Sometimes when I examine the metrics on the dashboard, I see a flat line. No views. Nothing to say. There is absolutely no proof that anyone read what I wrote.
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I keep returning to this screen, though. typing. Considering. Disseminating.
From the outside, it might appear to be useless. However, from within? It is necessary.
Writing is how I survive.
The mind doesn’t always move in a straight line when life changes, whether it’s due to a diagnosis, a health risk, or simply the silent weight of ongoing uncertainty. loop of thoughts. Feelings tangle. The din of what-ifs drowns out logic.
I don’t think blogging is a performance. It is a matter of survival. a method for sorting through the clutter to discover significance. It’s more than simply documentation when I write about my acoustic neuroma, the off-balance days, and the not-quite-hearing. It serves as a lifeline. I pull on each sentence to keep myself from falling apart.
Some people journal privately. I blog publicly — not because I expect an audience, but because putting it out there gives my experience shape and space. It forces me to choose words instead of letting the feelings float unnamed.
The internet doesn’t need another blog. But I do.
There are moments when I ask myself, “What’s the point of adding another post to the internet noise?” Personal essays, opinion pieces, fitness updates, and wellness blogs already number in the millions. However, none of those belong to me.
From inside my skull, no one else can talk. from within the quiet of hearing loss, the tinnitus’s static, or the gradual anxiety of anticipating another MRI. Nobody else experiences my peculiar combination of fatigue-interrupted bedtime stories, paddleboarding evenings, and NHS strategy discussions.
For others, this blog may not be necessary. But for me, it is necessary.
I’m not chasing attention. I’m holding onto truth.
There’s a strange honesty in writing when no one’s watching. No pressure to entertain. No need to brand myself. Just me, the keyboard, and the tangled truth.
When I write about the scan-day nerves or the victory of finishing a PowerZone ride I didn’t think I could complete, I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m trying to remember. Because it’s easy to forget the wins when life keeps moving. It’s easy to bury the struggles under busyness.
This blog slows me down enough to look at my life and say, This happened. This mattered. I was here.
Somewhere, someone might find this — and feel seen.
Living with an unseen ailment might lead to a certain kind of loneliness. Even while your world is subtly tilting, you may appear to be “fine” on the outside. On some days, the loneliness — the feeling that no one else understands — was more difficult than the exhaustion or the vertigo.
I therefore write honestly for anyone else who has experienced the same sense of loneliness. even if they remain silent. even if I was unaware of their presence. Words, in my opinion, have a way of reaching people at the appropriate moment. I know this because I’ve been there before, finding solace in the blogs of people I didn’t even know I was reading.
This blog is a map of becoming.
I can go back over my posts and follow a journey from diagnosis to uncertainty, from terror to a brittle fortitude. An uninteresting plot line. But a number of candid photos that show that, despite how it didn’t feel, I’ve gone on.
It’s a disorganised, live record of what it’s like to be happy despite uncertainty. to adapt. to continue moving. to continue evolving.
