but thrive through each day.
Healthcare professionals are now recommending the daily exercise of ‘Three Good Things’ to their patients, recognising its tangible benefits and effectiveness in promoting mental wellbeing. Clinical trials have measured elevated happiness as measured six months later in their patients, with some medical experts even claiming that the practice can be as effective as using antidepressants, which I wholeheartedly agree with!
Recognising the whole picture
Focusing on positives doesn’t mean I’m ignoring or downplaying the real challenges life brings. Some experiences, like my debilitating incurable visual impairment, don’t have an easy silver lining, and sometimes it’s impossible to find anything positive in them. Life can be unfair and living with a disability or long term health condition comes with real frustrations, limitations, and emotional hurdles that can’t just be glossed over by looking on the bright side. There are days when the difficulties feel overwhelming, and no amount of positivity can lessen that reality.
My goal with #3Positives is not to deny or diminish these struggles. Instead, it’s about embracing a more balanced view – acknowledging the tough times while also actively seeking out the moments of light and gratitude where I can. I recognise that some hardships may never have an upside, and that’s also ok to recognise. Life is complex and multifaceted, and there’s room for both the difficulties we can’t control and the positives we choose to focus on. Acknowledging the full spectrum of life gives me strength, but it also gives me permission to feel and accept all aspects of my journey without needing to make everything seem perfect. Of course I’m allowed to feel sad and negative about aspects of life sometimes – we all do, and that’s part of being human. A caveat: I know it isn’t possible to simply ‘think positive’ or ‘think your way out of’ negative thoughts, anxiety or depression. If only! It’s not about discounting or minimising the bad in life. But the focus of #3Positives is to keep moving forward in spite of these challenging moments.
Consciously choosing to find little positives in even the darkest days ranks very highly in one of the best activities I’ve taken up, and I do daily, for my mental health. It is part of my growing toolbox now to maintain and improve my mental health. Everyone can benefit from this positive psychology, regardless of whether they are prone to mental health issues or not; it won’t make the bad things go away, but it helps you to cope better with them. Consistency is key. Noticing good things has been proved to stick with us, and improves our attitudes over the long term. It’s like training a muscle – regularly identifying positives strengthens resilience, allowing us to better cope with life’s adversities and develop a more balanced outlook.
As the days grow shorter, I can feel a familiar feeling creeping in. It’s not just the cold or the early sunsets that get to me, but a deeper, more subtle shift inside. Every year, as autumn comes and then turns to winter, I find myself being prone to Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). It’s like the dark clouds outside settle over my mind, making everything feel a little heavier, a little harder.
While many people eagerly await Christmas and embrace the cold days with cosy jumpers and warm blankets, I find myself already counting down to spring. The shorter days and darker evenings don’t just bring festive cheer for everyone – in fact, for some, like me, they mark the beginning of a much harder season.
Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is a type of depression that typically emerges in late autumn and lasting through the winter months. For those affected, the drop in daylight hours can trigger symptoms like low mood, lack of motivation, and a noticeable dip in energy levels. It’s more than just the ‘winter blues’ – SAD is a real condition that can significantly impact daily life. Although I have never received a formal diagnosis of this type of depression in particular, I have noticed a marked shift to my mindset and general wellbeing around this time of year for a few years.
Personally, I feel its effects most in my sleep, mood, and energy. As the days get shorter and the temperature plummets, I find it harder to get out of bed in the morning, my energy seems to drain much quicker, and my mood can dip without warning. While others enjoy the crisp air and festive atmosphere, I’m constantly battling a sense of fatigue and a longing for brighter days.
I’ve always been prone to low moods no matter the time of year, but something about winter amplifies everything. The lack of sunlight, the constant chill, and the way the world seems to slow down – it all adds to the weight. And as if that weren’t enough, the anxiety about SAD has become its own beast. I’ve noticed that the more I focus on it, the more I have been worrying about the looming darker days and how they’ll affect me, almost as if it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know it’s coming, I’m dreading it, and in a way, that dread seems to intensify the symptoms. It’s like being trapped in a cycle of worry and sadness before winter even really arrives.
One of the things that keeps me grounded, especially when my mood dips, is running. I’ve always been a keen runner, and there’s something about being outside, moving through fresh air, that lifts my spirits. Running has always been my release, my anchor, my space to breathe, to clear my head and to reset. But when winter comes, keeping that routine is so much harder. It’s dark before work, and by the time I’ve finished working for the day, the sun has long disappeared. I can’t help but feel like I’m missing out on something essential when I can’t be outside as much.
To stay on top of things, I’m planning to set a few designated days in the week to run with my club, and on the weekends, I’ll still aim to get in a solo run in nature whenever possible. While the thought of going to the gym doesn’t exactly excite me, I’ve also been considering that as a solution to the fact that I can’t run outside on my own as much during these months.
Finding the right balance between staying active and managing the symptoms of Seasonal Affective Disorder is a challenge, but I’m hoping that sticking to a routine will help keep my energy and mood in check as I navigate through the darker months.
One of my daily annual pills from October-March
This year, I’m trying all I can think of to help keep the winter blues at bay. I’ve ordered a new light box to treat SAD, since my old one broke. I used to find it especially helpful during those dark, early mornings when getting up for work felt like an uphill battle. There’s something about that bright, artificial sunlight that jolts me awake, easing me into the day and making the darkness feel a little less oppressive. I’m also taking daily Vitamin D tablets, knowing that I’m not getting nearly enough sunlight in the winter. Even small steps like these give me hope that I can tackle the months ahead a little easier.
Just replaced my light box!
SAD isn’t something that can be outrun, but running helps me keep it at bay. As the winter blues loom, I’m bracing myself for the struggle, but I’m also holding onto hope. I know that the seasons will change again, and with them, so will my mood. Until then, I’ll keep moving forward, one step at a time, knowing that each run or walk outside is a small victory against the darkness.
I also need to remind myself to have more faith in my ability to cope. Every tough winter so far, I’ve made it through. Last year was especially challenging; I started a new full time job right in the darkest part of the year and I still got through it. It’s easy to underestimate my resilience when the symptoms of SAD start creeping in, but I need to stop doubting myself. I’ve handled these tough months before, and I know I have the strength to do it again.
Trying to remind myself of the nice things about this season that I like, and the fact that spring will soon be here…five months until March!
In the workplace, there’s often an unspoken pressure to be louder, more social, and more ‘visible.’ But as a quieter person, I’ve come to embrace the fact that not everyone thrives on constant chatter or group activities. Recently, my manager pulled me aside to give me some very positive feedback about my work so far, but in amongst the good news he mentioned some feedback from my colleagues. He described me as ‘quiet’ and suggested that I should ‘come out of my shell’ more – implying that there’s something about my quieter nature that needs fixing.
This experience made me reflect on how being quiet is frequently misunderstood. It’s often seen as a flaw or a lack of participation, when in reality, it’s simply a different way of engaging with the world. I’m not shy, weak, or scared; I just operate in a quieter, more reflective way. This is definitely largely due to my speech and language difficulty and the anxiety living with it brings; with family and close friends, I can be a lot more talkative and confident socially. But it is also just part of my personality, part of who I am, and this approach brings its own set of strengths which are often overlooked.
Being quiet allows me to be highly observant. I notice things that others might miss – small details, patterns, and nuances that often lead to deeper insights or more thoughtful solutions. I’m not the loudest in the room, but that doesn’t mean I’m not paying attention. Quite the opposite: I’m actively listening, absorbing information, and analysing situations before speaking. This helps me make well-considered decisions, which is a strength I’m proud of.
I also care deeply about the quality of my work. While some might thrive on multitasking and frequent conversation, I prefer to focus on getting the job done, and done well. My attention to detail and my desire to meet high standards are a direct result of my quieter nature. I’m not distracted by noise or drawn into endless discussions – I’m simply focused on doing my job to the best of my ability.
It’s important to note that being quiet doesn’t mean I’m antisocial or uninterested in connecting with my colleagues. I enjoy meaningful conversations and understand the importance of building relationships at work. I regularly greet my team, check in with them, and engage in conversations about both work and personal topics. However, I don’t feel the need to fill every silence with small talk. I’m not disengaged; I’m just more selective about when and how I participate in conversations.
Me summed up!
I also want to challenge the misconception that being quiet means being passive or lacking assertiveness. When needed, I’m fully capable of standing up for myself and expressing my opinions clearly, and I have mounts of confidence to do things alone. My quieter demeanour doesn’t make me any less confident or competent. It’s simply a different way of interacting with the world – one that prioritises thoughtfulness over constant expression.
One of the most frustrating aspects of this feedback is the assumption that I need to change to fit a more extroverted mould. It seems like workplaces often value extroversion – the people who are always in the middle of the action, chatting and networking. But this focus on extroverted behaviours can overlook the strengths that quieter individuals bring. I wish there was more acceptance of different personality types in the workplace. We all have unique contributions to make, and introversion is not a flaw that needs to be fixed.
In fact, being quieter often makes me a better team member. I’m hardworking and dedicated, preferring to get on with the task at hand rather than being distracted by the constant hustle and bustle. I care deeply about my work, and my ability to stay focused in a noisy environment is a testament to that. My approach may not be particularly noticeable, but it’s effective – and I believe that’s something worth respecting.
Ultimately, there’s no one right way to contribute in the workplace. Some people bring energy and enthusiasm through conversation and collaboration, while others, like me, bring a quiet focus, deep listening skills, and analytical thinking. Both are valuable, and both deserve to be recognised equally.
Exactly this!
It’s interesting how people never say, ‘you’re so loud’, in the same way they comment on someone being quiet. If you were to ask someone why they talk so much, it would likely be seen as rude or offensive, yet calling someone ‘quiet’ and questioning why often gets treated like neutral or even helpful feedback. It creates a double standard where quieter individuals are subtly pressured to change, while louder behaviours are more readily accepted, even celebrated. This reveals an imbalance in how different communication styles are valued, with quietness often unfairly cast as a flaw, while more extroverted traits are normalised.
I appreciate my manager’s intention in giving feedback, but I don’t believe I need to ‘come out of my shell’ to be a better team player. It isn’t a ‘shell’ in any case, it is just who I am. My quieter strengths – my focus, my careful listening, my ability to observe and think critically – are just as valuable as the more outwardly visible ones. It’s time we embraced the diversity of personalities in the workplace and recognised the power of being quiet.
At the end of the day, I’m at work to get the job done and get paid, not to make friends. While building relationships with colleagues is important for a healthy work environment, it’s not my primary focus. I’m there to do my work to a high standard, contribute meaningfully, and meet the goals of my role. If friendships naturally form along the way, that’s great, but I don’t believe it’s necessary to constantly socialise or engage in casual conversation to prove I’m a good team player. My professionalism and work ethic speak for themselves.
Living with dyspraxia is a daily challenge that goes beyond the coordination difficulties most people associate it with. One of the hardest struggles I face has to do with my executive functioning – the mental processes that help me plan, organise and get through the day. Even though I try my best to stay on top of everything, I often end up feeling overwhelmed and exhausted.
Getting ready for work in the morning is like running an obstacle course. I wake up knowing there are a hundred things to do, but as soon as I start, my brain feels foggy and slow. Even when I’ve made a checklist, set out my clothes and put everything in place the night before, I still forget things. Sometimes it’s something small, like my bottle of water, but other times it’s something important like my laptop charger or my contact lens solution – something I’ve checked off mentally but still managed to leave behind.
My checklist for work that I physically tick off before I leave the house – despite this, I more often than not forget something!
It’s beyond frustrating. I put in all this effort to plan, but my brain just doesn’t seem to cooperate. When I do forget something, I feel like I’m constantly playing catch-up, and it sets the tone for a day where everything feels harder than it should be. What’s even worse is when I manage to remember everything on my list, yet still end up missing something crucial. It’s exhausting – both mentally and physically – before my day has even properly started.
Executive Functioning in Dyspraxia: What’s Going On?
Executive functioning refers to the mental skills that allow us to plan, organise, remember and manage our time. For someone like me with dyspraxia, these tasks often feel overwhelming. It’s not just that I forget things; it’s the constant mental strain of trying to keep track of everything while knowing something might slip through the cracks.
Planning ahead takes so much more energy. Things that should be straightforward, like organising my day, require a lot of mental effort. Having to check through my bag several times before I leave the house is time consuming and takes energy. And even with all that effort, I still forget key details or get sidetracked by something unexpected. It’s like trying to keep a hundred tabs open in my mind, but no matter how hard I try, one of them is always freezing.
The Fatigue Factor: Why Dyspraxia is So Exhausting
The mental and physical effort required to manage all these challenges takes its toll. A dyspraxic brain has to work at least 10x harder than a non-dyspraxic brain in daily tasks and almost everything they execute. I don’t just feel tired from doing things; I feel drained from the cognitive load. Every task takes more energy because I have to actively think through each step. There’s no autopilot for me. The constant effort to stay on top of everything means I’m mentally exhausted before noon.
And it’s not just mornings; this happens all day. Whether it’s remembering deadlines at work or keeping track of personal commitments, the mental fatigue builds up until I’m completely wiped out. I need frequent breaks just to catch my breath mentally.
Sometimes, I feel like a fraud for even mentioning these difficulties. I know people who have more visible or serious conditions; whether it’s chronic fatigue, Long COVID or other disabilities – that impact their lives in profound ways. In comparison, my struggles with dyspraxia feel small. I find myself wondering if I should just push through, or if my exhaustion is really valid when there are people facing far bigger challenges.
But I’ve had to remind myself that dyspraxia is a hidden disability. Just because others don’t see the mental and physical effort it takes for me to get through the day doesn’t mean it’s not real. The exhaustion, frustration, and cognitive overload are real, and they impact my life in ways that are hard to explain to others. I might not look like I’m struggling on the outside, but the invisible weight of trying to keep up with my own mind can be very heavy.
I’m currently in the process of trying to negotiate greater flexibility with working from home, particularly on an additional day when I feel I need it due to the fatigue and mental strain of managing dyspraxia (as well as my eye condition which causes a whole host of other difficulties.) I’ll be speaking with occupational health soon to explore this and other possible adjustments that could make my work routine more manageable.
If anyone has any tips or strategies to aid short-term memory or improve executive functioning, or any adjustments they have from their workplace which have been helpful in managing this difficulty, I’d love to hear them – any advice would be greatly appreciated!
A rare occasion I went for a beautiful 6am morning run!
‘You’ll never do that.’ These were the sceptical words of my dad when I announced my plan to train for and conquer the local 5 mile Fun Run round our village. Little did he know, those words ignited a fire within me, sparking my journey into the world of running. Motivated by his doubt, I embarked on a path that transformed my life in unexpected ways. Although there have been breaks and moments of frustration along the way, the love/hate relationship with running that many runners know all too well has kept me coming back to it time and time again.
Local annual Fun Run when I fundraised for Mind
I still remember those early days vividly, back when I was 13. Ignoring conventional wisdom and dressing in jeans and a hoodie, I embarked on laps around the local park. It must have been a comical sight – a teenager stubbornly refusing to change into sports clothes, defiantly running in whatever I happened to be wearing that day. I didn’t want running to feel like another mandatory PE class at school; I wanted it to be my own, personal challenge. I remember my first pair of basic white running trainers, a pink t-shirt, and shorts that my mum bought me when she knew I was serious. She soon managed to coax me out of my clothes and into suitable sports attire!
First local Fun Run in 2012 (have done them consecutively almost every year since)
Fast forward to today, now in my mid twenties, I proudly consider being a runner an integral part of my identity. Whether it’s a brisk morning jog or a challenging half marathon, running provides me with a profound sense of purpose and fulfilment that transcends the miles I log.
My current PBs for each distance. I’m not one of the fastest, but I’ve never been particularly motivated by time!
Physically, running has transformed my health. It has strengthened my muscles, improved my cardiovascular endurance, enabled me to burn calories and helped me maintain overall fitness. The benefits ripple into my daily life, where I find myself more energetic, alert, and resilient to stress. Mentally, running is my sanctuary. It’s a time when I can clear my mind, process my thoughts, and find clarity amidst life’s complexities. The rhythmic cadence of my feet hitting the pavement becomes a form of meditation, grounding me in the present moment and fostering a deep sense of inner peace.
Beyond the personal benefits, I feel a sense of empathy for those who are unable to run due to musculoskeletal issues, health conditions, or other constraints. Running, to me, is a privilege – one that I cherish deeply and wish that everyone could experience.
Boosting mental health
Overall, running has become one of my most important primary tools for managing and improving my mental health. It is the main reason I run, to keep myself on an even, stable keel as much as I can. Having struggled quite severely with poor mental health in the past and definitely still being a vulnerable person to life’s stressors and low mood, I find that running offers benefits that often surpass those of my antidepressants. While I understand the importance of my medication and currently rely on both, running provides a sense of stability and wellbeing that I believe will be crucial in eventually reducing my reliance on medication. Ultimately, the main reason I run is to enhance, maintain, and stabilise my mental health, making it an indispensable part of my overall wellness strategy.
Running provides a therapeutic outlet for me to process my problems, traumas, and daily stresses in a way that sitting still never could. The physical demands of running – remembering to breathe, managing fatigue, and navigating my route – prevent my mind from sinking too deeply into negative thoughts. The need to focus on my breathing, the complaints of my body yearning for a break, and the constant awareness of the route all serve as a mental distraction. This forced diversion helps alleviate the mental torture that often plagues me when I’m inactive.
Whatever my mind is currently ruminating on or whatever problems I currently have still get worked on subconsciously while running. I can go out for a run when feeling upset, anxious, or frustrated and by the end of the run I will be more able to look at the issue objectively without being clouded by the emotions I felt beforehand. In essence, I think it simply gives me time to think and disconnects my thoughts from my feelings and behaviours, preventing the negative knee-jerk reactions.
Running also offers a meditative quality, compelling me to be present and aware of my surroundings, like traffic and the changing scenery. This awareness helps me avoid becoming overly absorbed in my internal struggles. The rhythmic pounding of my feet on the pavement, the sound of my breath, and the flow of movement create a grounding effect, anchoring me in the moment. Whether I’m running alone, enjoying the solitude and personal reflection, or with a group, relishing the camaraderie and shared experience, the benefits to my mental health are undeniable. Although running can’t cure my anxiety and low mood, it significantly alleviates these conditions. Rarely do I regret going for a run; the worst outcome is not feeling much different to how I felt before, but even then, I still benefit from the physical exercise. The act of getting out and moving is a victory in itself – something is always better than nothing.
However, running isn’t always easy, especially when I’m experiencing acute mental health challenges. On days when my mental health has been at its lowest, simply getting out the door can feel like an insurmountable challenge. It’s a mental battle where I must muster every ounce of willpower just to take that first step. Medication often adds to this struggle, making me feel sluggish and lethargic, as if I’m running through sand, making it nearly impossible to reach the pace I know I’m capable of. This discrepancy between what I want to achieve and what my body can do can be incredibly frustrating, adding another layer of challenge to my runs.
During these tough runs, or when I’m simply having a bad running day where I hate it and struggle with it for no apparent reason, I’ve developed a mental technique of breaking down the run into smaller components. I tell myself that I can definitely manage to run to the next tree, lamppost, or the end of the road. Once I reach that point, I reassess whether I can keep going. This technique also helped me during marathon training – I would tell myself that after reaching ten miles, I could manage another three, and so on. This approach makes even the toughest runs more manageable, one step at a time.
Despite these challenges, there’s almost always a moment during a run where I forget how awful I feel and start to appreciate my surroundings, especially when I’m in nature. The beauty of a wooded trail, the serenity of a quiet park, or the vastness of an open field can provide a much needed escape from my worries. These moments of connection with nature and my surroundings can be profoundly healing, offering a temporary reprieve from mental struggles.
Many of us run with the finish line in mind, driven by the anticipation of the post-run euphoria. We know that completing a run will boost our mood, not just for the rest of the day but for much of the coming week. This ‘runner’s high’ significantly lifts my spirits, providing a sense of accomplishment and wellbeing that can be elusive in other areas of my life. The endorphins released during a run help combat feelings of anxiety and depression, leaving me feeling more balanced and content.
Ultimately, if running means I can avoid increasing my dosage of sertraline, I’m willing to endure the physical toll it takes on my body. The mental clarity and improved mood I gain from running are well worth the occasional soreness or fatigue. Each run, no matter how challenging, is a step towards better mental health and a more positive outlook on life. The resilience and strength I build through running extend beyond the physical, helping me navigate the complexities of living with mental illness.
London Marathon
The London Marathon became a crucial focus and distraction during one of the most difficult years of my life. I was in a dark place, grappling with profound misery due to a college course I hated and the added frustration of being unable to drive because of my visual impairment, watching my brother learn and pass his driving test. These challenges left me feeling trapped and despondent, but training for the London Marathon provided a positive and empowering goal to work towards.
Amidst the gloom of my daily struggles, the marathon emerged as a beacon of hope. It gave me something tangible and uplifting to strive for, shifting my attention away from my immediate troubles. The rigorous training schedule demanded my commitment and effort, effectively diverting my mind from the negative thoughts that plagued me. Each run, each mile, brought a sense of progress and accomplishment, gradually lifting my spirits.
The physical exertion of running helped release pent up stress and anxiety, providing a much-needed outlet for my emotions. As I pushed my limits and built my endurance, I also discovered a growing sense of resilience within myself. The challenges of my college course and visual impairment still existed, but the marathon training empowered me to face them with renewed strength and determination.
Moreover, the anticipation of participating in such a prestigious event filled me with excitement and purpose. The thought of running alongside thousands of others, sharing the experience of crossing the iconic finish line, became a powerful motivator. It connected me to a larger community of runners, each with their own stories of perseverance and triumph.
Fundraising for Fight for Sight, the eye research charity, added another layer of meaning to my life. Organising cake sales, tombolas, and raffles at my community choir, Christmas fundraiser and other events proved to be an incredibly rewarding challenge, another thing to shift my attention to rather than my inner anguish. Thanks to the incredible generosity of others, I raised nearly £5000, which will support research into new treatments and cures for eye conditions and visual impairments.
In essence, the London Marathon was more than just a race; it was a lifeline during a time of deep struggle. It gave me a positive focus, helped me rediscover my inner strength, and provided a sense of achievement that countered the negativity in my life. Through the discipline and dedication of marathon training, I found a way to reclaim a sense of purpose and joy, proving to myself that I could overcome the obstacles in my life.
London Marathon, 23rd April 2017. A day I’ll never forget and will treasure forever!
Joining a running club has been incredibly beneficial for me, especially given my disability and subsequent speech and language difficulties. When I have a shared interest with others, like running, conversations come more naturally. The common ground provides a foundation for communication, making it easier to connect with others; it is easy to ask someone if they have any races coming up, to ask them about a running event they have recently completed or to get their opinions on different races. There’s also no pressure to talk, as the primary focus is on running. This creates a relaxed environment where I can engage with others when I like, without feeling self-conscious about my speech. Being quieter is hardly noticed by anyone, as it is not about being talkative. Equally, there are regular social events organised by the club so I can always go along if I feel like challenging myself and stepping out of my comfort zone, but there is never any pressure.
In school, I was often underestimated because I struggled with team sports due to my dyspraxia. My coordination issues made participating in traditional sports challenging, and my PE teachers were reluctant to encourage me to join the cross country team when I first showed interest. This lack of support knocked my confidence, making me feel inadequate in sports. However, I discovered that running was something I could excel at independently. It became a personal challenge that I was determined to overcome, often pounding the pavements after school to unwind from the day.
Proving myself as a capable runner was incredibly empowering. Despite initial reluctance from my PE teachers, I persevered and eventually earned their respect and a place on the team. I achieved third place out of all the schools in the region in cross country, a significant accomplishment that boosted my confidence. Additionally, I regularly competed in the 1500m event during sports days, where I secured second place. These achievements validated my abilities and demonstrated that I could succeed despite the challenges posed by dyspraxia and my speech difficulties.
Cross country champion!
The running club has further solidified my confidence. Being part of a group with a shared passion provides a supportive community where I feel accepted and understood. Running with others who share similar interests helps me to improve my social skills in a low-pressure environment. The encouragement and camaraderie within the club are instrumental in helping me realise my potential.
Another significant source of motivation for me is Strava. This platform not only allows me to track my progress but also lets me see routes that other runners have taken. The sense of community on Strava is incredible – runners from my club and beyond offer encouragement and leave supportive comments on my runs. Sharing my own routes and achievements, while also celebrating those of others, fosters a sense of accountability. It’s inspiring to be part of such a vibrant and positive community where everyone is cheering each other on to reach their goals and explore new horizons.
Directions
Running has significantly improved my sense of direction and allowed me to discover new routes, offering both practical benefits and enriching experiences. As someone who enjoys exploring different paths, running has turned my local area into a landscape of possibilities, each route presenting a new adventure.
Before I started running, I often relied on Google Maps or familiar landmarks to navigate. Running, however, has honed my directional skills in ways I hadn’t anticipated. Constantly needing to remember and follow routes has sharpened my spatial awareness and memory. I have become more adept at recognising and recalling streets, landmarks, and natural features. This enhanced sense of direction has been useful not just during runs but in daily life, making it easier to navigate unfamiliar places with confidence.
The quest for variety in my running routes has led me to uncover hidden gems in my locality and areas close by. I’ve discovered parks, trails, and scenic routes that I never knew existed, or wasn’t confident enough to explore when walking. Each new path offers a fresh perspective and a break from monotony, keeping my runs interesting and motivating. The excitement of exploring an uncharted route adds an element of adventure to my exercise, making each run something to look forward to.
Running new routes has practical benefits as well. It’s a great way to find shortcuts and alternative paths that can be useful for daily commutes or errands. By familiarising myself with different areas, I feel more connected and more knowledgeable about my surroundings.
One of the greatest joys of running is the opportunity to explore new routes whilst on holiday. Motivation tends to be high when I’m somewhere different, as there’s something exhilarating about lacing up my shoes and setting off on unfamiliar paths, discovering scenic trails and streets that I might otherwise miss. Running allows me to immerse myself in the local culture and landscape in a unique way, offering a fresh perspective on the places I visit. Each run becomes an adventure, filled with the excitement of exploration and the satisfaction of uncovering new experiences, making my travels even more memorable and enriching. Exploring diverse environments, from urban streets to serene nature trails, has made my runs more enjoyable and varied. The changing scenery keeps my mind engaged and adds an element of mindfulness to my runs, as I take in the sights and sounds of different areas.
Every new route I conquer builds my confidence, not just as a runner but as an individual capable of navigating and exploring the world around me. Overcoming the initial uncertainty of a new path and completing the run successfully boosts my self-assurance and sense of accomplishment. This confidence extends beyond running, helping me tackle other challenges in life with a similar mindset of exploration and perseverance.
parkrun
I don’t often make it to parkrun because it is early on a Saturday, and my personal preference is running in the afternoon or evening when my body feels much more awake. However, whenever I do push myself to get out of bed and join a parkrun, I always enjoy it immensely. There’s a unique energy at these events that’s both invigorating and uplifting.
Parkrun is a fantastic public health initiative. It’s amazing to see so many people from different communities and walks of life come together for a common purpose. The atmosphere is always supportive and non-competitive, which makes it accessible for everyone, regardless of their fitness level. Whether you’re a seasoned runner aiming for a personal best or someone just looking to enjoy a brisk walk in good company, parkrun welcomes you with open arms.
When I’m travelling or visiting somewhere new, I absolutely love doing some parkrun tourism. Exploring different parkrun courses is like getting a mini-tour of the local area. Each event has its own unique charm, and it’s a fantastic way to see new places from a different perspective.
Even though I prefer running later in the day, I have to admit that there’s something special about starting the weekend with parkrun. The sense of accomplishment set a great tone for the rest of the day. And when I finish, I always feel like I’ve earned a leisurely breakfast.
In the end, while I might not be a regular parkrunner due to my love for afternoon and evening runs, parkrun is a brilliant initiative that promotes health, wellbeing, and community spirit. Whether I’m running in my local park or exploring a new parkrun course in a different city, I always come away with a sense of joy and fulfilment.
I was a regular parkrunner in 2012 and 2013, where I got my 5K PB I still have to this day! I wonder whether I will ever beat 24:10?
Conclusion
I am grateful for my dad’s initial doubts. His skepticism served as a catalyst that led me to discover the transformative power of running. What began as a challenge has evolved into an integral part of my life and wellbeing, a fundamental part of who I am that will last a lifetime.
Running has bestowed upon me a multitude of blessings far beyond mere physical fitness. It has become my sanctuary – a place where the rhythm of my footsteps harmonises with the thoughts swirling in my mind, offering clarity and peace amidst life’s chaos. The endorphin rush after a run serves as a natural mood lifter, alleviating stress and anxiety while infusing me with a renewed sense of energy and optimism. Each stride, each breath, is a testament to the power of movement in nurturing not just the body, but also the mind.
Beyond its immediate benefits, running has been a profound teacher, imparting lessons of resilience, patience, and the art of setting and achieving goals. Through the miles logged and the challenges overcome, I’ve learned to embrace discomfort as a pathway to growth, to persist through setbacks, and to celebrate every small victory along the way. It has taught me to persevere, that I am not as weak and useless as my mind sometimes tries to tell me, and that I am stronger than I think.
Each run is a narrative of personal evolution; a tangible reminder of how far I’ve come from the hesitant beginner running in jeans, limited to my local park as I was hopeless and anxious about directions, to the confident and determined runner I am today. It fuels my belief in continuous improvement, inspiring me to push my boundaries further with each new route and race. In the rhythm of my strides, I find not just physical exertion, but a deep connection to my inner strength. Running, therefore, is not just an activity; it is a journey of self-discovery and self-mastery. It has woven itself into the fabric of my life, shaping my identity and enriching my existence in ways I never imagined possible. As I lace up my shoes and hit the pavement, I am reminded of the endless possibilities that lie ahead – a journey where every step forward is a testament to my unwavering determination and the boundless joy that running brings.
I made this Venn Diagram detailing some similarities and differences
‘The first thing I think when I wake up is: am I going to be able to speak today?’ ~ Chris Kamara
This poignant quote, from Chris Kamara’s documentary Lost for Words, encapsulates the profound difference between acquired apraxia of speech and acquired verbal dyspraxia; the quote highlights the unpredictability and distress experienced by individuals with acquired apraxia of speech. In contrast, as someone who has always been living with a diagnosis of verbal dyspraxia, my speech has developed over time, providing a sense of stability and continuity where I don’t have to worry about being able to physically talk every day; albeit the lack of confidence and anxiety that often prevents me from being able to converse effectively, I always know I have the fundamental ability to speak now.
Recently, there has been some confusion on social media regarding apraxia of speech and developmental verbal dyspraxia, with many people conflating the two conditions to be the same thing. This misconception is not only damaging but also deeply frustrating as an individual with the latter, as it detracts from the clarity needed to understand the distinct challenges associated with each condition.
Understanding the intricacies of Apraxia of Speech and Developmental Verbal Dyspraxia is essential for both accurate diagnosis and effective intervention. These two conditions, though related, present distinct challenges and require different therapeutic approaches. Apraxia of speech (AOS), often referred to as acquired apraxia of speech, typically arises in adulthood following brain injury or illness, such as a stroke or traumatic brain injury.
In contrast, Developmental Verbal Dyspraxia, now frustratingly known as childhood apraxia of speech (CAS), manifests from early childhood and is not linked to a specific brain injury. Delving into the nuances of these conditions reveals the profound impact they have on individuals’ lives and highlights the importance of tailored support and intervention.
Acquired apraxia of speech occurs when a previously healthy brain suffers damage, disrupting the neural pathways that coordinate the movements necessary for speech production. This condition is characterised by difficulty in planning and executing the precise movements of the lips, tongue, and vocal chords, despite the absence of muscle weakness or paralysis. Adults with acquired apraxia often retain their cognitive abilities and language comprehension, making the sudden loss of expressive speech particularly distressing. They may struggle with articulating words correctly, exhibit inconsistent speech errors, and find it challenging to string together syllables in a smooth, coordinated manner. This abrupt change can lead to significant emotional and psychological challenges, as individuals grapple with the frustration and isolation that accompany the inability to communicate effectively.
Contrasting with Apraxia of Speech, Developmental Verbal Dyspraxia is present from early childhood and so affects language comprehension, causing a delay with processing verbal language and short term memory. This means it affects the overall trajectory of life a lot more than apraxia of speech. As a child, I faced persistent difficulties in forming and sequencing the sounds needed for speech. Unlike my peers, who developed speech abilities naturally over time, I had to contend with inconsistent sound errors, difficulties with longer words or phrases, and a pronounced gap between my receptive language abilities and my expressive speech skills. For me, the world of verbal communication was a constant struggle, requiring significant effort and repetition to achieve what comes naturally to others. The early and ongoing intervention in childhood is crucial, involving specialised speech therapy techniques designed to build and strengthen the neural pathways required for speech production.
The experiences of growing up with Developmental Verbal Dyspraxia versus acquiring Apraxia of Speech in adulthood are markedly different. I face a lifelong journey of navigating a world where verbal communication is inherently challenging. I still encounter difficulties in social interactions and daily activities involving speaking to people, often requiring sustained support and accommodations. The frustration of not being able to express myself verbally from an early age has significantly impacted my self-esteem, self confidence and social development. However, with early diagnosis and consistent, targeted therapy, I made significant progress, learning strategies to improve my speech clarity and communication skills over time.
On the other hand, adults with acquired apraxia of speech experience a sudden and often devastating loss of their ability to speak. This loss can be particularly traumatic, as it strips them of a fundamental aspect of their identity and independence. The transition from fluent speech to struggling with basic articulation can lead to feelings of helplessness, depression, and social withdrawal. Rehabilitation for acquired apraxia typically involves intensive speech therapy, focusing on relearning how to plan and execute speech movements. This process can be arduous, requiring significant mental and emotional resilience as individuals work to regain their communicative abilities.
Both conditions share similar characteristics and interventions, such as necessitating specialised speech therapy, but the approaches differ based on the individual’s needs. For children with Verbal Dyspraxia, therapy often involves play based activities, motor learning principles, and repetitive practice to encourage the development of neural pathways for speech. For adults with acquired apraxia, therapy may focus on re-establishing motor planning skills, using other techniques and evidence based practices.
Distinguishing between Acquired Apraxia of Speech and Developmental Verbal Dyspraxia is crucial for several reasons. Firstly, accurate diagnosis directly impacts individual outcomes. With a clear understanding of the specific condition, speech therapists can tailor treatment plans to address the unique challenges faced by each individual. When these conditions are confused or inaccurately represented, it can lead to inappropriate or ineffective treatment strategies.
Furthermore, a lack of clear distinction can contribute to misunderstanding and misinformation among patients, families, and healthcare providers. This misunderstanding can also affect the emotional and psychological wellbeing of individuals with these conditions; since the documentary I unfortunately have felt more misunderstood than ever as I saw they were misrepresented as the same thing.
Additionally, a misleading portrayal can hinder empowerment and self-advocacy. Accurate and specific information is crucial for individuals to seek out the appropriate resources, support groups, and therapeutic interventions. When conditions are conflated, it becomes challenging for individuals to identify with a community or to find relevant and effective strategies for managing their condition. This confusion can lead to isolation and decreased confidence in navigating their speech challenges.
Unfortunately, there has been additional confusion due to conflicting terminology. In America, ‘apraxia of speech’ tends to refer to Verbal Dyspraxia, not Acquired Apraxia of Speech, which further complicates understanding and, as I have seen, causes a lot of confusion on social media. This inconsistency in terminology underscores the need for clear and accurate communication about these conditions to ensure that individuals receive the correct diagnosis and treatment, and that awareness efforts do not inadvertently perpetuate misunderstanding.
Chris Kamara’s work to raise awareness of speech conditions is commendable and I admire his efforts to the cause. Though, in my opinion, his documentary was an inaccurate portrayal and confused the two conditions.
Imagine waking up every single morning and having to face your biggest fear just to lead your normal every day life. Your heart beats faster, you get sweaty palms and you can feel butterflies in your stomach every time you walk into the office. This fear isn’t life threatening; in fact, it is something that most people do naturally without a single thought or care in the world required. This fear is speaking to people.
For me and other individuals who live with verbal dyspraxia, a neurological speech disorder, talking to people can be a very real fear. Will they be able to understand my speech? Will I find the words I need to say, and express myself as eloquently as I have rehearsed it in my head? Will I look stupid? Will I be able to say exactly what is on my mind?
Going through life not talking to people isn’t really an option, so this often overwhelming fear has to be faced every time I leave the house. Thankfully the older I have got and the more experiences I have had at having to converse with different people, the easier it has got and the better I have become at it, but the fear is still there, lurking, like a persistent fog enveloping every thought and action, obscuring clarity and casting a perpetual chill over the mind. One snide comment, look or mistake on my part can make me doubt myself and feel a great sense of inadequacy. Regardless of the social experiences I will have throughout my working life, being able to speak to people in the capacity and extent to what I would like and need to be able to do will always be a barrier to some degree, as it is a lifelong disability.
As I write this, I am reminded of the countless moments in my life where my speech and language difficulties have presented challenges, especially in the workplace. Being an adult with a hidden disability, I often find myself grappling with processing speed and difficulty engaging in conversations, despite my genuine desire to be sociable. My journey has been fraught with misconceptions, extreme social anxiety, and the continuous effort to navigate the professional world while staying true to myself.
From a young age, I’ve struggled with articulation and processing speed. While colleagues effortlessly string together words in conversation, I find myself carefully crafting each sentence in my mind before it leaves my lips. This often leads to delays in communication and an inevitable sense of frustration, both for myself and those around me. In the workplace, these challenges manifest in various ways. Simple tasks such as answering phone calls or participating in meetings can become daunting hurdles to face. Unexpected occurrences where I am expected to speak to someone spontaneously about a case can be a real hurdle as I haven’t had the time to problem solve and think about exactly what it is I need to say. The pressure to respond spontaneously to enquiries while articulating my thoughts coherently can feel overwhelming and unattainable. There have been moments when I’ve either hesitated to speak up in meetings or general conversations for fear of judgment or misunderstanding from my colleagues, or I simply haven’t had enough time to formulate the words in my mind before the discussion moves on to another topic, which can feel soul destroying.
Me in a nutshell
Adding to the complexity is the misconception that my quietness equates to disinterest or lack of competence. I have lost count of the times people have mistaken my reserved demeanour for aloofness or indifference. The truth is, behind my quiet exterior lies a strong desire to connect and contribute, albeit in a way that aligns with my communication style. It is incredibly frustrating to long to contribute and add something to a conversation, always bursting with things to say but to not have the confidence nor the verbal processing time to be able to join in; sadly, this is what I experience every day. It is a major achievement for me when I manage to chip in and add a comment to a conversation, or to even initiate one with a colleague.
Though thankfully no one has said anything at my present workplace, in previous employment and other situations my communication difficulties have often been mistaken for autism. While both conditions share overlapping traits and involve challenges socially, the key distinction lies in their underlying mechanisms. Autism primarily manifests as a social communication disorder, affecting a person’s ability to interpret and respond to social cues effectively. In contrast, verbal dyspraxia primarily affects speech and language production and ability to process verbal information quickly, stemming from difficulties in planning and coordinating the movements required for speech. Thus, while individuals with verbal dyspraxia may struggle with speech clarity and articulation, their social communication skills are typically more intact compared to those with autism. Understanding these nuanced differences is crucial in supporting someone at work.
Social anxiety often exacerbates my challenges, amplifying the fear of judgment and rejection in social settings. While I yearn for meaningful connections and camaraderie with my coworkers, the fear of stumbling over words or being misunderstood looms large, due to the trauma of my speech being unintelligible for years when I was a child. As a result, I sometimes retreat into solitude, seeking solace in the familiarity of my own thoughts rather than braving the uncertainties of social interaction.
Despite the assumptions of colleagues, my quiet demeanour doesn’t define the entirety of who I am. Although I know my colleagues are well meaning and do not intend to upset me, their surprise at discovering my enjoyment of going out for a drink, an evening out with friends and my like for a Guinness, illustrates their narrow perception. Comments such as ‘you’re the quietest person in the office, I wouldn’t expect that from you!’ are nothing short of maddening. My speech and language difficulties, combined with social anxiety, are only a small fraction of me in a slither of time; within an anxiety provoking situation with people who don’t know me well, my difficulties constrain me from fully expressing myself. Beneath the surface, there’s a vibrant individual with diverse interests waiting to be unveiled. It is disheartening to feel misunderstood, as I yearn for my colleagues to witness the richness of my personality beyond the confines of my introverted exterior. I have a lot to add to the frequent discussions of CCFC, for instance. I am also a long distance runner, a nature lover, a pedigree cat owner, a neurodivergent advocate and a whole lot more. I have a group of friends I like socialising with, a family I can chat away to, a boyfriend who I like having a pint with. There is always more to someone than meets the eye.
As someone who’s naturally quiet and faces challenges due to a life impacting speaking difficulty, receiving feedback from my manager about requiring me to ask more questions and speaking up when unsure is true but tough. It’s not that I don’t want to participate, but my social anxiety, compounded by my speech and language difficulty, makes it incredibly challenging. Recently, I have got more confident at asking certain colleagues for clarification when unsure about something, but it is still a barrier. I believe workplaces in general should be flexible and accommodating to different working styles and individual needs. Advocating for adjustments that support my communication challenges, such as the ability to contribute feedback via email and giving me more time to think about my views before expecting a response while still allowing me to fulfill my responsibilities, could foster a more inclusive and supportive work environment for me.
It is not uncommon for individuals with speech and language difficulties to experience the distressing phenomenon of colleagues discussing them as if they are invisible, even when they are sitting right there, and this has happened to me several times across various workplaces. This can manifest in conversations where coworkers deliberate over whether to assign tasks or enquire about completed work, all while the individual is present. Such instances can evoke feelings of being overlooked, undervalued, and marginalised. For someone already grappling with speech and language challenges and the accompanying social anxiety as a result of my difficulty, these moments can exacerbate existing insecurities, leaving me feeling diminished and disconnected from my peers. The impact of these experiences underscores the importance of fostering an inclusive workplace culture where all voices are heard and respected, regardless of communication abilities.
Despite these obstacles, I refuse to let my hidden disability define me or dictate my professional life. Instead, I’ve learned to embrace my differences and advocate for accommodations that allow me to thrive in the workplace. Whether it is requesting additional time to process information or utilising written communication as a supplement to verbal dialogue, I’ve found ways to adapt and excel in my role. Moreover, I’ve come to realise that my unique perspective and communication style offer invaluable contributions to the workplace. While others may excel in verbal eloquence, I bring a depth of introspection and thoughtfulness that enriches team dynamics and problem-solving processes. My ability to super focus means that I can diligently get tasks done to a high standard, as I am completely absorbed in the task at hand once I am familiar with the process. I can easily block out any other distractions around me and completely engage to the extent that I sometimes don’t hear people sitting in close proximity to me and they have to repeat something! By embracing diversity in all its forms and recognising the powerful qualities the quieter colleagues bring to a team, organisations can harness the collective strengths of their employees and foster a culture of inclusivity and acceptance.
The benefits of being quiet and how managers can cultivate and empower quiet talent
Living with a severe neurological speech disorder does not impact on my intelligence. It also does NOT mean that I have nothing to say. All it means is that I struggle to get the thoughts and ideas in my head out verbally.
Beyond my quiet exterior, I have lots of things to say. Please give me a little time, patience and understanding, and slowly more of my personality will show.
A brilliant article that I relate to completely: ‘5 things I wish employers knew about dyspraxia’:
Stepping into the bustling conference at Norton Rose Fulbright in June 2018, a global law firm in central London, was daunting. I felt a surge of anticipation mixed with a tinge of nervousness, as it was not only my first time attending a national conference and networking with other delegates, but it also marked a poignant moment of embracing my difficulties. Little did I know, but it would be a moment that would change my life forever. As I navigated through the sea of attendees at different talks and groups, I couldn’t help but marvel at the sense of unity that filled the air. Whether it was workshops on coping strategies, employment support or education, the charity empowered me to take control of my life and pursue my goals. It gave me the tools I needed to navigate the world with confidence and resilience from that day onwards, which was incredibly liberating.
Little did I know, over the course of that day and many months and years later, I would experience a transformation that would shape the trajectory of my journey with dyspraxia and leave an indelible mark on my soul.
As I write this very unexpected and rushed blog post, just an hour or so after hearing the announcement via email and social media, a heavy feeling settles in my chest as I don’t quite know where to begin but concurrently I feel the need to express how I feel. It is a mixture of sadness, nostalgia, and gratitude. The shocking news of The Dyspraxia Foundation closing its doors has hit me hard. For years, this charity has been more than just an organisation; it has been a lifeline, a sanctuary, and a beacon of hope for me and countless others navigating life with dyspraxia, in some very dark moments.
One of the most profound aspects of my journey with The Dyspraxia Foundation has been the sense of belonging it provided. In a world where I have often been misunderstood and underestimated, and regularly felt out of place like a misfit on the margins of society, this community has welcomed me with open arms. Through the online facebook support group in my early twenties, and many more social events that followed that first conference, I found others who shared similar experiences and understood the challenges I faced, accepting me for who I was. It was the only place where I didn’t have to explain myself because everyone just got it.
Being part of The Dyspraxia Foundation wasn’t just about finding people who understood me; it was about finding my tribe. These were individuals who didn’t see my differences as weaknesses but as strengths. Together, we celebrated our victories, big and small, and lifted each other up during tough times. It was a space free from judgement where I could be unapologetically myself. I found solidarity; a unity I had never experienced before.
As a voluntary joint Local Coordinator for the West Midlands regional group, I found myself thrust into a role that demanded leadership, empathy, and resilience. Serving as a bridge between the organisation and the local dyspraxia community, I took on the joint responsibility of organising support groups, events, and workshops aimed at providing resources and fostering a sense of belonging for individuals and their families like myself and mine. In this role, I discovered a newfound confidence in my ability to make a tangible difference in the lives of others. The trust placed in me by both the charity and the community empowered me to step outside of my comfort zone by talking to a range of individuals and public speaking, take initiative, and advocate for the needs of those who often felt overlooked or misunderstood.
Similarly, my role as one of the first of three national Youth Champions provided me with a platform to amplify the voices of young people living with dyspraxia. As part of a team dedicated to addressing the unique challenges faced by young people, I had the opportunity to collaborate on initiatives aimed at improving social inclusion and life outcomes for individuals with dyspraxia. Being entrusted with this responsibility not only deepened my understanding of advocacy and activism but also instilled in me a sense of purpose and determination to effect positive change.
Through both of these roles, I developed invaluable skills in communication, organisation, and advocacy that transcended beyond the confines of the charity. The confidence gained from leading and representing the dyspraxic community extended into various aspects of my life, from academic pursuits at university to personal relationships. I learned to embrace my strengths, confront my weaknesses, and navigate challenges with resilience.
Moreover, the relationships forged and experiences gained through my involvement with The Dyspraxia Foundation has enriched my life in ways I could have never have imagined. Lifelong friendships have been created, meaning trips out and holidays with friends gained. Parents have told me I have given them hope, which instilled in me a sense of purpose and meaning. In essence, my roles as a voluntary local coordinator and youth representative not only empowered me to make a difference in the lives of others but also transformed me into a more confident, compassionate, and resilient individual.
There is a stark realisation that now sets our community apart from others; there is no longer a national charity solely dedicated to dyspraxia. Unlike other neurodivergent conditions that have prominent organisations with strong voices championing their cause, dyspraxia now once again lacks a unified voice on the national front. Without a dedicated national charity, the resources, support networks, and advocacy efforts that had been instrumental in empowering individuals like myself are suddenly at risk of being lost. The absence of a centralised organisation means that awareness raising, providing support, and driving change falls largely on the shoulders of local communities and individuals.
My thoughts are with those who have lost their jobs, all those involved in the charity in whatever capacity and to every other individual like myself who regarded the foundation as a big and important part of their life.
Imogen’s blog 