My first week in Jamaica didn’t go to plan. What was meant to be a time to train, rebuild, and enjoy some warmth quickly turned into something else entirely.
The pressure sores knocked me back hard, forcing me into stillness, testing my patience in ways I wasn’t prepared for.
The physical setback was frustrating, but what I didn’t anticipate was how much it would impact me mentally.
Now, at the end of my second week, the antibiotics have done their job. The wounds are healing. But getting back on my feet, both physically and mentally, has been a different kind of challenge.
When I finally stepped back into the gym, I felt like a stranger in my own body. Every movement felt tentative, every lift unsure.
It wasn’t just about rebuilding strength, it was about rebuilding trust. Trust that my body could hold up. Trust that I wasn’t going to make things worse.
It’s strange how setbacks, no matter how many times you’ve been through them, always feel like you’re starting from zero. I’ve been here before, but that doesn’t make it easier.
The golf course was the same. Picking up the club again, standing on the range, trying to reconnect with a swing that had once felt so natural, it all felt foreign.
There was hesitation where there used to be instinct. A stiffness that wasn’t just in my muscles, but in my mind. I had to remind myself that this is always the process. You lose ground, you gain it back. Slowly. Repetition after repetition.
But this time, something was different.
As I moved, I became aware of a creeping numbness in my spinal cord. A slight change, an increase in inflammation, something I couldn’t quite place.
And that’s when the fear kicked in. Was it just the aftermath of the infection? Or was it something more? I couldn’t be sure. And that uncertainty is the hardest part.
I try not to live in fear. I tell myself that fear is just a story the mind tells. But when you’ve lived with a tumour for this long, when every slight change in sensation could mean something bigger, it’s hard not to let your thoughts spiral.
The mind plays tricks, taking the smallest sensation and turning it into a worst-case scenario.
I know the psychology of it. Thoughts create feelings. Feelings create emotions. Emotions become behaviors.
I’ve studied this. I’ve lived this. And yet, understanding it doesn’t make it any easier to control.
Then a story came up online, a young woman diagnosed with a tumour in her spinal cord first her legs went then her body and she slowly passed away in bed. I instantly thought oh my God is this how I will go and When?
That fear manifested in ways I didn’t expect.
Inter Miami were playing just five minutes from where I am staying, and the buzz around Lionel Messi’s arrival in Jamaica was huge.
I wanted to go. I wanted to be in the crowd, to soak up the atmosphere, to witness one of the greatest of all time play live. And yet, I didn’t go.
It wasn’t because of logistics or my body holding me back. It was something else.
In psychology, we often talk about fight or flight, the instinctive ways we respond to stress. But since my paralysis, I’ve learned there’s another state: freeze.
And that’s exactly where I found myself. Stuck. Watching life happen but unable to step into it.
That’s the thing about paralysis that most people don’t see. It’s not just the physical limitations, it’s the invisible barriers it creates.
The way it can make even simple decisions feel overwhelming. The way it can make you hesitate, second-guess, pull back from life without even realising you’re doing it.
Maybe it was just exhaustion from the past two weeks. Maybe it was my mind processing everything that had happened. Or maybe it was something deeper, the quiet fear that when my body breaks down, it’s a reminder that one day, it might not bounce back.
And then, of course, there’s the scans.
I feel like I write about scans all the time.
I try not to, but they are the rhythm that dictates everything.
My oncology team has moved them to every three months now, and somehow, that’s made the intensity of this path even greater.
So, I do what I always do. I keep moving.
Even when my body fights back. Even when my mind tells me to stop.
I push through, not because it’s easy, but because I know that action is the only way forward.
I went back to the gym. I picked up the golf club again. I reminded myself that even if my body has to start over, my mindset doesn’t.
And when I find myself in that freeze state, stuck between fear and action, I remind myself of something simple: movement is medicine.
Not just for the body, but for the mind. You don’t wait for motivation. You don’t wait for fear to subside. You move first. You act first. And the feelings follow.
This past week wasn’t what I expected. I thought I’d be stronger by now. I thought I’d be further along.
But maybe that’s the real lesson, that progress isn’t measured in straight lines. That setbacks don’t erase the path forward.
And that even when everything feels uncertain, life is still happening. You just have to decide to step back into it.
