A good orgasm can leave us breathless and unable to do anything but stare at the ceiling while we regain control of our limbs.

If you know the feeling, you’ll know it’s pretty incredible – but why does that (sometimes elusive) climax feel so intense?

How does an orgasm affect our brain, memory, and muscles? Metro spoke to a gynaecologist to find out.

What causes that orgasmic sensation in women?

Dr Sachchidananda Maiti explains that orgasms are the equivalent of a ‘full-body fireworks show’ that set off reactions all over your body, from your brain to your skin.

For most women, the 8,000 nerve endings in the clitoris start off that reaction more than anywhere in the body.

‘These nerves are connected to the pudendal nerve, which sends intense pleasure signals to the brain,’ he tells Metro. ‘During stimulation, these signals activate the limbic system, which is responsible for feelings of euphoria and pleasure.

‘At orgasm, there’s a surge of dopamine, oxytocin, and endorphins, creating that intense, euphoric rush.’

The euphoric rush is a culmination of nerve stimulation, muscle contractions and brain chemistry. ‘Rhythmic contractions of the pelvic floor muscles, changes in heart rate, and increased blood flow create that full-body pleasure sensation,’ Dr Maiti adds.

Of course, women can have orgasms from penetration too, and there’s a difference in sensation to clitoral stimulation.

‘Direct stimulation of the external clitoris, which is packed with nerves, leads to a sharper, more focused pleasure sensation,’ he explains. ‘A penetrative orgasm comes from stimulating the internal parts of the clitoris, the anterior vaginal wall (G-spot), or even deeper regions like the A-spot or cervix.

‘Stimulation here can activate deeper pleasure through the pudendal nerve – a major nerve in the pelvis that controls sensation in the genital and anal areas – and vagus nerve (the longest nerve in the body).

‘Even though they feel different, they both trigger the same brain activity and muscle contractions, which is why the result often feels similar.’

What causes that orgasmic sensation in men?

Like female orgasms, Dr Maiti explains that male orgasms also rely on the pundenal nerve but the way it’s stimulated is different.

The most sensitive areas are the head of the penis, frenulum (your banjo string), and perineum (the area between the anus and genitals).

Dr Maiti, for Pall Mall Medical, explains: ‘When these areas are stimulated, the signals travel to the sacral spinal cord, triggering muscle contractions in the pelvic floor, sperm ducts and prostate, leading to ejaculation.

‘The brain activity and chemical release are really similar to what happens in women, so the feeling is likely very close.’

What does an orgasm do to your brain?

When we reach that fabulous climax, gynaecologist Maiti explains that the brain actually looks like it’s having a seizure, because of a burst of electrical activity across different regions, including those linked to emotion and reward.

‘Your brain floods with dopamine, oxytocin, and endorphins, the same chemicals linked to deep relaxation and happiness,’ he says.

This means that orgasms light up similar areas to certain recreational drugs, which can leave you in a ‘post-orgasmic daze’.

‘That dreamy, spaced-out feeling can last anywhere from a few seconds to several minutes, depending on the person and intensity of the orgasm.’

In rare cases, people can even experience transient global amnesia (TGA) after they climax, according to the doctor.

Basically, you can briefly forget things after sex, bringing a whole new meaning to not being able to think straight.

‘This is because of a sudden drop in blood pressure, reducing blood flow to the brain. It’s rare but usually harmless,’ Dr Maiti adds.

What does an orgasm do to your heart and muscles?

‘Your heart isn’t just racing for dramatic effect, it’s working hard,’ Dr Maiti explains.

During orgasm, your heart rate can go from resting 60 to 80 beats a minute, to 140 to 180 beats per minute, which mimics the effects of intense exercise.

‘Blood pressure rises, blood vessels dilate, and your skin may flush,’ he adds. ‘That post-climax glow isn’t just in your head.’

Ever noticed your body trembling after sex? That’s because your muscles are going wild. An orgasm causes your pelvic muscles to contract in what Dr Maiti calls rhythmic waves roughly 0.8 seconds apart.

This is because the pundendal nerve sends a message to your spine to trigger the sacral nerve which controls controlling functions in the pelvic region.

These spasms help with blood circulation, tension release, and in reproductive terms, sperm movement in the vagina.

But it’s not just your pelvic floor that’s getting a workout. Your legs, arms, and even your face can spasm too.

These are all involuntary and the doctor says they include your mouth opening, your eyes rolling back, or even subtle movements like twitching cheeks or tensing your jaw.

‘Some people even get full-body shudders, almost like a mini seizure, thanks to nerve activation and muscle fatigue,’ he adds.

An orgasm can make your testicles shrink

When you orgasm your testicles can shrink, appearing smaller to the naked eye than you’d expect.

‘Don’t panic,’ Dr Maiti says. ‘For men, testicles can temporarily contract post-orgasm due to muscle tightening and a rush of blood flow shifting elsewhere, mostly to the penile veins.

‘They return to normal quickly, so there’s no need to check frantically.’

During sex, testicles can actually swell by up to 50% of their resting size, due to the extra blood flow, so when they shrink post-orgasm, the size difference could be a bit of a shock, but it’s nothing to worry about.

Tears and sneezing

It’s not just hay fever that can leave us sneezing, apparently orgasms can too.

Known as post-orgasmic sneezing, Dr Maiti says this occurs because the sneeze reflex and orgasm response both involve the autonomic nervous system, which controls involuntary reactions.

He explains: ‘For some people, orgasm overstimulates this system, triggering a crossed signal to the nerve in your head responsible for sending signals to your face, which can result in sneezing.’

Crying post sex is also common and totally normal. According to the healthcare professional, this happens because of the surge in oxytocin and prolactin – the hormones that regulate our emotions.

‘This can create an overwhelming sense of release, joy, or even sadness,’ he adds. ‘Some people cry due to emotional intensity rather than sadness, it’s the body’s way of processing an intense experience.’

Listen, it’s your orgasm and you cry if you want to.

Do you have a story to share?

Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@Metro.co.uk.

It was 2014 and my guitarist James Wiseman and I went over to my Nanny Bennett’s, to play her some music.

Standing in front of her, by her bed, for the first time in a very long time, we saw her smile.

Nanny Bennett was my dad’s mum and she had been living with vascular dementia. Her disease had taken away her ability to move or talk, so we were overwhelmed with happiness to see her smile.

She had always been a big lover of music and very supportive of mine, and just then, I knew that against all odds, she remembered and felt happy.

Two years before this, I had lost my Nanny Martin, from my mum’s side, from vascular dementia. Dementia became a huge part of my family’s life and the devastation from it is staggering.

Nanny Martin was an amazing Nan – she was kind and strong. She brought up my Mum and her four brothers – five kids overall. She was the helm of the household while my grandad worked, and then went back to work herself. She was a chatty, kind and beautiful woman who wore lovely outfits and I still wear her shoes now.

In 2003 when I was 12, I spent a month living with my grandparents while I was doing a show at the London Palladium and we had such a special time together. I remember baking with her – she loved making bread and butter pudding, apple pies and she would always have choc ices in the freezer for me.

We would move from the kitchen to the living room, dancing, and she would ask me to ‘do a little twirl’ for her.

I would spin around on the rug in the middle of the living room, and we would watch old fashioned western movies under the duvet on the sofa. These were beautiful times that I will never forget.

I used to play with my nan and grandad’s record player and dance around to old records I’d find. They used to do ballroom dancing, and were huge fans of music – my grandad even made an appearance on the TV during my time in Strictly because of that and he said he was the talk of his local golf club!

I was already recording music when I was a teenager, and my entire family was so supportive. But Nanny Martin’s memory was already beginning to go.

We noticed that she also began telling stories that weren’t true, like ones about people cooking downstairs – but they were living in a bungalow.

By the time I turned 18, I released my first single Mama Do, but unfortunately Nanny Martin already had dementia quite badly by then. She always cheered me on coming to all my early shows before she had dementia so I think she would have loved joining in on the antics once I started releasing my own music.

The thing that we weren’t prepared for was to see how her personality completely changed and turn to the opposite of her character.

It was hard to adjust, but as a family, we pulled together and were there for her and my grandad, who was very strong for her. It was important we enjoyed the little moments that we had while she was still with us. Nanny Martin passed away peacefully in 2014.

At first, I didn’t know what to do with all the memories but my sister Charlie, our mum and I talked through them all and I wrote them into a song with my songwriter friends Jerry and Andrew called Cry and Smile for my third album.

During this time, my Nanny Bennett was dealing with dementia also. She was a huge fan of the Beatles, and she always had Capital Gold radio station playing in her house.

I remember playing her my first singles and getting her opinion while we had tea and biscuits from tins at her house. She loved listening to all of the songs I released for my first album and her favourite was Cry Me Out.

She was a strong and opinionated woman, always fighting for justice and loved her family fiercely.

That’s why years later, my guitarist James and I went over to Nanny Bennett’s to play her some music.

I knew about the effect music has on people with dementia, and studies have shown that music therapy can help reignite memories or create connections with people living with the condition.

But I didn’t expect such a strong reaction, and I’m glad it resonated so much.

We watched her change just like my Nanny Martin and she kept going back to thinking Dad and his siblings were young again and also an opposite change in her character. It was devastating to see.

I have since become an ambassador for Alzheimer’s Research UK – losing two of my nans to dementia was hard, but it doesn’t mean I can’t help others.

Along with my family, we raised funds doing charity football matches, organised by Uncle Rick from my dad’s side. It was all his idea and it was really brilliant. It gets the whole family together – and even though I don’t have a clue what I’m doing on the pitch – we managed to raise lots for Alzheimer’s Research UK. 

Uncle Rick also ran the London Marathon for Alzheimer’s Research UK, blasting out my nan’s song Everybody’s Talkin’ by Harry Nilsson and we all went along to support, of course. I’ve also dedicated some open mic nights at my local pub that I ran with my best friend Jocee, to help raise more.

It’s a really heartbreaking thing to go through, and dementia affects nearly one million people in the UK right now, which is a lot.

It’s an important cause, and if there’s anything we can do to bring that number down we have to as it’s something we will all experience in some way or another.

Without that sounding cliché, seeing family members face dementia gives you a new perspective on life. You realise just how important time is, and that life is so short.

I think making memories with family is the most important thing you can do in life. A love like that lasts forever.

Remember, that every moment counts and means so much and leaves a lasting impact. The best thing we have in life is each other and family, so you want to hold on to that with all you can.

As told to Sharan Dhaliwal and Nicole Vassell

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

Estelle Keeber never used to exercise. ‘I was the type of person who’d drive to the shop around the corner,’ she admits.

But then, five years ago, everything changed. Not just for Estelle, but for hundreds of thousands of people across the UK who discovered the joy – and literal escape – of walking as the world became engulfed by the deadly covid-19 pandemic.

In the months after lockdown started, exercise app Go Jauntly reported an 80% surge in membership, while government figures from the fateful summer of 2020 discovered 39% of people said they were walking more than before the pandemic struck. 

And while banana bread and Houseparty may have had their moment, the nation’s walking obsession is still going strong, with the hashtag #walking used on over 30.5 million posts on Instagram and more than 830 million Google search results for local walking groups. Research from the walking organisation Ramblers UK, suggests it has experienced a larger boom in the last five years than 80 other sports when it comes to UK participation.

For Estelle, it offered a sense of freedom – in many ways.

‘When we went into lockdown and the opportunity to get out in nature was limited, I suddenly started to crave it,’ she tells Metro. ‘I started doing Couch to 5k but got injured and the impact of running wasn’t an option – so I started walking.’

However, Estelle soon discovered that soaking up nature on a basic level wasn’t enough. As she progressed from local walks to long hikes on her own, she used it as an opportunity to embrace the naturist lifestyle. 

‘I had never even considered it before, but I’ve always been comfortable in my own skin,’ explains Estelle, who runs social media company Immortal Monkey. ‘When I was walking I felt hugely connected with nature and it occurred to me that the connection could feel more complete if I was able to feel nature against my skin more.

‘We’re so used to feeling the breeze on our faces or hands but there’s a deeper connection when it’s on all of your skin.’

To learn more about the naturist community, Estelle booked herself into a nudist spa – and has never looked back. 

‘I’m now working with British Naturism and am organising a naked ramble with them,’ she adds. ‘I’m a naturist and there’s a difference between that and nudism. 

‘Nudists like being naked and naturists enjoy the connection with nature without being clothed. There’s a park in Nottingham which is a naturist park where people can walk unclothed. 

‘The signs say clothing is optional so it’s a great way for naturists to interact with clothed people. It’s not illegal to be nude in this country but it is to cause distress if you’re naked so there’s a fine line which is why parks like the one in Nottingham are so important.’

For Estelle, her discovery of walking has been truly life-changing. ‘I would never have believed I’d become a naturist and a hiker when we went into lockdown but I get so much from both aspects of my life.’

27-year-old Joel Moore isn’t surprised people stayed in love with walking even when lockdown ended. He founded the walking group Common Ground during the pandemic, which is still going strong.

‘Walking is a fantastic way to move through the landscape,’ the civil engineer tells Metro. ‘I’ve always hiked and started the group with a couple of other walkers I met online in lockdown. Since then we’ve got thousands of people walking and joining our treks and groups online. We get people coming on our walks then branching off and starting their own groups with people they met through us. 

‘We’ve got some lovely groups of mates who found one another at a Common Ground walk who have since gone on walking holidays together. It’s brilliant and exactly what we set the group up for.’

Hannah Da Silva also started her hiking group at the height of the pandemic and says she had no idea it would be so big. ‘It was about finding like-minded girls to hike with as a lot of people took it up during the pandemic as a way to stay mindful,’ the Londoner tells Metro.

‘I noticed a large lack of female representation within the outdoors and tech space online. 

‘GorpGirls was born as an Instagram page but has branched out, so women have been able to make new friends via hiking, feel more socially confident and have a new sense of freedom in a space historically dominated by males.’

Meanwhile, influencer Amina saw her following explode during lockdown and now has more than 200,000 people following her Instagram account @adventureswithamina. 

Having moved to Scotland in 2019, Somali-born Amina tackled the West Highland Way, a 96-mile hike from Milngavie to Fort William, during lockdown. ‘I come from a strong nomadic culture so you can say wandering it quite literally in my blood,’ the 27-year-old tells Metro. 

‘My love for hiking began when I moved to Scotland and since then I promised myself that no matter what I would do a long-distance walk in the UK every year. 

‘I feel super grateful for the life I get to live. Being outdoors makes me feel alive. It’s where I feel most connected, most at peace and the most reassured. 

‘It’s hard to feel anxious or uncertain when you see how everything from the birds in the sky to the fish in the sea are tenderly cared for,’ adds Amina. 

Several studies back up her statement, with walking continually promoted as a way to improve mental health by experts. Research from the Mental Health Foundation says a short burst of 10 minutes of brisk walking increases our mental alertness, energy and positive mood, while a link has also been discovered in terms of better sleep, memory and cognitive function. It’s even believed to reduce the risk of several conditions including Alzheimer’s and Dementia.

But it’s not just adults that have been part of the walking boom. Since 2020, the Duke of Edinburgh Award scheme – a youth achievement programme which has an expedition section ranging in distance from 19 to 57 miles – has seen an increase in participants. 545,910 young people are actively doing their DofE award currently, numbers went up 10% in the pandemic and have continued to climb with a 30% participation since.

With almost three-quarters of the UK population now saying they walk at least once a week, Joel says if you’re considering it, don’t overthink it.

‘We learn to walk as babies and it’s that simple,’ he says. 

‘Don’t plan epic routes to begin with or focus on distances, just put on whatever footwear feels comfortable and walk to the coffee shop, get a coffee and walk back. Or take a circular route around somewhere you know. 

‘Walking is about getting out into the fresh air and slowing down. Work and life is busy for a lot of people. I use walking in part as a mindfulness to just slow down and focus on the weather, the sky, and bird song. It can be really relaxing.’

If what you’re about to read doesn’t make you reach for your Stanley cup, we don’t know what will.

It turns out that nearly two thirds of us don’t drink enough water and all that tea and beer we’re drinking isn’t helping. In fact, it’s doing the opposite.

Worse still, one in three people go without drinking any water at all throughout the day, and nearly half have no clue how much they should be drinking.

But what does that mean for your health? And how much does it actually affect your mental clarity?

Metro spoke to a GP to find out.

What does dehydration do to your body and what are the main symptoms?

Dr Nadira Awal explains that while thirst might be the most obvious hint that you need to up your water game – by the time you’re there, you’re already likely experiencing a low level of dehydration.

For these reasons, it’s ‘best to drink water throughout the day, rather than waiting until you’re thirsty,’ she shares.

Then there’s the headaches, which are another early sign of dehydration.

When the body lacks fluids, blood volume falls, which as Dr Nadira outlines, results in ‘diminished blood flow to the brain’ – and naturally, the best tonic for this is a little bit of Adam’s ale. Who’d have thought?

It’s bad news on the beauty front: dehydration can dry your lips out – beyond anything a bit of lip balm can solve. Plus, there’s the obvious issue of having a dry mouth.

‘As the body dehydrates, saliva production diminishes, causing the mouth to feel dry or sticky. Lips may also become dry and chapped,’ Dr Nadira adds.

‘When the body is not adequately hydrated, the skin may feel less plump and flexible. The skin turgor test is a basic test in which you gently pinch and release the skin on the back of your hand. If the skin doesn’t soon return to its usual position and instead appears “tented,” it may be an indication of dehydration.’

Elsewhere, it can also impact your energy levels – and as Dr Nadira explains, fatigue is a common sign of dehydration, but it’s sometimes missed.

When the body is dehydrated, it needs to work harder to ‘execute routine processes, which can cause fatigue and a lack of energy,’ she adds. So, if you’re feeling exhausted and you can’t put it down to a lack of sleep (or even too much exercise), it could simply be a lack of aqua.

And when dehydration levels up and becomes more extreme, so do the symptoms, which might include a faster heartbeat and heavier breathing as the body ‘attempts to compensate for decreased blood volume,’ as well as confusion or irritation, which stem from the brain’s deprivation of water.

‘In extreme circumstances, fainting may result from a drop in blood pressure,’ Dr Nadira advises.

‘When these symptoms appear, it is critical to treat dehydration at once. In most circumstances, increasing fluid intake will treat mild to moderate dehydration.

‘However, in severe situations or susceptible populations such as small children or the elderly, medical intervention may be required.’

How much water do you actually need to drink in a day?

It’s an age-old question. The amount of water you need to drink actually depends on multiple factors, including age, gender, activity levels, climate, and the overall state of your health.

Dr Nadira advises that the typical adult male should be drinking roughly 13 cups or 3 litres of water each day, while the recommendation for adult women is substantially lower at 9 cups (or 2.2 litres).

During pregnancy, a person’s water requirements also increase to support the growth of the baby, increasing to 10 cups (which equates to 2.3 litres) each day.

‘This heightened demand persists after, particularly among lactating women. Lactating women should aim for about 13 cups (3 litres) of water each day to support milk production and keep themselves hydrated,’ Dr Nadira adds.

And if you’re sick, if it’s a particularly hot day, or if you’ve been exercising, your requirements ‘dramatically’ increase. During illness, the exact amount will vary depending on how long you’re down for, but you should generally ‘strive to drink enough to maintain urine pale and avoid thirst.’

Whether you’ve been packing in the miles on the treadmill, lifting weights or running an ultramarathon, Dr Nadira’s rules state that during any form of exercise, you should drink one cup of water for every 15-20 minutes of activity.

You should continue to hydrate yourself after you’ve finished your workout too, to replenish all the liquids you’ve lost while sweating.

‘It’s worth noting that, while these guidelines provide a general framework, the best indicator of appropriate hydration is frequently listening to your body’s cues and examining the colour of your urine. Thirst is a reliable indicator that your body requires more fluids, while pale yellow urine typically suggests enough hydration,’ Dr Nadira further advises.

Do other drinks besides water count towards your daily liquid intake?

Yes – all kinds of beverages count towards your daily liquid intake, including tea, squash (without excessive sugar), coffee, milk and even some soups – but naturally, water is the most hydrating option.

However, Dr Nadira adds that drinks like caffeine can actually have a mild ‘diuretic effect’ – which means that you might be popping to the loo more often.

‘Still, for most people, these drinks still contribute to hydration in a net-positive way. Just be mindful of added sugars if you’re looking for a healthier option,’ she concludes.

‘Keep in mind that alcohol is the only fluid to be dehydrating in healthy individuals with full gut function.’

So, if you’re getting a few pints in at the pub with your pals, you might want to intersperse them (or zebra stripe) with some trusty old H20 to save an even worse headache the next morning.

Do you have a story to share?

Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@Metro.co.uk.

I was 21 and doing some work at university in Liverpool when I passed out on the floor. My friends called paramedics. When I woke up, I had no idea what had happened.

That was my first experience of having an epileptic seizure. 

I wasn’t diagnosed with epilepsy until I had a second seizure a few months later. I wasn’t born with it and I don’t have a family history, so receiving that diagnosis in my early twenties was shocking. It completely changed my life.

I came away from my first neurologist’s appointment with more questions than answers. The only two things they could tell me were that my seizures were focal (so they started in one part of my brain and then spread) and that I had some kind of photosensitivity: my seizures are caused by blue light from screens.

My neurologist started me on a drug called Lamotrigine, which I had to increase week on week to build up to a target dose. I ended up having more seizures during this time, injuring myself and getting concussions, all while trying to stay on at university, do the work and keep my head above water. 

I found myself getting angry and impatient, so I went back to the neurologist. He put me onto a much more aggressive medication, called levetiracetam.

Through the work I’ve since done with charity Epilepsy Action, I’ve learnt more about levetiracetam. It can be a really effective epilepsy medication as it stops seizures, but the side effects can be really extreme.

In my case, levetiracetam took me to a really, really low place mentally. I didn’t want to be awake or speak to anyone; dealing with the world was just too much.

And when I was conscious, I had violent mood swings, going from very happy to very, very sad, crying and all the rest of it. I punched a hole through a door in frustration. I developed a tick. The effects of levetiracetam completely changed my personality. 

Eventually, I decided I’d rather have epileptic seizures than continue on as this completely different person. I not only chose to stop the levetiracetam but to stop taking any epilepsy medication at all – my plan was just to try and not look at screens.

The levetiracetam side effects gradually faded, and I wasn’t having seizures. Yet when I went back to my next neurology appointment, my consultant made it clear that the seizure risk was still there and I needed to be on something to prevent me seizing and hurting myself again.

For Sarah

Last year, on March 10, we lost our beloved colleague Sarah Whiteley. Sarah was a fantastic journalist; she was Metro’s parenting columnist and a valued member of our first-person and opinion desk.

Sarah died aged 39 from SUDEP - sudden unexpected death in epilepsy. It is thought that every year around 1,000 people die from causes related to epilepsy.

With support from Sarah’s family, Metro is fundraising for two very important charities: SUDEP Action and Epilepsy Action.

From March 10 to March 26, which marks Purple Day (epilepsy awareness day), we will be running a series of features and first-person pieces, raising awareness of epilepsy and SUDEP.

Sarah was so incredible at helping other people share their experiences; she was a born storyteller and we hope to do her proud with this series, while raising money in her memory.

Finding the right medication can be frustrating with any condition, but particularly with epilepsy. There is no one-size-fits-all drug or dose and levetiracetam is not the only anti-seizure medication that has side effects.

Then one drug may stop working for whatever reason so it can be a case of taking additional drugs while phasing the old one out. It can be very tempting to think that it’s not worth taking anything and not wanting to interact with the doctors, just as I did. 

Yet side effects aside, medication is the most important factor for controlling seizures. Getting on top of it is the number one priority for anyone with epilepsy, and neurologists would say as much.

Ultimately, mine is a success story. Medication has now more or less helped to control my condition.

My neurologist put me back onto Lamotrigine and this time round I was more patient: I waited while my dose increased. By the time I reached my target amount, the drug really helped to control my seizures and I could finally start getting my life back on track. 

The main battle for me has been to try and regain a bit of my old self-confidence, my self-esteem. I’ve always prided myself on being quite resilient and I derive a lot of self-worth from knowing that I can crack on and be responsible for myself. 

For a long time I found it difficult to be treated as somebody with a disability, treated with kid gloves, having people pander to me. I’m very lucky to have that support network but at the same time I didn’t feel like quite myself. 

For me, the key has been finding the things that fulfil me and make me feel like I’m a little bit in charge. I was able to go back and finish university, and I am now training to be a teacher. I’ve also got back into sport; I used to play rugby to a reasonable standard and thought epilepsy would be the end of that, but I’m playing again. 

Helping others has also been instrumental. I started a charity in Liverpool called The Merseyside Collective, which facilitates sports events like football tournaments and five-a-side matches to help the mental and physical health of residents in the area. Our proceeds go towards sponsoring local urban regeneration and re-greening projects in Liverpool.

I help out with Epilepsy Action too, interacting with other people in support groups, especially men. Men’s mental health is so important anyway, and as much as I try to be responsible for myself, you have to be able to talk about what you’re going through, especially when it comes to epilepsy. 

Men are reticent about talking but being very honest is really, really important. If I need extra support or provision, I don’t let myself feel ashamed of it. I ask for what I need and take up space. 

Employers are getting increasingly better at accommodating epilepsy although I still have coping mechanisms of my own. Often I’ll jump in my bed and use my non-backlit tablet to read or work; I use blue light glasses to read off a screen and I take breaks every 20 minutes. At work, I try to let people know if something might affect how fast I can get things done, but that’s just the way it is. 

The period I spent trying to get my epilepsy medication right was one of the darkest of my life. At one point I felt like my neurologists didn’t seem to know anything because there was nothing they could tell me, no new information they could offer. Getting medication sorted takes time but my condition is now more or less under control because of it. 

I am not completely back to how I once was. I’ll never be able to do certain things – including joining the military, which had previously been my goal – and I do have to be very, very mindful of my lifestyle: I treat sleep like a second medication, it’s just so essential for me. But I am now two-years seizure free and able to drive again, which is a huge hurdle for lots of young people with epilepsy.

You can live a really full life with epilepsy, you just have to trust the process. There is light at the end of the tunnel.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

When dealing with headaches, fevers, muscle pain or cramps, many people immediately reach for painkillers. 

These easily available medications can help alleviate discomfort, but knowing which ones to choose can be tricky. And let’s be honest, most of us will use up whatever is at the bottom of our work bag.

Paracetamol, aspirin and ibuprofen are among the most widely used. While they are all effective for pain relief, they each work in a slightly different way and ideally, tackling different symptoms.

And despite their widespread availability, each of these painkillers has specific safety considerations. Not all are suitable for children, and individuals with underlying health conditions should exercise caution when using them.

To help you reach for the right medication, Metro has consulted health experts to explain how each painkiller works and which one you should be taking.

Paracetamol 

Paracetamol is one of the most commonly used painkillers available over the counter. It’s typically used to treat general aches, headaches, fevers and mild pain. 

It usually takes 30 minutes to start working, and its effects last for around six hours. The typical adult dose is one or two 500mg tablets, with a maximum of eight tablets in 24 hours. For children, it’s often administered in liquid form (such as Calpol), but it should not be given to babies younger than two months unless prescribed by a doctor.

Dr Suzanne Wylie, GP and medical adviser for IQdoctor tells Metro: ‘Paracetamol works primarily as a pain reliever (analgesic) and fever reducer. It does not have significant anti-inflammatory properties, making it a suitable option for general pain relief, such as headaches, mild to moderate muscle aches and fevers associated with colds and flu.

‘It is generally tolerated and can be taken by most people, including pregnant women and children.’

However, she says it’s ‘essential’ to stay within the recommended dose. ‘Taking more than the advised amount can lead to serious health complications such as liver failure.’

Ibuprofen

Ibuprofen is a type of nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drug (NSAID) that works by reducing hormones that cause pain and inflammation in the body.

It’s commonly used for conditions like back pain, muscle strains, period pain, and even cold and flu symptoms.

Ibuprofen typically takes around 20 to 30 minutes to work when taken orally, with its effects lasting around eight hours.

It’s available in various forms, including tablets, capsules, and gels that you rub into your skin. It should not be taken for more than 10 days in a row or on an empty stomach. While ibuprofen is generally safe for those aged 17 and over, it is not suitable for everyone.

According to the NHS website, ibuprofen should not be taken by mouth or applied to the skin if you are pregnant or have ever had an allergic reaction or symptoms like wheezing, a runny nose, or skin reactions after taking aspirin, ibuprofen, or other NSAIDs.

Dr Wylie adds: ‘Ibuprofen should be avoided by people with stomach ulcers, kidney disease, or heart conditions, as it can increase the risk of gastrointestinal bleeding and cardiovascular issues.’

Aspirin 

Aspirin is another type of NSAID with anti-inflammatory properties. It is often used to relieve mild to moderate pain, reduce inflammation, and lower fever. 

It typically takes around 20 to 30 minutes to take effect, with its effects lasting approximately four to six hours. 

While aspirin can be used for general pain relief, Dr Wylie notes: ‘It is particularly beneficial in inflammatory conditions such as arthritis and can also help prevent blood clots.’

It is also commonly prescribed in low doses to reduce the risk of heart attacks and strokes.

Dr Wylie says: ‘Aspirin should be avoided by children under 16 due to the risk of Reye’s syndrome, and it is not suitable for those with a history of stomach ulcers, bleeding disorders, or aspirin allergies. The usual dose for pain relief is between 300mg and 900mg every 4 to 6 hours, with a maximum of 4g per day.’

She adds: ‘NSAIDs like ibuprofen and aspirin should be taken with food to minimise stomach irritation.’

What type of pain relief should I buy?

When choosing a painkiller, Dr Claire Merrifield, GP and medical director at Selph advises opting for non-branded versions, 

She says: ‘The active ingredient of ibuprofen or paracetamol is the same regardless so cheap, non-branded versions are just as effective. You’re only paying for the marketing.’

She also notes that while paracetamol and ibuprofen can be safely taken together, ibuprofen should not be combined with other NSAIDs like aspirin. 

Additionally, caution is needed with co-formulated medications such as co-codamol or co-dydramol. ‘These contain paracetamol, so be careful of taking more paracetamol on top,’ she explains.

For those using ibuprofen, she highlights the importance of taking it with food to minimise stomach irritation. Long-term use of NSAIDs for issues like headaches should also be avoided due to the risk of side effects such as stomach inflammation and ulceration.

Dr Wylie adds: ‘While painkillers are an effective way to manage pain, it’s essential to use them responsibly. If symptoms persist, consult a healthcare professional before continuing use.’

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When it comes to living a healthy, happy life, it’s safe to say that Scandinavia has it pretty well figured out.

First came hygge, a Danish concept that, according to the country’s tourist board, denotes ‘creating a warm atmosphere and enjoying the good things in life with good people.’ And now, it’s all about the Norwegian art of Dugnadsånd.

Coined by the founder of the world’s first Happiness Research Institute Meik Wiking, the concept is all about ‘community or volunteer spirit,’ defining it as ‘the collective willingness of people to come together in the context of community projects – emphasising cooperation and selflessness.’

And, considering that Norway currently ranks in seventh place on The World Happiness Report (while its Scandinavian siblings Denmark and Sweden sit in second and fourth place respectively), it’s probably worth taking a leaf or two out of their book.

In 2024, 32.9% of Norway’s population spent time volunteering, while in the UK, just shy of 31.1% of people did the same. So, clearly we’re doing it – but what meaning does it hold for our mental wellbeing?

As Dr Elena Touroni, a consultant psychologist and co-founder of The Chelsea Psychology Clinic tells Metro, volunteering can foster a ‘sense of purpose and belonging,’ both of which are crucial for mental wellbeing.

‘When we help others, we experience a natural boost in mood, often due to the release of feel-good hormones like oxytocin and dopamine,’ Dr Elena explains.

‘It can also reduce stress, combat loneliness and create a sense of achievement, all of which are protective factors against anxiety and depression.’

Along these lines, she notes that humans are ‘inherently social,’ and ‘feeling connected to a community gives us a sense of identity and support.’

‘It can make challenges feel more manageable, increase resilience and even improve physical health by lowering stress levels,’ she adds.

‘In a world where loneliness is on the rise, having a strong sense of community can be one of the most powerful buffers against mental health struggles.’

Dr Kathrine McAleese, 47, runs the soup club in her village in County Down, Northern Ireland, providing three homemade soups every Wednesday lunchtime – as well as bread rolls, coffee and tea – for free.

Where Kathrine lives, which is ‘far from civilisation in a village on the east coast of the Ards Peninsula,’ she’s found building connections to be a truly ‘special’ thing.

‘It’s definitely helped me feel more connected and more empowered to contribute to the community,’ she shares.

‘I get to welcome people in, make them feel valued, catch up with their lives and hang out with the helper team who also want to serve others and build community, so on both sides it’s comforting.

‘I also tend to be a bit of a hermit through the winter when the weather is awful, so this gets me out of my shell to look out for others and get a place ready for them that will give them warmth, sustenance and company.‘

Elsewhere, 56-year-old Susan Widlake volunteers at both the Bury St Edmunds and Radwinter Repair Cafes primarily repairing hats – and loves connecting with the local communities over the nostalgic belongings they bring in to be fixed.

‘The conversations which are had when you are repairing an object are wonderful, with folk reminiscing about the object and previous owners,’ Susan, who lives in Saffron Walden, reflects.

‘Personally, I’ve loved hearing about hats that have been up mountains in Nepal, or ones which had been a mum’s “gardening” hat.

‘I love having conversations with people and them saying “oh, you’re the hat lady” or hearing stories from people about “how some clever ladies repaired a worn out teddy bear” and knowing that I was part of the contribution behind it.’

For Susan, one of the best parts is the connections she’s built with other repairers – one of whom even gifted her two hat blocks, the wooden shape that’s used to help craft them.

‘I repaired an old school boater which had belonged to a lady’s son who had passed away far too young, and I’ve actually met some professional costumer designers and seamstresses. It’s amazing just to sit and chat with them,’ she says.

‘What drives me in volunteering is making people smile. I like to have a way to share my skills, and show the beauty of being able to sit, sew and repair something is a great way to escape from the business of everyday life.’

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The GP looked over his glasses, smirked, and then started to laugh.   

‘We may need to name a special little syndrome for you,’ he said. 

It was 2010 and I was once again trying to get someone to pay attention to my symptoms.

By this point, I’d spent years trying to convince myself that the feeling that no one believed me was paranoia. Yet I still went home, laughter ringing in my ears, and internalised it.

Obviously this was my fault. I was hysterical, a hypochondriac, a time waster. But I knew my symptoms were real.

It started in 2001. I was 30, freshly liberated from a relationship and had started a new job. Frankly, I was exhausted.

That’s no exaggeration, I felt hammered by fatigue and was living on caffeine and adrenaline, constantly collapsing on the sofa once home from work. And then the ghostly symptoms started.

Weird from the outset, even supernatural at times, it felt like someone was grabbing my left wrist and ankle. Sometimes I had numb patches, the feeling of a feather tickling my face, or ants on my skin. I limped sometimes but not others. 

I felt ridiculous saying it out loud. It was like I needed an exorcist rather than a doctor.

Still, I was dispatched to a neurologist who conducted a raft of tests, sending me for an MRI scan of my head. He then suggested that this could be multiple sclerosis (MS) – a chronic disease that affects the central nervous system – which sent my stomach lurching. 

As a hospital-based nurse, my experience of MS was seeing patients who had an advanced version of the disease. Normally they were confined to beds or wheelchairs – I didn’t understand then that the disease can present in many different ways. 

However, an MRI (which is typically used to see if there is damage to the nerves in your brain or spinal cord), came back clear and I was discharged with no suggestions about what might be happening. 

I self-diagnosed a stress reaction, which made sense. But the symptoms persisted on and off for months, in fact, years. 

For the next 19 years my health waxed and waned. I had a merry-go-round of seeing GPs, neurologists, being scanned repeatedly and always told that there was nothing wrong with me. 

Sometimes, if I saw someone new, doctors looked at me like I was being ridiculous when I told them my symptoms. Or, like on that one occasion in 2010, I was actually laughed out of the GP surgery.

One time, I went temporarily blind in my left eye and was told it was likely to be MS. But I was once again dismissed when the brain scan was clear.

Even after I received a clinic letter saying that the consultant was ‘utterly convinced’ that I had MS, a further brain scan led to the same punchline. 

I felt isolated and frustrated, as did my partner. 

While he was as patient and supportive as he could be, he didn’t understand why I was having these symptoms – always tired, always cancelling things – and neither did I.  

A family member once suggested that the obvious answer was that it was ‘all in my head’. Funnily enough, in a way, they were right.

In 2020 I had a relapse – where new symptoms arrive or old ones get worse –  that was so catastrophic it left me with a numb left side, limping, falling asleep in unexpected places and feeling constantly queasy until eventually I landed in casualty.

Another MRI scan (I’d lost count of the number I’d had by then) was ordered, only this time, it showed that my brain was peppered with scarring where MS had damaged my brain and spine. 

In all likelihood, I’d had MS this whole time but the scarring before this major attack had always been minor and therefore didn’t show up on tests. Now though, the damage was pronounced and dramatic making it impossible to miss. 

Finally I had the diagnosis I’d been searching for, for 19 years.

You’d think, after all that time I’d be ready for it. Yet, in spite of the multiple times I’d been told I might have MS, it came as a huge shock and left me feeling unmoored and afraid for the future.

Oddly, I also felt relieved and validated. Everything made sense.

I saw a psychologist to help me adjust, a specialist nurse to talk through treatments, and a dedicated MS consultant. They were all empathetic about the delay to diagnosis and offered me help to find ways to stay in work.

With their recognition and support, I carried on working as a palliative care specialist nurse for another three years – though I did eventually have to retire on health grounds due to severe fatigue (a common MS symptom).

Sadly, as I well knew, there is no cure for MS. But I’m now on monthly injections to try to stop it damaging my nervous system further. Even then though, I still have constant nerve pain, chronic fatigue, and areas of numbness.

My life has irrevocably changed since the diagnosis. Where I used to go to the theatre twice a week or spend hours walking my dog around London, I now spend much more time at home. Luckily, I’ve found pleasure in reading and watching films.

On the days when my symptoms are less, I embrace them wholeheartedly, making the most of that time to do things I otherwise can’t now. As a result, we are planning on swapping the hectic whirl of the capital for a slower pace of life on the South Coast.

Mainly, I wish there hadn’t been 19 years of the merry go round of ‘does he/doesn’t he’ have MS. 

Having a diagnosis wouldn’t have changed what medical treatment I had because the MS wasn’t bad enough then to need medication, but it would have helped me feel validated.

Maybe then I wouldn’t have spent almost two decades feeling like I was being dismissed and labelled as being hysterical or making it all up. Perhaps I wouldn’t have been left to cope alone each time the MRI scans were clear.

Whether the scans were or weren’t showing MS, I was struggling and deserved support and understanding.

I know my story is not the only one like this: many people frequently have neurological symptoms without a diagnosis and are often dismissed.  

But people with functional symptoms (symptoms with no obvious physical cause) need and deserve as much help as anyone else – we just don’t always get it. I’d like to see that change. 

In the meantime, I’ve channelled my anger and frustration into writing.  

I’ve always written and am a crime fiction fan so decided to write about a woman with neurological issues and the chaos that ensues when she’s drawn into a murder plot. This lead character is discredited, disrespected and coping alone. Sound familiar? 

Mainly, the catharsis from expressing my feeling of alienation, fear and rage on the page has been intense, but finally my ‘special little syndrome’ has found a home on paper and I feel seen. 

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

David Beckham, Wayne Rooney, Andrew Garfield, Matt Damon, Gordon Ramsay. What do they have in common? They’re among the long list of A-list men who’ve reportedly had hair transplants to combat a receding hairline or baldness.

Approximately 6.5million men in the UK are currently affected by hair loss, while the most common cause (androgenic alopecia aka male pattern baldness) affects 85% of men by the age of 50.

Consequently, men are forking out thousands — sometimes tens of thousands — on potential remedies, from surgical procedures to LED therapies and specialist shampoos.

In today’s climate, it’s typical for men to be mercilessly mocked for going bald, with neither Prince Harry nor boyband heartthrob Harry Styles safe from the wrath of social media once a photo surfaces of their scalp from an exposing angle.

But what about the men who are more than content just as they are?

Meet Schuggie, who refuses to allow online pressure to knock his confidence. While hair loss can and does cause very valid emotional distress for many, for Schuggie, it’s entirely the opposite.

A 51-year-old cèilidh caller (whose real name is Dougie MacInnes), he’s been bald for over two decades, having first noticed hair loss in his mid-twenties.

‘It didn’t really hit me until my early thirties,’ Schuggie explains. ‘Those were the days before caffeine shampoo, so the only way I found to fight it was medical shampoo at £40 a bottle. I couldn’t keep that up financially.’

Schuggie found it tough being bald, with terms like ‘slaphead’ thrown at him in a derogatory manner.

‘Years back, I went to a wedding, and during one of the dances, someone did actually slap my head,’ he recalls.

‘I remember at the time thinking, just smile, don’t lose the plot, keep going… but it really stuck with me.’

In time, Schuggie become more comfortable in his own skin. The name-calling has died down and he even finds himself laughing at old videos.

And Schuggie, from Inverness, says he has no desire to book himself into a hair loss clinic, despite the number of patients on the rise.

‘It’s not something I’ve ever considered, and I definitely still wouldn’t,’ he declares frankly. ‘From what I’ve seen on Instagram, the process looks rather painful, and there’s a lengthy recovery involved. It’s not for me.’

So while Schuggie’s hairstyling options are limited, and as he admits to being ‘jealous’ of his elderly friends who still boast impressively thick locks, he’s making the best of what he has, growing a beard and wearing funky hats to inject personality into his image.

But hair loss doesn’t just hit men in their forties and fifties, as 25-year-old Rupert Cole will attest to.

A PR professional from North Yorkshire, Rupert became aware he was losing hair at just 16.

Convinced he could stop his hair from disappearing, Rupert fought it with whatever he could get his hands on, with solutions including sprays and the medications minoxidil and finasteride.

‘I was prepared that it might happen at some point, because a lot of my family members are bald, but I didn’t expect it to happen while I was in school,’ he says. ‘It’s a tough thing for a teenager to go through.’

He eventually realised that seeking treatment in the form of cans and bottles was simply ‘delaying the inevitable’ and keeping him in the ‘awkward balding stage’. It was this that created momentum for Rupert to shave his head at 20.

‘For the first few days of being bald, I wasn’t a huge fan of it, but when I grew out my beard more, I quickly realised that I actually preferred the way I looked without hair.’

He adds that simply accepting how he looks makes him feel ‘more confident’, citing Jason Statham and Patrick Stewart as positive bald role models and declaring: ‘I wouldn’t go back, even if I could.’

‘I feel more attractive,’ he says proudly, desperate for society to catch up and stop deeming baldness as an inherently bad thing.

‘There’s a preconception that baldness is a failure of masculinity in young men because they don’t have a healthy head of hair, while bald men are often supportive towards one another.

‘I was the first of my friends to start balding, but I’m definitely not the only one now, and all of us wish we’d shaved it earlier and not been so worried.

‘At the end of the day, it’s going to go one way or another, and you’ll feel more confident if you embrace it, rather than letting it take over you slowly.’

Hair transplants are a big business. In Istanbul alone, baldness tourism is huge — up to 500 procedures are performed each week, and an estimated £1.5billion was spent on hair transplants in Turkey last year.

On why 400,000 men (making up 90% of these international patients) are undergoing the extensive treatment in the name of hair regrowth, aesthetician Ed Robinson weighs in.

The NHS doctor, who has his own Harley Street clinic, explains that a full head of hair is typically linked with success and confidence, with social media becoming a breeding ground for appearance-related insecurities.

‘Hair loss can affect people quite deeply,’ he begins. ‘My patients frequently admit to declining social invitations, avoiding having photos taken, and getting their hair wet out of fear of exposing its thinness or being ridiculed.’

Dr Ed has performed treatments for both high-profile patients and everyday folk but doesn’t believe a transplant is essential for rebuilding your self-esteem when balding.

‘Ultimately, self-acceptance of how you look is always the safest way in aesthetics. It doesn’t involve you having to have any medications, injections, or non-surgical or surgical procedures.’

Something that’s helped with this, no doubt, is high-profile figures embracing their own baldness and setting a positive example, whether it be Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson, Stanley Tucci, or Prince William, the latter of whom was crowned the world’s sexiest bald man.

Take Pitbull as another example, whose fans actually buy bald caps and don black shades to recreate his look while attending his concerts in their thousands.

However, it’s important to remember that hair loss is a personal experience, something stressed by Brian Gross, who states that ‘every person has to tackle it however is best for them’.

Brian began losing his hair right after his first year of college. Hair loss is ‘ridiculously common’ in his family, meaning it wasn’t a shock, so Brian has been on a self-acceptance train for a long time.

‘I actually had a mullet in high school, but we all knew I was going to lose it, and my friends and I always made fun of each other,’ shares the 49-year-old. ‘When it started to happen, it wasn’t such a big deal to me.’

Brian, a publicist from California, first reached for the clippers in his early twenties and has been shaving ever since: ‘I’m fortunate enough to have a nice, clean-shaped head!’

The thought of a hair transplant isn’t something he’d entertain, especially after visiting Istanbul and witnessing men across the Grand Bazaar market walk around post-surgery, bandaged up. ‘It’s totally the norm there.’

‘I just had to accept that it was going to be this way,’ Brian declares. ‘Being bald has zero effect on my personal life now, and I wouldn’t want anyone, including women I date, to have issues with it either.’

As far as romance is concerned, Brian makes it clear from the off what people are getting, as he ‘always shows up to dates with a shaven head’ and ‘rarely’ posts photos of himself wearing hats.

‘I try my best not to hide it, and I make sure the other person knows that. I hear horror stories of men arriving at dates looking nothing like their photos, which is wild to me. What you see is what you get.’

In fact, shaving his head has become a hobby for Brian, who says one of his favourite activities when travelling is visiting barbershops around the world.

‘I love getting my beard trimmed, I use a Pitbull razor a couple of times a week, which feels great on my scalp… If people want to say mean things, I would question them, not myself.

‘Honestly, my life is amazing.’

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I was at university when I had my first seizure.

One day, I went clothes shopping on my own. I was trying on a pair of jeans in the changing rooms at Topman when I collapsed. 

Somebody saw my legs go from underneath the curtain. When I came round, there were around four faces staring at me; I remember thinking one of them was my school PE teacher.

This obviously didn’t make any sense, but things don’t tend to make sense in those first few minutes after a seizure. It’s total confusion.

Somebody asked me if I knew what day it was. I was still completely disoriented, so I just said: ‘Can’t you ask someone else?’.

Gradually, I started to come around properly, and I realised what had happened. I knew it was probably epilepsy – and I was right.

My sister had always had epilepsy, so I’d grown up around it; I knew the signs.

I had no idea, though, that I’d also grown up experiencing the early warning signs – known as an aura – of a seizure myself.

When I was younger, I’d sometimes be lying in bed late at night, and I’d notice that my bedroom door would either suddenly seem huge and very close to me; or it would seem very far away.

I later learned this is known as ‘Alice in Wonderland syndrome’, or AIWS – a brain-related condition that can disrupt how you perceive the world around you – and that, for me, it could have been an early sign of epilepsy.

I wasn’t diagnosed with epilepsy immediately – I had to have MRI scans. While I was waiting for my diagnosis, I had more seizures.

It was always the same – beforehand, I’d feel confused; afterwards, I’d feel confused. After one seizure in public, people were crowding around me and everyone sounded like my best friend from primary school. I hadn’t seen him since then, but that was all I could think about.

After a few weeks, I was diagnosed with Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy.

People tend to assume that epileptic seizures are triggered by flashing lights, but that’s not the case for me. Mine are brought on from tiredness, fatigue and stress.

My diagnosis wasn’t a huge, scary thing for me, because I knew all about it from my sister’s experience. But it was still an adjustment. I was no longer able to drive, in case I had a seizure; and I had to start taking medication. Thankfully, this started working immediately.

For Sarah

Last year, on March 10, we lost our beloved colleague Sarah Whiteley. Sarah was a fantastic journalist; she was Metro’s parenting columnist and a valued member of our first-person and opinion desk.

Sarah died aged 39 from SUDEP - sudden unexpected death in epilepsy. It is thought that every year around 1,000 people die from causes related to epilepsy.

With support from Sarah’s family, Metro is fundraising for two very important charities: SUDEP Action and Epilepsy Action.

From March 10 to March 26, which marks Purple Day (epilepsy awareness day), we will be running a series of features and first-person pieces, raising awareness of epilepsy and SUDEP.

Sarah was so incredible at helping other people share their experiences; she was a born storyteller and we hope to do her proud with this series, while raising money in her memory.

I’ve been very lucky. I was on medication for around six years, and I’m now medication-free. I’m seizure-free, too, currently – I haven’t had a tonic-clonic seizure since university.

But I still have to be very, very careful.

I’m a comedian now – and, while I love what I do, it takes meticulous planning for me to make the most of my career while managing my condition.

I tour a lot, which means an action-packed schedule. And, because my seizures can be triggered by tiredness, I need to make sure I get enough rest. It’s just not worth the risk if I don’t.

Last year, especially, was very intense and busy. I was supporting Michael McIntyre all round the world, and I was on my own tour.

There was one day when I was doing my tour in Scotland. After my show in Glasgow, I got on the sleeper train to London; got in a car, went straight to the airport and flew to Gibraltar to do three shows out there. Then, after the third show, I flew straight home that night.

For the next couple of days, I noticed this feeling creeping in: My body was jerking a little, like when you’re fast asleep and your leg suddenly twitches. I knew I needed to take some downtime, urgently – because this feeling was a warning. Like a tremor before an earthquake.

When I was on tour with Michael, I’d always have to go straight home after shows, or after a flight, and go to sleep.

If I have an early start, I need to make sure I have nothing on the day before. It’s just imperative that I get enough rest.

At first, I didn’t talk about epilepsy in my shows. It never occurred to me that people might want to hear about it.

But after Covid, I just decided to give it a go – and it really resonated with people. After my first show talking about epilepsy, a woman came up to me and said: ‘My son’s got epilepsy; I can’t wait to tell him about you!’.

So many people since then have told me how much it’s meant to them to hear me speaking about my condition.

I’ll tell stories about me – for example, I’ll tell audiences how I had my first seizure during National Epileptic Week, which was fitting! – and stories about my sister. For example, when we were growing up, my two sisters shared a room.

One had epilepsy, and one had a form of OCD that meant she had to flick the lights on and off several times before entering or leaving a room. This resulted in flashing lights, which wasn’t ideal for my other sister’s epilepsy!

I really notice a shift in the audience when I start talking about epilepsy. It’s like the audience is thinking: ‘OK, he’s being honest with us now. We’ve earned his trust.’

These days, I just want to raise awareness. I’ve tried to get documentaries made about it, but I’ve never had any luck.

And we need to raise awareness, because people don’t know enough about it. The assumption from people who don’t have epilepsy is always: ‘You can’t stand flashing lights and you’re going to fall to the floor’. But actually, there are so many ways that epilepsy – and seizures – can manifest.

My nephew has epilepsy, too – last year, he was having seizure after seizure but he couldn’t get any medication because his pharmacy had run out. But no one seemed to be talking about this medication shortage.

I feel like I’m going mad, sometimes, trying to get the word out to people who don’t seem to be interested in what epilepsy actually is and why we need to take it seriously.

But I’m doing my best. I’m working with the charity Young Epilepsy, running a stand-up course to help young people with epilepsy to get into comedy; and I’m working with Epilepsy Action, too, trying to raise awareness.

And I’ll continue talking about epilepsy – in my shows, and to anyone who’ll listen. When I did Live At The Apollo in 2023, the promoter asked if I could do my ‘epilepsy stuff’ in the show.

‘Of course,’ I said – because that’s what I want. I want to help people, as best I can.

As told to Izzie Price

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

A banana massage, an ice bath and an alarm set at precisely 3.50am.

These are just three elements of Ashton Hall’s morning routine, which is so bizarre, it’s left hundreds of thousands of social media users cackling into their Cheerios.

The influencer originally posted the six-hour routine to his 8 million Instagram followers back in February, and at the time of writing, it has amassed over 6 million likes, with viewers declaring it ‘insane’.

One user, Berry Exley, crowned Hall the ‘least productive human on earth’, pointing out: ‘Almost a quarter of your day is getting ready for the day.’

Hall’s caption reads: ‘Day 191 of the morning routine that changed my life 3:50am to 9:30am. Sin lives late at night… if you’re dealing with a weak mind, bad decisions, or lack of productivity, go to sleep early. 

‘Just try 30 days… send this to your partners. It’s time to better.’

After the video was reposted to X by @tipsformenx, many have criticised it as both unrealistic and unproductive, questioning the need for a six-hour-long routine. 

Hall’s day begins at precisely 3:52am, when he films himself staring into a mirror before removing tape from his mouth – a controversial wellness trend which supposedly improves breathing and sleep quality. 

While some claim it helps reduce snoring and mild sleep apnea, there’s little scientific evidence to support it. 

He then brushes his teeth before stepping onto his balcony for a shirtless workout, followed by meditation, journaling, scrolling through social media and dunking his face into icy water. 

At 6am, he finally gets dressed into workout gear – ensuring he wears a Rolex and gold chain – before heading to the gym.

His routine continues with a swim in the pool, showering, rubbing a banana on his face as moisturiser before eating it, and breakfast. 

Once he’s finally dressed, he dunks his head into the ice water again before an online client meeting. The entire routine wraps up at 9:26am.

Throughout the video, a woman, whose face is not shown, can be seen assisting him with his morning errands, including prepping and serving breakfast.

Hall’s lengthy routine left X users baffled, with many questioning how necessary it is. One user declared Hall either ‘the funniest satirical comedian or clinically insane’. 

Another user, @kirawontmiss wrote: ‘Bro woke up at 4 in the morning to spend 6 hours bulls******.’

User @ParralaxWisdom added: ‘Imagine waking up at 3:45am but literally getting nothing done by 9am.’ While another asked: ‘What is even the point of waking up at 4am.’

Other users noted that the times captioned on the screen did not seem to fit with the activated undertaken – for example, he spent under a minute reading at 4:38am, and over four minutes mid-air when diving into the pool between 7:36 and 7:40am. 

And some compared its similarity to the morning routine in American Psycho. ‘This reminds me of Patrick Bateman’s morning routine,’ @grumpymcsneezy wrote. 

The video is just one example of Hall’s intense routines on his Instagram account, where countless clips show him dunking his head into ice water and undertaking intense exercises, including racing cars. 

He’s not the only influencer to undertake such vigorous morning rituals. Based on social media, it seems the days of simply rolling out of bed are long gone. 

The morning routine hashtag has over 4.3million posts on TikTok, with many influencers beginning their days as early as 3am to exercise, journal, cook breakfast and prepare for the day. 

Some schoolchildren have even hopped on the trend, waking up hours before they need to leave for the day and undertaking excessive skincare routines. 

A few of these routines involve the ‘morning shed’, which includes removing or ‘shedding’ skin, hair and self-care products which content creators sleep in the night before.

These products, which include hair masks, mouth tape, nose plugs, eye masks, heatless rollers and chin tape, are supposed to ‘optimise sleep’ and have also been criticised online as ‘excessive’ and ‘unnecessary’.

Do you have a story to share?

Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@Metro.co.uk.

I was lying on my side in a hospital bed when a consultant stood over me and asked: ‘Have you heard of MS?’  

I had indeed – my friend’s mum had it when we were in school.  Unfortunately, after her diagnosis, she’d become withdrawn and in a wheelchair within a year.

‘It’s not always fatal,’ the doctor added, ‘a nurse will come and explain more.’ With that, he turned and left. But the nurse didn’t actually come for three days. 

Fortunately, the girl lying in the bed next to me had overheard. She turned to me and smiled: ‘It’s not that bad, you’ll deal with it.’ 

This was May 2007 and I was still in my early 20s. I just kept thinking to myself that I couldn’t have a brain disease. I was a mum – I didn’t have time.  

The first few symptoms seemed to come out of the blue.  

Earlier that month, as part of our healthy mums’ fitness group, I signed up for an assault course. I was doing a 10 km run in July so I thought this would be good practice – and great fun, too. 

At one point, I crawled under a cargo net, then had to climb a wall. This is when things got weird. 

As I reached the top, I held on to the zip wire and I just froze. I couldn’t do it. 

I’d done this many times before so I didn’t know what the problem was. My best friend caught up and encouraged me, ‘go, go, what are you doing?’ Seeing that I had physically frozen to the spot, she added: ‘Hold on and I’ll push you down.’ 

I ended up finishing the race and didn’t think much of it. But over the next few days, I started getting blurred vision. 

At the time, I was studying a holistic therapies course at my local college and it was a lot of coursework so everyone agreed that, as a mum, I was probably just tired. At the same time, I was tripping over absolutely nothing and getting cuts and bruises from falling all through the house. 

Within a fortnight, I decided to make an appointment to see the doctor. After explaining that I kept losing my balance, he checked my ears and decided to prescribe ear drops because he thought it could be an ear infection that was causing balance issues. 

As days passed, the falls became more frequent so I went back to the GP, but was told to give it time. I lay in bed, head pounding, and the room was spinning. 

On top of that, I couldn’t think about food and I struggled staying upright. It felt like a hangover from hell. Even water made me throw up. 

The spinning continued and got so bad that it made me nauseous. I ended up calling an emergency doctor, who prescribed anti-sickness tablets.  

On one particularly bad day, I put my toddler son, Theo in his pushchair and wobbled down the street clinging on tightly, heading towards the doctor’s office. I staggered in.  

‘I’m really not good,’ I told the GP, ‘I’m going to A&E.’ Once admitted, I slumped in the wheelchair, holding tightly onto the arms as if it would somehow stop the spinning.  

I had an MRI that took about 15 minutes but felt like hours. Immediately afterwards, I spotted a toilet, flung the cubicle door open, and was sick. 

Not long after this, the consultant suggested I might have multiple sclerosis (MS). I was shocked. I was a healthy person – how could this happen?  

Eventually, the MS nurse arrived with leaflets about medication. I just remember being told that the condition gets worse, there’s no cure, and they don’t know why it happens.  

In the meantime, I was put on a steroid drip, which started to work. The spinning stopped and everything felt like it was going to be fine; I could handle this. 

Thankfully, things settled down for a few years once I started medication. I had been plodding along doing weekly injections, but overall leading a happy life. It felt like I had MS under control. 

This continued – even when I had my daughter, Layla, in March 2012. After chatting with my neurologist, I came off my medications. 

But after childbirth, I had a relapse with my MS symptoms – as can often be the case. 

Once home from the hospital, my mum and stepdad came over to see the new baby. At the time, we were having work done on our house, so I tried to keep Theo entertained while making teas for the workmen, feeding guests and breastfeeding Layla. 

I was exhausted. As a result, my eyesight started blurring and I kept dropping things. 

I rang my neurology consultant and was told to stop breastfeeding. I was then initially put on oral steroids and began bottle feeding, but the medication didn’t seem to actually be doing anything. So after a few weeks, I underwent an infusion every 28 days. 

This worked beautifully, so I stayed on this treatment plan for over five years. Unfortunately, then it started wearing off. 

So I made YouTube videos of my daily struggles. I filmed myself in the aftermath of having a fall. I described how much of a struggle cooking and cleaning was and even did some on the way to physio and neurology appointments. 

Essentially, I came out to the world as having MS. 

In December 2018, my annual neurology check-up came around. I was tired, so I slumped into the chair in the specialist’s office as he told me the medication wasn’t working anymore. ’Sadly, there’s nothing else the NHS can do for you.’ 

I was devastated and angry. Then a lifeline came along. 

Haematopoietic Stem Cell Transplantation (HSCT) was something I’d heard of to treat MS, but I found out that AIMS – the Autoimmune and Multiple Sclerosis charity – was giving a presentation just down the road so I decided to go along. 

Essentially – according to the MS Society – it ‘aims to ‘reset’ the immune system to stop it attacking the central nervous system’. I immediately knew I wanted to try it, but the cost was 45,000 Euros (around £38,000 at the time). 

So I started a JustGiving page and began fundraising. Complete strangers saw my social media videos and donated – it was incredible. I managed to raise over £28,000 so I was able to book the treatment in Moscow for July 2019.  

At the clinic, I went through several days of testing to make sure my body was strong enough to cope with chemotherapy. For the procedure, I had various tubes and lines inserted to harvest my stem cells and replaced with healthy ones. 

I was petrified and excited all at the same time.   

In the aftermath, my body felt so weak so I used a walker to move. As my immune system developed, I got stronger.   

After four weeks in Moscow, I headed home to the UK. Throughout it all, people were more supportive than I imagined. 

I’m now living my best life – with no injections or infusions. I sometimes get tired, but doesn’t everyone? I still work as a holistic therapist in my garden and love every minute. I have oxygen and physio every week and I try to eat good food. 

But most importantly, I’m staying positive, being my own advocate, and laughing often. 

At the end of the day, I want to tell people with MS that you should never be ashamed of disability.  

I don’t suffer from MS. I just happen to have it. There’s no guarantee that things won’t change, but I’m going to keep on smiling.  

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

‘I’m not quite ready.’ 

‘Maybe I’ll come to the next game.’ 

Just two of the excuses I made to avoid going to football matches with friends. 

I’ve been a Man Utd fan since I was a boy and always loved going down the road to watch my local team. 

But a few years ago, I couldn’t even think of going to a game – because, due to prostate cancer treatment, I was incontinent. 

I was constantly considering how much queuing there would be on the transport, outside the ground, at the toilet. 

Then, there was the lack of sanitary bins for male incontinence products, which meant I was terrified to go anywhere for months.

I found out I had prostate cancer after breaking my shoulder in 2021. I was 54 at the time. 

My doctor mentioned it would be a good time to do a protein-specific antigen (PSA) blood test because of my age. I know now that I should have had it checked when I was younger as my dad had prostate cancer, but the doctors didn’t know this. A raised PSA level could indicate an issue with the prostate, including prostate cancer. 

The prostate is a small gland located below the bladder and in front of the rectum in men. Its main function is producing seminal fluid, but it also helps regulate urination.

When the results came back with a high PSA level, I underwent further tests and it was a constant battle in my head between remaining positive and thinking I was going to die.  

And it was a massive shock to hear the words ‘I’m sorry, the results are positive; you have prostate cancer’. 

Luckily, the cancer had been caught early and I had treatment options: Radiotherapy or surgery to remove the prostate. I opted for surgery, because my cancer was contained in the prostate.

Having the prostate removed meant the chance of it spreading was really reduced, and it was a quicker process – in and out in a day. I had to recuperate at home, but it was less lengthy than 6-8 months of radiotherapy, which can make you feel very unwell.  

The surgery was successful, but the aftermath was the most difficult part. 

I became incontinent due to the surgery causing unavoidable damage to nerves and muscles that control urination. I had a catheter for a week, and when that was out, I was in unknown territory. 

I got incontinence pads, which need changing at least once or twice a day, and this became a big stress.  

Imagine an open tap. Honestly, nothing can prepare you for the lack of control. I worried constantly: Will I leak? Will I be able to find anywhere to change my pad? 

For the first few months, I didn’t want to go out too far because the incontinence was so bad.  

I got used to the safety of home and, even when I felt like I could go out, I was very reluctant to do so in case of leaks. 

Luckily my wife owns a café about half a mile from our home, so when I did venture out after a month or so, it was only a short walk and I knew I would have somewhere to change.  

I slowly started to gain more confidence, going out for longer walks or even starting to go to a local bar for a drink. But even then it was like a military exercise. I had to estimate how long I was going to be out, how many pads I’d need, and whether there would be somewhere to change them. 

I would never go anywhere that I might have to wait in line or where I knew there wouldn’t be bins for my pads, which meant going to football was definitely out of the question.  

I had phone calls and messages from friends, with invites to games – but I couldn’t accept. Instead, I made excuses. 

I didn’t like lying, but when your head is down, it is hard to pull yourself up. Looking back you realise how easy it is to retreat into yourself. I wanted to stay in the safe place that was home. 

I was terrified of being stuck somewhere without being able to change my pad when I needed to. 

Imagine an open tap. Honestly, nothing can prepare you for the lack of control.

The overriding feeling was one of embarrassment for having to wear a pad and for having to carry my used pads around with me, due to a lack of bins.

When I eventually started being honest with them, my friends, rightfully, would say: ‘You have had major surgery to get rid of cancer, the incontinence is a byproduct of that and it won’t last forever’.   

Of course, they were right – and I knew that. But it remained difficult to get past the embarrassment of walking through a packed room with a used pad in my pocket, looking for somewhere to dispose of it. 

I used to have to take out doggy bags, fill them with my used pads, and pack them in my bag. It’s almost impossible not to feel self-conscious about that. 

And I was just one of the nearly 80% of people who feel anxious about leaving their homes because they don’t know if there will be somewhere to dispose of their incontinence pads.   

Having something as simple as purpose-built bins would have made such a difference for me and, I’m sure, many other men. I would have 100% gone to matches or watched games with my friends at the pub if I’d known there would be a bin.   

That’s why I wanted to share my story as part of the Prostate Cancer UK and phs Group’s Back in the Game campaign, which asks clubs to implement the BOG STANDARD and install male incontinence bins and pads in its toilets, as well as raise awareness of prostate cancer and incontinence, which I wholeheartedly support.  

As a Manchester United fan, it was a big deal for me to see the club becoming the first in the Premier League to do exactly this in November 2024.

I’ve been back to Old Trafford since the bins have been installed, and it just made me think of how many men who can get back in the game now. They can sit in the stands and concentrate on the game, because they know they’re covered. It would have made such a massive difference to me when I was struggling most.  

I really hope other clubs follow suit so that fans dealing with incontinence don’t miss out on match days – but we shouldn’t stop there. We need more incontinence bins in male toilets across the country. Restaurants, pubs, stadiums – everywhere.  

My incontinence is much better these days – I have control over my life again – and the Back in the Game campaign has given me more confidence to talk about the impact of prostate cancer.  

I may never be 100% dry again and I’ve accepted that. But it’s great to know that I can get back in the stands confident my club is looking after me – so I can, finally, get back to the game I love.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing izzie.price@metro.co.uk.

Share your views in the comments below.

Emma Evens was just a child when she had her first seizure, but the 32-year-old admits it took her decades to come to terms with having a condition that few people truly understood.

Not only did she have to get used to never knowing when and if it might strike, but Emma says that dealing with other people’s fear, discrimination and ignorancealso had a huge impact on her.

‘It took me a long time to be comfortable with, even though epilepsy is something I’ve had since I was born,’ Emma tells Metro. ‘I used to have chronic episodes at school, where I would fall unconscious, before my body began to stiffen and then jerk, which can be scary for anyone watching.

‘The seizures got worse as a teenager and happened pretty frequently. I remember when I started secondary school that I was excited to make new friends, but people around me were scared.

‘I felt like I had to behave a certain way because I was seen as the girl that was always on the floor. I desperately wanted to be normal, but I felt so alone.’

For Sarah

Last year, on March 10, we lost our beloved colleague Sarah Whiteley. Sarah was a fantastic journalist; she was Metro’s parenting columnist and a valued member of our first-person and opinion desk.

Sarah died aged 39 from SUDEP - sudden unexpected death in epilepsy. It is thought that every year around 1,000 people die from causes related to epilepsy.

With support from Sarah’s family, Metro is fundraising for two very important charities: SUDEP Action and Epilepsy Action.

From March 10 to March 26, which marks Purple Day (epilepsy awareness day), we will be running a series of features and first-person pieces, raising awareness of epilepsy and SUDEP.

Sarah was so incredible at helping other people share their experiences; she was a born storyteller and we hope to do her proud with this series, while raising money in her memory.

When Emma left school and entered the workplace after college, she recalls that her struggles were far from over. Just months after training as a nursery assistant, she felt forced to resign. 

‘My colleagues and manager took me on thinking they were being inclusive, but then didn’t put enough measures in place to support me,’ she explains.

‘I’d often be left with young children on my own, which was dangerous for the kids because I could’ve had a seizure at any moment.’

Emma, who experiences ‘tonic clonic’ seizures – characterised by the stiffening and jerking of muscles followed by loss of consciousness – believes she has experienced discrimination by three different employers to date. 

She’s been disciplined multiple times over ‘excessive’ sick leave, and says colleagues have avoided her out of fears she would have a seizure in front of them.  

‘When I was an apprentice, I was told by HR that I could only have three seizures a month – as if I was somehow in control,’ Emma recalls. ‘I tried to explain that I cannot control when I’m going to have a seizure, so I was put on a second disciplinary.

‘Eventually, my apprenticeship came to an end and I was let go. It was as if they weren’t listening to me as a person or willing to understand the way my epilepsy impacts me. Looking at me I’m a young, fit and healthy person, but there’s this hidden condition I live with.’

Emma is just one of a number of people to report cases of disability discrimination in the workplace and the wider challenges that epilepsy can pose to employment prospects. Now an experienced executive assistant and champion of accessibility within the workplace, she urges companies to update their disability and inclusion policies.

With 42% of employers admitting in a survey by Epilepsy Action, that they would not hire someone with the condition, there’s a real ‘lack of knowledge of what actually needs to happen if someone has a seizure and the side-effects that often accompany the condition,’ according to Kasam Parker, CEO of the charity Voice for Epilepsy.

‘Employees should be able to explain to employers what impact it has on them and what adjustments they require,’ he adds.

According to Professor Ley Sander, head of the Department of Clinical and Experimental Epilepsy at UCL Queen Square Institute of Neurology, one of the biggest challenges facing people with epilepsy is uncertainty.

‘Not knowing if there will be another seizure is always a big worry,’ he tells Metro. ‘Often, not knowing when the next seizure will be or not knowing what the future will bring can have a bigger impact than the seizure themselves.’ 

When Murray Goulder was diagnosed after having a seizure during a driving lesson, the relief was overwhelming.

Having spent weeks trying to find an explanation for the seizure, the then 17-year-old was reassured by his neurologist that with the correct anti-epileptic medication he could maintain a normal life. 

‘Until then, I was worried I might have a brain tumour,’ he remembers. ‘But when I discovered it was epilepsy, I was happy because it’s something I can live with. There’s still lots of things I can do.’

Murray, 44, currently works as a manager in Parcelforce Worldwide’s HR department and has been instrumental in establishing an equality and inclusion support group for staff to discuss their health conditions and disabilities. 

‘It’s about learning about your condition and if you’re not embarrassed to, providing that safety net so that people are able to talk to their colleagues and friends about their condition. It’s about demonstrating what good looks like.’

However, he says there’s still a huge lack of understanding surrounding the condition, which became evident when he needed to claim financial aid.

After an assessment that he describes as ‘discriminatory’, the 44-year-old was refused Personal Independence Payment (PIP) in 2017 and embarked on a relentless battle to get his financial aid reinstated. 

‘The assessor claimed I was safe to use kitchen knives and cook on my own, even though medically I’m not able to,’ Murray explains. ‘I’ve already proven that I’ve got the condition and I had it proven by my neurologist and caregivers, but it was as if I was being told I had epilepsy one moment and then I didn’t the next.’

It took two years for Murray’s claim to be eventually upheld at an appeal tribunal in 2019. Then, the Department for Work and Pensions took away his payments again in March 2023, despite providing evidence of his seizures.

Fitted with a Subcutaneous EEG implant (SubQ) in December 2021, Murray discovered that the frequency of his seizures were far greater than he thought and used the findings in his claim. 

‘The device has proven that I have more seizures than I notice,’ he explains. ‘But I’m still judged on a system that measures us against people with physical disabilities. We need a category that puts us in a neurological bracket.’

In response to Murray’s claims, a spokesperson for the Department of Work and Pensions (DWP) told Metro: ‘We support millions of people with health conditions and disabilities every year and our priority is that they receive a supportive, compassionate service.

‘All our disability assessors are qualified health professionals and PIP entitlement is assessed on the needs arising from a health condition or disability, rather than the condition itself. Anyone who disagrees with a decision has the right to a review.’

For Rebekah Smith, deputy CEO of Epilepsy Action, it is vital that people feel comfortable when speaking about epilepsy.

‘We should be passing on the message that for the majority of people, epilepsy is not a problem,’ she tells Metro.

‘The problem is the way that people perceive it, and it is crucial we continue to raise awareness around how we deal with and support those with the condition.’

The Epilepsy Society is calling for the NHS to provide free dental repairs to teeth damaged by seizures. Find out more about their Fix It 4 Free campaign here.

This article was originally published August 17, 2024

I was watching TV to relax, having cleaned the entire house from top to bottom, when my phone rang. 

It had just passed midnight on the first day of February half term in 2024. Hours earlier, I had come home from our local hospital in Poole with our middle son, Charlie, leaving my husband Gary with our youngest, eight-year-old Thomas, while he had some tests.  

It was Gary on the other end of the phone, panicked: ‘Louise, you’ve got to come back. They’ve found something on the scan.’ 

My stomach lurched.  

My eldest, Josh, 23, looked after Charlie while I drove the half hour journey to the hospital, from our home in Bournemouth.  

I was terrified.  

It was January 2024 when I first took Thomas to the doctors – I noticed he had started speaking more slowly than usual. Everything he said was perfectly clear, it just took ages for him to get a sentence out.  

Our GP, however, wasn’t concerned. Thomas also had some trouble with his hearing so the doctor said it must be because his ears were blocked and affecting his speech. We put olive oil in them and took him to have the wax suctioned but there was no change.  

Thomas was getting increasingly frustrated. It didn’t make sense that our cheeky, bright, mini-Ed Sheeran, who could identify any country’s flag and loved being with his brothers or school friends, now couldn’t speak well. 

Three weeks after seeing the doctor I saw he was having trouble playing with his LEGO because his right hand was shaking.  

This, paired with his slow speech, worried me, so I rang 111. After answering their questions, we ended up being referred for an MRI scan. 

Fast forward two weeks, and more tests, when Gary called me from the hospital rushing me to get back for the results.  

It was the worst news.  

Thomas had a cruel disease that would gradually rob him of his speech, his ability to walk, eat and, ultimately, his life – he had malignant brain tumours in his basal ganglia, both thalami, the left temporal lobe, frontal lobe and upper brain stem.  

The doctor explained: ‘I won’t beat around the bush. It’s high grade, it’s aggressive. We’ll send the sample off to Great Ormond Street Hospital for further tests.’ 

We were completely shocked, in disbelief, numb even. I just wanted to get my little boy, who was waiting outside the room, and take him home. 

We told Thomas he had a lump in his head and that’s why his hand and speech had been affected. He didn’t really say much, he just accepted what we told him.  

But we had hope.  

There was no swelling around the mass, so it wasn’t urgent, we were told.  

We thought surgery might be possible, like with other cancers, and that a biopsy to identify genetic mutations might mean Thomas was eligible for a clinical trial. But unfortunately it was a ‘no’ on both counts.  

Two weeks after finding the brain tumour, when we received the initial biopsy results, the consultant said: ‘I’m only telling you this because I know you’ll Google it.

‘Thomas has a year at most. We can give him some radiotherapy, which may buy you a bit more time, but our advice is to do nice things while you can.’ 

The news was delivered so bluntly, that it stayed with me. 

I understand that medical teams do this every day, but they’ve got to remember this is someone’s child and telling his family he’s going to die is really tough. We just wanted to do whatever we could to keep our little boy alive for an extra day or an extra hour. 

I sobbed silently in the passenger seat as Gary drove us home, while I tried to process it all. After that it was a whirlwind.

We wanted to understand what was happening and find out more, so we went on The Brain Tumour Charity website – it told us that about 40 children a year in the UK are diagnosed with diffuse midline glioma.

Only 10% survive for two years or more. Brain tumours are the biggest cancer killer of children and the under 40s.   

After the diagnosis, I took leave from my role as a mortgage advisor to be with Thomas while he had 30 rounds of radiotherapy at University College London every weekday for six weeks. We were able to come home at weekends, or have the family come to meet us.  

Over the next five months, whenever we could, we decided to take the advice we’d been given and ‘do nice things’.   

Thomas loved animals so we visited a different place each weekend: London Zoo, Sea Life, the Oceanarium in Bournemouth, Marwell Zoo, Paulton’s Park and, in June, we went to Paignton Zoo in Devon for a Family Day organised by The Brain Tumour Charity.  

From April onwards Thomas used a wheelchair as he got really tired but we were still able to go to Madame Tussauds, Tower Bridge, The London Eye, Center Parcs, Alton Towers, Butlins and Hamleys – which has a whole floor of LEGO.  

He loved Alton Towers. Since he was in a wheelchair, he was given a special pass to access each ride. He even got to hold a starfish at the aquarium there. 

Thomas did the best he could under the circumstances, but it did upset him that he couldn’t eat and had to have a feeding tube. He couldn’t go to school much and really missed it, as well as his friends.  

But he never asked any questions about his tumour; we told him it was still there and he simply accepted that.  

He lost his hair and had to have a platelet transfusion in every chemo cycle. The first one caused anaphylactic shock, so he was terrified of it happening again. 

There were also positive memories. Thomas decided to set up a lemonade stand outside our house. He’d been inspired by something he’d seen on YouTube, so I put a notice out on our local community Facebook group asking passers-by to come and buy some lemonade.  

We were overwhelmed by the support – hundreds of people came by as customers. Thomas raised £1,000 to help the homeless and even help pay for one of our trips.  

He got featured in the local paper too, so people started recognising him, which made him feel famous – he loved that.  

In September 2024, Thomas fed the giraffes at Port Lympne Safari Park thanks to the charity Make-A-Wish UK. But he was complaining of back pain and looking back at the photos it was clear he wasn’t feeling well that day. 

His next MRI scan on 12 September showed the tumour had spread down his spine and brain stem. The hospital said there was nothing else they could do and stopped all treatment. During this time, Thomas was unable to do much.   

He lived for another nine weeks and then, with his pain under control, Thomas died peacefully on November 16, 2024. That’s all you can hope for.   

After all he’d been through Thomas didn’t want to be in hospital and, although it’s lovely, I wouldn’t have been happy in the local children’s hospice either. He wanted to be at home and that meant we could set him up in the lounge and his brothers could see him whenever they wanted to – with a care team from the hospital and Julia’s House hospice.  

Having the choice is so important. We were able to choose what we wanted and what was best for us. It comforts me that he was happy throughout it all. 

I think we were very lucky because not everyone receives this care. We can’t fault the NHS – the palliative care we had was excellent.  

It’s important to us to raise awareness of brain tumours in children, hoping that one day a cure is found and no other family has the heartbreak of losing a child. 

Thomas was so brave and we want people to remember him like that. 

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

When I discovered that Ollie* from work was interested in me, I couldn’t believe my luck. 

I had always thought he was out of my league – he was privately educated, athletic with a talent for ‘posh boy’ sports, and had a reassuring air of self-confidence about him that, at the time, I was severely lacking myself.

We chatted and flirted in the office, and he was always generous with his compliments. When he asked me out on a date, I said yes immediately.

It was late August and we arranged to go to an open-air proms event. Armed with an M&S picnic and some fruit cider, we rolled out the picnic rug to enjoy the last of the warm summer evenings. Conversation flowed and I felt chilled and content.

When the show was over, I had two choices: the first was an hour’s train journey home. At the time, I was being investigated for suspected epilepsy after having a couple of seizures in my sleep, meaning I’d had to give up my driving licence for a while. 

The second option was 20 minutes in the other direction to Ollie’s. 

As I had spent the last couple of hours mentally undressing him, as far as I was concerned, we couldn’t get back to his fast enough.

We kissed on the train and within the hour, we were in his bed.

The sex was… functional, at best. Looking back, I think it was probably the first time it crossed my mind that Ollie’s overwhelming self-confidence may have been somewhat misplaced.

I think I hid my disappointment well, as Ollie just rolled over and went to sleep.

I decided not to let mediocre sex ruin things, though. Despite this hiccup, we’d still had a pleasant evening, so I chalked it up to the drink, even though we really hadn’t had that much between us.

I woke up at around 1am feeling exceptionally groggy. It took a few minutes to piece together where I was, as if my brain was slowly rebooting.

I felt some strange aches in my stomach muscles and other parts of my body that I couldn’t account for (it certainly wasn’t from any sexual gymnastics).

The bedside light was on, but Ollie was nowhere to be seen. I assumed he was in the en suite bathroom and decided to wait for him to come back.

For Sarah

Last year, on March 10, we lost our beloved colleague Sarah Whiteley. Sarah was a fantastic journalist; she was Metro’s parenting columnist and a valued member of our first-person and opinion desk.

Sarah died aged 39 from SUDEP - sudden unexpected death in epilepsy. It is thought that every year around 1,000 people die from causes related to epilepsy.

With support from Sarah’s family, Metro is fundraising for two very important charities: SUDEP Action and Epilepsy Action.

From March 10 to March 26, which marks Purple Day (epilepsy awareness day), we will be running a series of features and first-person pieces, raising awareness of epilepsy and SUDEP.

Sarah was so incredible at helping other people share their experiences; she was a born storyteller and we hope to do her proud with this series, while raising money in her memory.

The minutes ticked by and the confusion gave way to worry that Ollie wasn’t feeling well, and I was just about to knock on the door when he came out, pale and shaken.

I asked if he was OK, only to be told off for scaring him. At first, I couldn’t understand what he was saying – then it hit me.

I had suffered a seizure in my sleep.

And, rather than call an ambulance, get help from one of his housemates or even bother to check if I was still breathing once it was over, Ollie had locked himself in the bathroom. 

I get that a seizure can look scary if you haven’t witnessed one before, and that it can be a rude awakening in the middle of the night. But a cursory check that your date is OK isn’t too much to ask, is it? Ollie obviously thought so. 

We hadn’t discussed my seizures at length before our date but he did know about them before he asked me out. 

Now, he proceeded to gaslight me, berating me for convulsing, for vocalising and calling out (pretty common in tonic-clonic seizures) and for scaring him so much that he felt he had no other option than to hide in the bathroom until it was all over.

I felt so mortified at the time that it didn’t occur to me that I should be angry about what had just happened. In fact, like a fool, I apologised to him for scaring him. 

We went back to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t leave either – I had no car, no money for a taxi and the last train had already gone.

The next morning, Ollie acted as if nothing had happened, and I continued to blame myself. 

Unsurprisingly, things fizzled out shortly after two more unremarkable dates, although we remained civil at work.

I didn’t realise at the time, but the episode with Ollie really impacted the relationships that I would have over the following months and years.

When men asked me out, I would self-sabotage so the dates wouldn’t progress any further. I didn’t feel comfortable sharing a bed with anyone while my epilepsy was uncontrolled.

I didn’t sleep with anyone for 18 months following the incident with Ollie. It took a long time for me to learn to trust a man again.

Fast forward a few years, and I am happily married to only the second man in my life who has seen me have a seizure. On the rare occasions I have them, my husband always makes sure I am safe and stays with me until I regain consciousness.

He has never once guilt-tripped me or made me feel like I was the problem.

I never got an apology from Ollie – but then there isn’t really an acceptable apology for abandoning someone at their most vulnerable moment. And I never gave him the bollocking he deserved for leaving me unconscious in his bed.

It’s probably one of my biggest regrets that I allowed someone to use my disability against me in that way and never called him out on it.

But then I remember: I was not, and never have been, the problem. That’s all on him. 

If your date ever has a seizure in your bed, stay calm, cushion their head and once it’s over, gently roll them onto their side into the recovery position. Stay with them until they recover.

And for the avoidance of doubt, on no account lock yourself in the nearest bathroom, hallway or cupboard. 

*Name has been changed

This article was originally published December 14, 2024

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

Comedian Katherine Ryan recently revealed a new skin cancer diagnosis after returning to the doctors for a second opinion on a mole she felt ‘uneasy’ about.

Speaking on her podcast, Telling Everybody Everything, the comedian warned melanoma was ‘a deadly form of skin cancer’ and that ‘it does spread quickly’.

This isn’t the first time Katherine has battled cancer, as the 41-year-old previously underwent an operation to remove a ‘golf ball-sized lump’ on her leg while at university.

Her shocking news comes as cases are projected to rise by 9% in the coming years.

New melanoma skin cancer cases are set to increase from 20,800 cases in the 2023 to 2025 period, to an average of 26,500 cases between 2038 and 2040, according to Cancer Research UK. That’s a staggering rate of 33 cases per 100,000 people.

Despite the projection, the UK charity revealed last year that it believes around 17,000 melanoma cases every year are preventable, with the majority of cases caused by too much ultraviolet (UV) radiation.

Katherine shared how important it was to be her ‘own advocate’ when it comes to concerns about skin cancer, but you can only do this if you know how to spot the warning signs.

Here’s what you need to know.

What is melanoma?

Cancer Research UK warns that there are two types of skin cancer – melanoma skin cancer and non-melanoma skin cancer.

They state that ‘Melanoma is a different type of skin cancer that develops from skin cells called melanocytes.’

Non-melanoma skin cancers are rarer and include basal cell skin cancer, squamous cell skin cancer and others

What are the signs of melanoma skin cancer?

Symptoms of melanoma include a change to a mole, freckle, or an otherwise normal patch of skin.

Despite initially getting the all-clear from the doctors, Katerine Ryan said her mole ‘kept changing’, leading to her seeking a second opinion.

So, how do we know if it’s something to be concerned about?

Dr Sagar Patel, a dermatology specialist at MyHealthcare Clinic, said: ‘Unfortunately, the UK is way behind countries such as Australia and the United States when it comes to awareness of moles.

‘While regular mole-mapping is very common in other parts of the world, many Brits simply ignore changes in their skin.

‘Granted, we don’t have the same warm climate, but you don’t need high temperatures to be exposed to harmful UV rays that can increase the chances of a mole becoming cancerous.’

How to check for skin cancer

It’s clearly important to check our skin regularly, but how?

Dr Sagar has a good acronym for guiding your frequent checks of your skin.

‘This simple guide is used by skin specialists to help patients understand what they should be looking out for,’ he said.

• ‘A – asymmetry, when half the mole doesn’t match the other
• ‘B – border, when the outline of the mole is irregular, ragged or blurred
• ‘C – colour, when it varies throughout and/or there appears to be no uniform colour
• ‘D – diameter, if it’s greater than 6mm
• ‘E – evolving, or changes in the mole.

‘If you check your moles for these five points it can help you stay on top of any issues.But there is no substitute for having an appointment with a specialist, who will examine your skin and discuss any area of concern.’

Skin cancer myths debunked

Dr Sagar also wants to bust a couple of common myths you might be taking as truth.

He said that a mole doesn’t have to be itchy or bleeding to warrant a check-up; there are other more subtle changes or sometimes no symptoms at all.

That being said sometimes moles will just change a little over the years.

‘Moles can change over time,’ Dr Sagar said, ‘becoming raised and altering in colour, shape and size. Some even disappear altogether,’ said Dr Sagar.

‘This is where being aware of your skin is key, as changes that occur over months rather than years – moles becoming darker quickly – are definitely worth getting looked at as a matter of urgency.’

Another myth is that skin cancer affects those with a fair complexion more than someone with darker skin – and this is simply not true.

He said: ‘Yes, those with a darker complexion are slightly more protected from the sun than those who are very fair.

‘But it doesn’t mean they can’t be exposed to enough UV rays to damage the skin cells and increase the likelihood of developing a melanoma.’

Lastly, it’s also important to check all of our skin, not just our moles, for any changes.

So, go forth and get checking.

What to do if you’re worried about a mole

Cancer research advises: ‘See your GP if you develop a new mole or abnormal area of skin. This includes on the soles of your feet and the skin under your nails. Or if you notice a change to an existing mole.’

They recommend making a note of when you first noticed the abnormal mole or area of skin, and if there’s been any changes to it, as well as telling your doctor about any family history of cancer.

The GP will examine you and either confirm it’s not an issue of concern or refer you to a dermatology clinic that specialises in picking up suspicious moles and diagnosing melanoma.

If they don’t refer you, ask them to explain why you don’t need to have specialist tests (and consider writing this down to reassure yourself with the information after the appointment), whether there’s anything you can do to help yourself, and what changes you should look out for in future.

Do you have a story to share?

Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@Metro.co.uk.

Filters have come a long way from the days when puppy dog ears trended—and that’s not always a good thing.

Enter the ‘chubby filter,’ a form of artificial intelligence (AI) that thousands of TikTokers recently used to see how they would look if they put on weight.

The frighteningly realistic filter warped users’ photos to alter their appearance, provoking shocked reactions and even mockery as individuals breathed sighs of relief thinking, ‘Thank God I don’t look like that.’

Following immense backlash and criticism of how the filter enabled diet culture to thrive, the social media platform, which boasts over 1.5billion users globally, took it down, meaning it is no longer accessible.

TikTok later explained that the filter had been uploaded by CapCut, which, while a separate app, still has the same parent company, ByteDance. CapCut is used by millions of TikTokers to create fun edits and montages. Basically, if you’ve seen a trending template or a cute mashup of clips to a popular song, it probably came from there.

The app also vowed to review videos uploaded using the effect, blocking them from being viewed on teen accounts.

But it still begs the question: why were people using the chubby filter in the first place?

Healthcare expert and pharmacist Thorrun Govind expresses her concern to Metro that those with online profiles are now hyper-aware of how they look.

‘I think people are drawn to these filters because it’s such an easy way of seeing a different version of themselves. They’re intrigued, but I don’t think they’re fully aware of the short or longer-term effects of using them.’

Indeed, we live in a climate where body modification is pretty trendy. From non-invasive cosmetic procedures to fillers, Botox, and whacky gadgets—you name it, someone on TikTok has played around with it.

‘That’s just part of why such filters are dangerous when in the wrong hands, especially when it’s impossible to fully police what young, impressionable people have access to online,’ Thorrun shares.

‘These filters are likely to be particularly harmful for those who have body image concerns and those with eating disorders.’

However, it’s not just people whose brains are already susceptible to such toxic messaging that we must keep an eye on.

‘In general, being bombarded with content constantly showing weight transformations and focusing on size can harm anyone,’ she says.

It’s far from the first time this conversation has been had, nor will it be the last time body-positive influencers speak out against material that subliminally feeds into stereotypes around body image.

In the early 2000s, we had reality shows like Supersize vs Superskinny, and in the 2010s there was pro-anorexia Tumblr, both of which not only normalised and promoted extreme thinness but deeply romanticised it before the eyes of children.

Alas, in the years since, the demonisation of fatness and glorification of emaciation has simply been repurposed and repackaged, now taking a new form on social media.

We’ve all seen the ‘What I Eat in a Day’ videos subtly perpetuating the idea that eating less than 1,200 calories is healthy, right?

On what impact filters like the chubby one can have, Thorrun explains that they can be ‘misused to mock or misrepresent individuals and reinforce harmful stereotypes’.

This can affect how those in different bodies are treated offline, a point only illustrated by the release of Netflix’s latest smash hit drama, Adolescence.

‘In turn, this can lead to harassment or bullying, which then creates mental health consequences for those on the receiving end, such as stress, social anxiety, depression, and low self-esteem,’ she says, as TikTok users see a before and after image and tell themselves, ‘Well, it could be worse, I could look like her…’

‘More broadly, these transformation filters can lead to a disconnect between a person’s real and perceived self. This can increase distress when they see their actual reflection,’ she adds.

In severe cases, this can escalate into body dysmorphic disorder, a debilitating mental health condition where a person spends a lot of time worrying about their appearance, to the extent that it interferes with daily life.

While she emphatically believes it’s appropriate for the chubby filter to be removed, Thorrun agrees that we must be extra vigilant from all sides.

‘It’s not just a case of removing a filter—there is a lot more work to be done when it comes to the stigma of weight management,’ she stresses.

‘On various apps, we are still seeing a huge number of weight loss jabs being advertised illegally, and all of the sites have questions to answer when it comes to body image and what they are allowing us to see.’

Similarly, TikTok lately has been overrun by the use of a ‘skinny’ filter, which, you guessed it, shows users how they would look if they were considerably thinner.

Thorrun fears this can distort people’s perceptions of the reality behind body transformations, implying they are quick and easy to do.

‘But they’re not. These transformations take time and require support. They also need to be done in a healthy manner, and I don’t think these filters represent that in any way.

‘Such filters are an unrealistic expectation of weight loss, which certainly doesn’t happen in a second, and they promote a “quick fix” response to changing your body and managing your weight when we need to be encouraging people to view weight loss and gain in a sustained manner if that’s what they want.’

She also believes there’s a risk of people using these filters for the wrong reasons and creating ‘fake success stories’ in which they lie about how their goals were met.

‘It is so dangerous. People need to realise that weight management is a slow approach and it can’t be done overnight.’

I’ll never forget the day my life changed forever. The day I lost my daughter. 

It was November 11, 2022. I was with Natalie, by her bedside in hospital, when she passed away from melanoma. She was only 28.   

My heart was, and still is, broken. But I am doing all I can to make sure we continue to honour her one final request: That she will always be remembered.  

Natalie was a beautiful daughter. She was always cheerful and funny. She was a wonderful sister to Nick (who is non-verbal and classically autistic) and the two of them truly had a special bond.  

She was also an incredible friend and an outstanding teacher. Her students adored her but really she had a huge impact on everyone who she came into contact with. 

Mostly, my girl was kind. She took part in many charity challenges, including a skydive, the Three Peaks Challenge and a half marathon. She was generous, not just with money and fundraising, but with her time and love.  

When she told me that a mole on her leg (that she’d always had) had started bleeding in July 2018, I was worried. 

We were just about to go on a week-long holiday to France, but I insisted we get it sorted before we left. I secured her a GP appointment for the following morning. The doctor examined the mole, and I did my best to reassure Natalie it would all be OK. 

However, while we were away in France, we got a phone call to say Natalie would need further investigations when she came home. By the end of August, she’d had the mole removed and it was sent off for testing.   

A couple of weeks later, we were told she needed to come back into the hospital to speak with the doctor. We knew then it wasn’t going to be an ‘everything is fine’ meeting, but as scared as we both were, we tried to stay positive.  

Sitting in their office, the consultant told us that it was melanoma – a type of skin cancer that can spread to other parts of the body – and my world stopped.

Natalie was 24. She’d been on holidays abroad in the sun but she had never been on a sunbed, nor had she ever burnt herself. 

Understandably, Natalie was terrified of the word ‘cancer’ and of what might lie ahead. But she was also determined to stay strong.   

Surgery was needed to remove any remaining cancer cells around the area where her mole had once been and doctors told her she would be closely monitored with regular scans. 

For a while, they continuously came up clear and life continued as normal. Then in December 2019, a scan showed a new lesion in her lung.   

I remember Natalie turning to me with tears in her eyes and saying, ‘Mum, it’s now Stage 4’. Lost for words, we hugged each other tightly and decided we were in this together.  

She was referred to The Royal Marsden, a world-leading cancer centre, for radiotherapy, consisting of three doses over three consecutive weeks. 

By the third week, scans showed that the lung lesion had significantly shrunk. We were ecstatic – the radiotherapy had worked. Everything was looking positive. 

Natalie continued to have regular monitoring scans and then, sadly, a year later, a new lung lesion was detected. 

This time, she was treated with targeted therapy, where the proteins that control how cancer cells grow, divide, and spread are directly targeted. This was administered in the form of a tablet every day.

For 18 months, things were once again fine and there were no lesions present on her scans. But then the cancer returned a third time, leaving immunotherapy as her only option.  

Unlike chemotherapy, which uses drugs to target and kill fast-growing cells, immunotherapy uses the body’s immune system to target cancerous cells. Natalie would begin having a combined dose of two drugs, every three weeks.  

She was amazing, never once complaining. She carried on with life and even continued to go back to work. 

She and I took part in The Banham Marsden March in May 2022, which saw us walk 15 miles together and raise just over £2,000. Crossing that finish line with my daughter will forever be one of my most special memories now. Natalie vowed to complete it every year. 

Unfortunately, just as she began her immunotherapy treatment that September, new lesions were detected on her brain and liver. The melanoma was attacking hard and fast, and Natalie began to deteriorate.  

She was taken ill at home, with worrying signs she could have swelling on the brain. We rushed her to the critical care unit, where doctors managed to get her stable. After a few days, however, we were told they couldn’t make her better. 

Natalie was amazingly brave and didn’t cry, complain or get angry, but accepted her fate.   

I was still in total shock. Everything had happened so quickly. Only a few days before she went into hospital for the last time she had been working at school as a teacher. Now, she was being moved to a ward and we were preparing to say goodbye. 

After four years of hard treatment, she passed away. Despite snow, around 240 people came to Natalie’s funeral to say goodbye. 

A further 250 people attended a separate church service her school put on just for her students and their parents. My heart ached to hear such wonderful things about her from both her students and colleagues. She would have been so humbled. 

Today, to keep Natalie’s memory alive, we are continuing to raise funds for The Royal Marsden Cancer Charity. This will go towards the hospital’s melanoma research, so we can find new treatments for patients like Natalie all around the world.    

I’ve since taken part in The Banham Marsden March for a second time, only this time I had my husband, Natalie’s boyfriend and 35 of Natalie’s closest friends, colleagues and family members by my side and we raised £15,000.   

Last year, I walked the first 10 miles with a friend, and my husband and son joined me to walk the last five miles together.  

Taking part is not only an amazing way to raise awareness and funds, it’s also a chance to meet other people in the same position as you. 

When you’re grieving, there is a feeling of loneliness as often, people just don’t know what to say to you. I’ve now realised that I am not alone.   

To date, we’ve raised over £34,000 for The Royal Marsden Cancer Charity from friends and family members’ fundraising. 

Natalie’s cousins in Jersey ran the virtual London Marathon and organised a quiz night for over 100 people. Her friends, cousins and my husband have all taken part in half marathons and marathons, and I jogged 40 miles in January 2024. And we all took part in a 10k run for the first anniversary of her passing, too.   

I also found Natalie’s bucket list shortly after she died, which led me to sign up for a skydive in June last year – her birthday month – when she would have turned 30. 

I just hope Natalie would be touched to see that we’re carrying on her legacy, and we want to make sure there are no more stories that end like hers. 

So many people have moles and don’t worry about them or get them checked, but melanoma is a real issue. It’s important to be aware of the signs and symptoms. It really can happen to anyone, even my baby girl.  

This article was originally published April 26, 2024

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Ross.Mccafferty@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

We’ve heard of death grip syndrome and buried penises, but there’s a new phenomenon we need to add to our roster: sperm cramps.

That’s right gents, it seems women aren’t the only ones who suffer with some cramps in their intimate area – although us ladies still have it bad.

The term itself is a tad misleading because, well, sperm can’t cramp, it’s more of a slang phrase for discomfort.

Essentially, if you’ve got some impressive stamina and you’re having prolonged sex, cramps in your balls could be coming (sorry) your way.

But are they anything to worry about? And how common are they? We’ve got the long and short of it right here…

What are sperm cramps?

‘Sperm cramps’ is a colloquial term used to describe discomfort or aching pain in the testicles, lower abdomen, or perineal area (the region between your anus and genitals).

‘The pain is typically described as a dull, aching, or cramping sensation and it can sometimes feel similar to muscle cramps or mild testicular discomfort,’ GP Dr Suzanne Wylie tells Metro.

‘They often occur in relation to ejaculation or when you are aroused for a long time without finishing,’ she adds. ‘It’s thought to be linked to the temporary congestion of blood in the reproductive organs.’

You can also get these cramps after sex but this is apparently less common. And while there’s not any extensive clinical data, Dr Wylie says her experience is that it’s pretty common.

To check, we did some field research of our own (aka we asked some of our guy friends). Our (admittedly small) sample of six male mates found two had experienced sperm cramps, so clearly, it’s not just an internet term, but a real-life issue that deserves closer attention.

Are sperm cramps anything to worry about?

If you’re concerned – don’t be. Dr Wylie says that in most cases sperm cramps are ‘harmless’ and nothing to worry about.

‘They are a temporary and benign pain that usually resolves on its own,’ she explains. If you have this pain alongside swelling, redness or fever though, the medical advisor, for IQ Doctor, suggests you see a doctor quickly.

But there are different types of pain that you can get in your balls, and some aren’t as innocent as sperm cramps, so it’s important to know the difference.

‘Testicular pain can mean you have a more serious underlying condition,’ the doctor explains.

‘Sudden, severe testicular pain could mean you have testicular torsion – where your ball rotates and twists the internal cord that supplies the blood flow to your scrotum, cutting off the blood supply. This is a medical emergency, so seek help.’

Dr Wylie also says that ‘persistent or worsening pain’ that doesn’t resolve itself could mean you have an infection, a hernia (when tissue or an organ bulges through a muscle wall into a cavity it’s not meant to be in) or a tumour. You may need surgery if this is the case.

If you experience pain after injuring your testicle, this could mean it’s bleeding internally or rupturing – again both require medical attention.

Who gets sperm cramps and can you stop them?

While they can affect men of every age, older chaps can breathe a sigh of relief, because sperm cramps are more common in younger men.

Teenagers and guys in their early twenties are most prone to these dull aches and pains. ‘This is due to more frequent arousal and fluctuating hormone levels,’ Dr Wylie adds.

Even though they’re nothing to worry about, it would be nice to ease the uncomfortable sensation, and there are ways to do this.

‘Lying down, applying a warm compress to the area, gentle stretching, or engaging in light physical activity to encourage blood flow redistribution can all make you feel better,’ she adds.

Another simple method to ease that pain, is to ejaculate, so feel free to practice some self-love.

If all else fails, Dr Wylie also suggests over-the-counter pain relief like paracetamol or ibuprofen.

Do you have a story to share?

Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@Metro.co.uk.

I opened TikTok this week and was in absolute shock.

I’m used to seeing different trends going viral, but all I saw as I scrolled was video after video of users applying a ‘chubby filter’ to their pictures filled my feed. 

Unfortunately, it is exactly as it sounds – and it brought back painful memories.

Users upload their photos, and the filter uses AI to show them what they would look like if they were fat. Those who have used it often accompany their post with a comment about how funny they found the images. 

It’s clear that many TikTok users view being in a bigger body as some kind of punchline.

This, sadly, is nothing new. But that doesn’t make it ok. 

Many of us grew up on negative media representations of fat people, where fat people were mostly depicted as the butt of the joke. 

I know I did. When I was younger and going through disordered eating, screens were filled with comedic depictions of fatness – with films like Shallow Hal, The Nutty Professor, and Friends, which had a story arc about a character’s previously overweight self – ‘Fat Monica’. 

In each of these examples, snipes about the fat character’s body size were either accompanied by laugh tracks, or met with raucous laughter in the cinema.

This instilled one message in me as a teenager – being fat was something to jeer at, and that at all costs I had to avoid being fat so that I didn’t experience what Fat Monica did. 

At one point, someone referenced Monica’s old weight, and I realised it was exactly the same as mine. 

It felt like the media had taught me that my body, because it was not thin, was meant to be laughed at.

This was reinforced by my first romantic experience. When I was sixteen, I had my first kiss in the woods with someone I trusted and thought I loved. 

But I found out later that he hadn’t chosen the cover of trees to be romantic, but that, but because he didn’t want to be seen with someone who looked like me. 

He was worried about being mocked by his peers for kissing someone who he thought was fat, and didn’t fit into the body type that the media had taught him was desirable. 

And 16-year-old me, while hurt, didn’t even think to question his reasoning, because society and culture seemed to reinforce that he was right.

As the years went on, and as I worked to recover from disordered eating, countless depictions of fatness told me the same. 

That the body I had worked so hard to love, despite all the societal messaging telling me I should hate my body, was still a joke. 

This ‘fat filter’ trend is a new iteration of this same derision. 

Instead of characters on screens, and actors using fat suits or CGI, people are taking that same fatphobic rhetoric into their own hands by applying a filter to their own photos. 

And when, alongside it, they post nasty comments about the larger image of themselves that the AI creates, they show that they think being fat is inherently funny and something to be ridiculed – it invites others to laugh with them. 

It doesn’t give them any insight into what it means to be fat in 2025, because it’s all fake. All another big joke. 

When the media, whether it’s TV or TikTok, makes fun of bigger body sizes, this has a malignant effect on how we perceive fat people, and also how fat people are treated. 

A study from The Lancet – a peer-reviewed general medical journal – found that negative portrayals of fat people in media not only made peoples’ views of fat peoples worse, but also risked encouraging stigmatising behaviours (for example, bullying, abuse and discrimination) towards fat people.  

This is why trends like the Fat Filter trend are so harmful – it encourages and normalises the idea that fat people deserve this kind of nasty treatment, and in doing so, perpetuates fatphobic behaviour.

This goes beyond social media, and has real world consequences. This kind of trend affects how fat people are treated, and will also have a hugely negative knock on effect for peoples’ body image. 

And when you consider that young people spend an average of five hours and 24 minutes engaged in social media activity, that means teenagers are at greater risk of seeing more of this body negative content.

So no, this isn’t just some silly little trend, or something to be dismissed. It can truly harm people. 

What gives me faith in humanity is that in some of the comments in the videos, people were fighting back, saying how people using the filter were exposing themselves as ‘mean girls’. It’s a glimmer of hope that we are not taking these nasty jokes lying down, even if this filter has gained a great deal of traction.

No matter what a trend is telling you, fat bodies are not for peoples’ amusement. They are deserving of love, care and enjoyment.

And no filter should change that. 

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

I didn’t really have any friends throughout school. Having epilepsy meant people were scared of me. 

They treated me like I was a ticking time bomb and at any moment, I could go off. The bullying was relentless. I missed a lot of school to deal with my condition so I wasn’t as switched on as some of the other kids in my year; I was called ‘r****d’ and all sorts, and told that I was ‘dumb’. 

In fact, I’ve rarely had a good reaction to my epilepsy. As a baby, one relative said it would be God’s will if I died from a seizure. And I will never, ever forget the look of terror on my grandad’s face the first time he saw me seize.

Today, my parents and grandparents are amazing and incredibly supportive but there is still so much ignorance about epilepsy. People fear what they don’t understand. Rather than saying, ‘OK, this is scary’, it’s easier for them to just switch off and do nothing. 

One of my life’s goals is to fight for people with epilepsy to be accepted, not shunned with the stigma dumped on them. Epilepsy is just one small part of who you are. It doesn’t define you.

For Sarah

Last year, on March 10, we lost our beloved colleague Sarah Whiteley. Sarah was a fantastic journalist; she was Metro’s parenting columnist and a valued member of our first-person and opinion desk.

Sarah died aged 39 from SUDEP - sudden unexpected death in epilepsy. It is thought that every year around 1,000 people die from causes related to epilepsy.

With support from Sarah’s family, Metro is fundraising for two very important charities: SUDEP Action and Epilepsy Action.

From March 10 to March 26, which marks Purple Day (epilepsy awareness day), we will be running a series of features and first-person pieces, raising awareness of epilepsy and SUDEP.

Sarah was so incredible at helping other people share their experiences; she was a born storyteller and we hope to do her proud with this series, while raising money in her memory.

I had my first seizure when I was nine months old but wasn’t diagnosed with epilepsy until I was 18 months. It was a long process with lots of tests and because I was so little, I had to be held down so that my neurologists could get clear scan images of my brain.

I became more aware of my condition as I got older. My parents tried to protect me from the nasty side of things, but I would listen to them speak to the doctors while I played with my toys, hearing them say things like, ‘If she makes it to five, she’ll be lucky’.

After that, I felt like I had to work hard to have any kind of life, and make sure I didn’t die and make my parents upset.

My seizures used to start in my hand then move up to my face, and you could watch it travel through my entire body. I also had cluster seizures; I could seize for 24 hours at a time for a week, and then I’d be good for a little while, and then start seizing again. 

As an adult, I mostly have focal seizures, so I’m awake, but I have had tonic-clonic seizures, too.

At primary school, one teacher locked me in a storage cupboard while I was seizing so the other kids didn’t have to see it. I didn’t tell my parents, terrified the teacher would do worse to me, and too worried that I’d done something wrong.

Eventually my mum heard through the playground grapevine and asked me if there was any truth to it. I broke down crying. 

When I was 26 or 27, I was out in town on my own – being independent is really important to me – and knew I was about to have a seizure. I took my rescue medication and tried to put myself in a safe place but I was too late. The meds didn’t kick in in time and I collapsed. 

While I was unconscious, a member of the public carried me to an underground car park and dumped me there.

When I came around, I was soaked – maybe from rain, maybe just sweat from the panic of coming out of a seizure – and covered in bruises.

I’ve had people video me having a seizure when I can’t protect myself or make them stop. Then they put the ‘funny’ videos on the Internet.

Having epilepsy also means I’ve faced discrimination in my career. At college, I was obsessed with the idea of working with children and did my level one and level two childcare qualifications. Yet when I applied to the final year, I was told I couldn’t go any further because I wasn’t reliable, that I’d be a danger to the children.  

I’m now 33 and have been trying to get employed ever since. At 18, the Jobcentre used to send me to jobs that weren’t safe – they once sent me to work in a kitchen in a bar. I applied to work as a community care assistant, went in and did my training, then had a seizure in the last hour – the company never phoned me again.

I am up front at interviews. I tell potential employers that I have epilepsy for everyone’s safety. Then I see the shift in their dynamic, their expressions. I’ve heard all the excuses as to why I can’t move further, or even be employed at all. I’m now in the process of applying to a company to become a care assistant.

I’m living independently but that means I spend a lot of time on my own, especially as my husband works away a lot. 

I know that my epilepsy could kill me. When I first learned about sudden unexpected death in epilepsy (SUDEP), my mum tried to reassure me that it doesn’t happen often but it’s just knowing that it can; I find it odd when I hear people say they are terrified of heights or spiders when I’m living my biggest fear every day. 

Yet my advice, especially for children, is not to let what the doctors say scare you. Otherwise you can miss out on so many magical moments, even just the little ones – and they matter just as much as the big ones. I have wanted so much more for myself and I know I’ve lost out on so much, not having had a typical childhood, but the fact I got to have any kind of childhood is lucky. 

I’d like there to be more positive information about epilepsy out there, so that people don’t think, ‘Oh, God, no’ when they are diagnosed. Epilepsy charities do great work spreading awareness and information but it needs to come from the doctors, too.

I’ve always wanted to be known for doing something good, being something good. About 10 years ago I bumped into someone who’d been a few years below me in school, and all she remembered me as was the girl with epilepsy who had the seizure at the school disco.

There’s no chance I’ll stop fighting for more epilepsy awareness and acceptance, both for the little girl inside me and the people with epilepsy who are too embarrassed by their condition – or the things that people say – to talk about it. 

I don’t want anyone to go through what I have. There’s an option for a life with epilepsy, it just might not look the same as everyone else’s.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

‘STOP. Don’t.’ 

I was five years old, and my mum Irene’s voice stopped me in my tracks.   

What was I doing that was so filled with jeopardy? Running towards my dad, desperate to help him.  

My dad, Mick, was having a tonic clonic seizure. I felt helpless and worried, scared he was going to hurt himself. 

He was diagnosed with epilepsy before I was born. 

He would collapse at home and his seizures were so forceful that his strong, 36-year-old body would take me off my feet if his thrashing limbs connected with my little frame. 

I usually stayed with him while he was seizing.  

Before I turned 10, I figured out that rubbing his head sometimes ended the seizures early, but I always had to be really careful approaching him as he lay so I didn’t get caught by a limb.  

I don’t remember a time when my dad wasn’t ‘poorly’, as my mum used to frame it. My older brother Michael and I were told his head was unwell and given a booklet aimed at children, about a pebble being thrown into a pond to explain what happened inside his brain when Dad had seizures.  

Even now, throwing a pebble into water reminds me of brain waves and neurological disarray.  

Widespread acceptance of epilepsy, and the knowledge of this often misunderstood condition, have both come on leaps and bounds over the years.

As a child, however, I found it difficult to talk about it to my friends who couldn’t really understand. And by the time I got to secondary school, I used to feel embarrassed about Dad’s condition.  

Why couldn’t my dad be like everyone else’s and drive a company car and be away on business? Why did my dad sometimes have vacant episodes when everyone else’s dad was OK?  

For Sarah

Last year, on March 10, we lost our beloved colleague Sarah Whiteley. Sarah was a fantastic journalist; she was Metro’s parenting columnist and a valued member of our first-person and opinion desk.

Sarah died aged 39 from SUDEP - sudden unexpected death in epilepsy. It is thought that every year around 1,000 people die from causes related to epilepsy.

With support from Sarah’s family, Metro is fundraising for two very important charities: SUDEP Action and Epilepsy Action.

From March 10 to March 26, which marks Purple Day (epilepsy awareness day), we will be running a series of features and first-person pieces, raising awareness of epilepsy and SUDEP.

Sarah was so incredible at helping other people share their experiences; she was a born storyteller and we hope to do her proud with this series, while raising money in her memory.

I remember feeling like life was really unfair. I wanted a dad who’d be at the school play or one that could take part in sports day and if he’d had a fit or was poorly he couldn’t.  

I remember when he went to a residential epilepsy centre in Buckinghamshire for a week. He was taken off all his medications while there to have his dosages recalibrated and he walked around in a crash helmet in case he had a sudden fall.  

Even though I complained sometimes, Dad was my hero as a kid.

He taught me to tie my shoes, tell the time, ride a bike, bake bread, blow on a blade of grass and have it squeal into the distance.

He and I spent every moment together in my childhood, but I had to share him with his unseen condition that would sometimes disrupt our plans for the day.   

Bike rides would be cancelled at the last minute; his planned support on the sidelines of a netball match conspicuous in its absence as he slept off another seizure, despite promising he’d come and watch me play.  

His epilepsy changed the expected child and parent dynamic between us.  

As I grew, my brother and I took on some of the responsibility of keeping Dad safe.

Over the years he took various cocktails of drugs, all designed to reduce the frequency, voracity or after effects of his seizures, but Mum taught us well to make sure he was lying down wherever he was before a seizure happened, and to move anything he could thrash against that might break or hurt.   

We grew up accustomed to the vacancy that replaced his usual humour in the minutes before he’d start seizing. Afterwards, he would fall asleep, sometimes for hours, in recovery.   

When he woke up, Dad always tried to reassure me. He used to say, ‘You know me, love, I’m indestructible like the Titanic.’ I had no idea the Titanic sank until I was about 11. It was his silly bugger sense of humour and he still says it to me today after a fit.  

As I got older, I could take more honesty. He’d tell me a seizure felt like being in the ring with Mike Tyson. His arms and legs would ache after seizures so violent I’d fear he’d never recover.  

While the memories of worry and fear from my childhood have diminished over time, so have the strength of Dad’s seizures.

He is now 76 and while they are still as powerful in his brain, his older limbs don’t flail like they used to. He’s spent more than four decades dealing with his condition and he’s tired – like a boxer who’s spent too many hours in the ring. 

Epilepsy doesn’t receive the same funding as some other neurological conditions.

Dad has helped the Epilepsy Society for years, jangling a donation tin endlessly on Saturdays in our local town centre and I ran the 2018 London Marathon for the charity, stopping only to hug Dad who came to watch.  

When I saw him at mile 24, there were tears in both our eyes.  

There is no cure, and epilepsy can be fatal, though it usually isn’t. And while it takes the shine off special days or family events, many with it – like my dad – live alongside it.

A cure wouldn’t make a difference to my father’s remaining years but it would mean that kids would get their mums and dads back at full capacity.  

To me, a cure would be bittersweet. I’d love one for all the kids who live with a parent with epilepsy like I did, but it’s too late for my dad. 

There’s no doubt that my life would be different if Dad had been well: Dad would have worked rather than being told, at 32, that he had to give up his fledgling hairdressing business.

We’d have had more money for family holidays and birthday presents…

But I wonder whether I could blow on a blade of grass, or make plaited bread?  

While I thought I wanted a ‘corporate dad’, if he’d worked, I wouldn’t have any of the incredible memories I have with him. He’d have been too busy to build tents in the garden.

He’d have been home late, and gone early in the morning, not there to put empty milk bottles of hot water into my welly boots on cold snowy days. Because he couldn’t work, I got so much more of him.  

I’ve never asked Dad if he’d change his life if he could. Thinking about it, I’d be scared of his answer because I wouldn’t change him for anything. 

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

Lying on an examination table with her legs spread, 16-year-old Annie Charlotte heard the words no one wants to hear from a sexual health nurse: ‘Oh my god!’

She’d gone to the clinic to have a coil fitted in a bid to combat her unbelievably heavy periods, but as soon as the nurse went to insert the speculum, it was clear something wasn’t right.

‘”Oh my god!” is not what you want to hear when a nurse has her hand in your vagina,’ Annie tells Metro. ‘She said there was something in the way of her fingers and that I should go and see a gynaecologist.’

Two weeks, one ultrasound and one MRI later, Annie found out the problem – she had two vaginas. Not only that, but she had two uteruses, two cervixes, two vaginas. ‘But only one set of ovaries,’ she adds.

The reason it had gone undetected for so long was because there had only been one external opening to the vagina.

‘I was mortified… absolutely horrified,’ remembers Annie, now 26. ‘The gynaecologist was a guy which made me super uncomfortable – and then I was told it meant I might not be able to have kids.

‘I remember leaving the doctors and sitting in the car with my mum in silence because we didn’t know what to say. At 16, I just wanted to be normal, but I couldn’t have felt more different – I was so upset.’

The condition, known as uterine didelphys or double uterus, occurs while in the womb. Typically a foetus has two ducts which fuse together to create one uterus, but if they don’t join together it leaves two uteruses.

It’s very rare, affecting an estimated 0.3% of the population and it can lead to fertility issues, or result in two different pregnancies at the same time.

The diagnosis also revealed why Annie had struggled with her periods, to the point that often nothing could stem the flow. ‘The issue was I’d been putting tampons up the wrong vagina,’ she explains.

‘Each uterus bleeds at a different time, sometimes I’d have a period for two weeks straight, or I’d have a period and then have only a two week gap before I bled again.’

If they did menstruate at the same time, which has happened to Annie before, she would sometimes pass out from the blood loss.

Since her diagnosis, she’s been taking the pill to make her periods lighter – although she has to take two a day instead of one to double the dose, which does have its downsides.

‘I often feel really angry, quite depressed and overly emotional,’ admits Annie.

Initially, she had begged the doctor to operate and give her a single vagina, butwas refused because she was so young. Instead, Annie was told to wait until she was ready to think about starting a family. However,she’s received a lot of mixed messages from doctors regarding her fertility.

‘One specialist gynaecologist said in the most nonchalant way: “you’re probably going to have multiple miscarriages“,’ she remembers. ‘Then another doctor told me I could be nine months pregnant and four months pregnant at the same time. The not knowing is so stressful, and I don’t want to be infertile.’

The only comfort Annie, who lives in Surrey, can take, is that she doesn’t want children until her mid-thirties, so hopes that fertility treatments and IVF will have advanced even further by then.

‘If I wanted kids now I’d struggle with it but for now I’m putting it to the back of my mind,’ she adds.

As she got older, Annie never told anyone about her condition. It was only when she went to university and began dating that realised she couldn’t hide it forever.

‘The first time I ever told someone was after I lost my virginity to them – god knows why I blurted it out,’ she laughs. ‘I just lay next to him and said “I have two vaginas”. He looked at me like I was crazy but then just replied “okay” and never brought it up again.

‘I slept with another guy and told him after too. He said he hadn’t felt them and asked to have a look. They actually always ask to look and I’ve never had a negative reaction which is comforting.’

Her biggest worry was having to lose her virginity twice – and remembers it being a ‘painful’ experience, having sex in each vagina for the first time.

Annie, who is currently single, has been told that her two vaginas feel exactly the same as one, but if a finger is placed in each and brought together, you can feel the wall that separates them.

She also says that her right vagina is bigger and deeper, so men’s penises tend to slide into that one during sex in the missionary position, but if she’s doing the doggy style, it slides into the left one.

‘If someone has a large penis I’ll tell them to push into my right one because the left one is a lot shallower, so it makes it more comfortable,’ she explains.

Apart from fertility issues, the other downside to having two vaginas is that revealing her condition makes any relationship ‘very sexual, very quickly’ because it brings up the topic of sex early on, but as a ‘sexual person’ she doesn’t mind it too much.

Aware of her uniqueness, in 2020, Annie even created an OnlyFans account, where she’s known as the Two Pussy Princess, and has since made more than £2 million from the site.

She had been at home in lockdown without any uni work and spent her time sexting multiple boys, until she saw an Instagram post about a girl and how much she made from the platform.

‘I questioned why I was sending these guys sexy videos for free, so I made an account,’ she remembers. ‘I was worried about people accusing me of lying but I know it’s true, and that’s what really matters.

‘I have two vaginas, I was made for this industry,’ she jokes.

A one-in-50 million case...

A mum born with two uteruses welcomed twins, conceiving one baby through IVF in one uterus and the other baby naturally in her other uterus, back in 2023.

Madeline Kaklikos, 24, and her husband, Jon, 27, welcomed their miracle twin boys, Cole and Nate, that February following ten rounds of fertility treatment over three years.

Medics described Madeline’s case as one-in-50 million, due to the fact they were both conceived using different methods and were each developed in a different uterus.

Madeline said: ‘After ten rounds of fertility treatment and years of trying to conceive, it never crossed our minds that we would fall pregnant naturally while undergoing IVF.

‘I’d already been diagnosed with PCOS in 2017, when I was 18, and knew it would be difficult to conceive.

‘However, during an ultrasound to investigate further, it was discovered that I actually have two uteruses and I was diagnosed with uterine didelphys (UD).’

Doctors suggested the couple try IVF, and two embryos were implanted into Madeline’s ‘more accessible uterus’ but unfortunately didn’t take.

In June 2022 they got the call they were pregnant but it was at the 10-week scan that Madeline learned she was expecting twins, with a second spontaneous baby in her second uterus.

Because of her condition, she couldn’t deliver her babies naturally but had a successful C-section at 34 weeks, before being able to take her babies home 17 days later.

A decade on from being diagnosed, Annie has gone from feeling embarrassed to embracing having two vaginas.

‘If you asked me at 16, I’d have said “get rid of it” but now, I wouldn’t change it for the world,’ she says.

‘People are just curious about my body, not negative, so I’ve begun to really accept it rather than hating myself.

‘It’s become my party trick, revealing I have two vaginas. People think it’s really cool and it’s helped me learn to love myself.’

Do you have a story to share?

Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@Metro.co.uk.

‘You’ve got cancer and it’s terminal.’ 

Sitting on a plastic chair in a hospital room, aged 50, I stared at my doctor in shock.  

It was January 2023 and as the news sunk in, I felt fear, confusion; even anger. 

I’d been back and forth to the doctor like a yo-yo with back pain over the last two years but had always been sent away with painkillers. 

Now I was being told I was going to die; and I couldn’t help but feel my learning disability had played a part in my late diagnosis. 

I have a reduced intellectual activity, making it harder to learn, develop new skills and understand complex information. 

I was diagnosed as a child. I struggled at school and was bullied for being different. 

Now, I find it hard to manage money, so I get a regular allowance from my local council. 

I find planning and multiple instructions difficult – and when I’ve been ill I’ve struggled to be taken seriously. 

I’d gone to the doctor countless times with back pain but I found it hard to explain how bad it was. The pain scale didn’t mean anything to me and when I was asked if I could walk about as normal, I struggled to convey that sometimes I’d be fine, other times I’d be curled up in agony. 

And, though I’d had breast pain for some time, I didn’t realise it might be related. 

Someone without a learning disability might volunteer that information, questioning if there was a link – but it didn’t occur to me. No one ever asked if I had pain elsewhere until I was in hospital. 

My GP gave me painkillers and steroid injections. He was nice, often getting me in for appointments at short notice, but I’d previously had doctors and nurses dismiss my concerns or call me a ‘Drama Queen’. 

This all made it hard for me to say that I felt in my gut that something was wrong and to push for tests. 

In December 2022, the pain got so bad my friend rushed me to A&E. 

I was vomiting and felt like I was dying. I spent my 50th birthday in a hospital bed, having blood tests, X-rays and CT scans. 

The doctors found I had breast cancer that had spread to my spine. There was no cure. 

I sobbed and sobbed. I was only 50. 

Did I have just days to live? 

It was clear I’d need lots of support to cope with cancer treatment and I was allocated a Macmillan nurse, a learning disability nurse and support workers from learning disability charity Mencap. 

I started taking maintenance chemotherapy in tablet form to try and keep the cancer under control. 

Thankfully, I didn’t have side effects like nausea or hair loss but I was (and am) constantly in pain; I have a breathing condition called Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disorder (COPD), so I can’t take too much morphine as it could cause respiratory failure. 

The emotional side of cancer has been incredibly tough. I didn’t really understand what terminal cancer was. Luckily, my support workers were amazing. 

One of them, Cat Bell, explained it to me. She said we were on a train journey and at one point we would come to the end of the line, but we didn’t know how long that line would be. 

She was there to talk to when I was feeling low and we spoke about difficult decisions, like what I’d want my funeral to be like – I want a Mickey Mouse cardboard coffin and Beautiful Trauma by Pink to be played. 

Since my diagnosis, the support from doctors and nurses has been really good but I do wonder whether having a learning disability meant I was diagnosed late. 

Research shows women with a learning disability die on average 23 years younger than the general population; and Mencap is concerned about the additional challenges people with a learning disability might face in getting a cancer diagnosis. 

A Scottish study, for example, found people with a learning disability are three times more likely to die from cancer than people who don’t have one. 

This could be because some doctors assume a patient’s symptoms are due to their learning disability (when actually, something more worrying might be going on). I am told this is called ‘diagnostic overshadowing.’ 

But also, doctors and nurses need to make sure they are making ‘reasonable adjustments’. This means giving more time for patients with a learning disability to explain what’s wrong or encouraging people to have someone with them in appointments who can help speak up for them. 

It can also be as simple as easy-to-read information leaflets, longer appointment times or explaining things in a simpler way. 

The NHS needs to be set up for this, with enough staff so they have the time to give this additional support – and every NHS staff member should have learning disability training. 

I was really concerned to hear recently that the Government also plans to scrap the targets which would encourage GPs to do annual health checks for people with a learning disability. 

I want anyone with a learning disability who has worrying symptoms to ask a friend or relative to go with them to their doctor to help push for tests and I’d encourage people to look at the easy-to-read cancer information on Mencap and Macmillan’s websites. 

With Mencap’s support I am trying to live my best life. I have friends over for takeaways, dye my hair a rainbow of colours and spend time making my home nice, filling it with items from my favourite Disney films. 

My days might be numbered but I’m determined to live each one to the full. 

As told to Catherine Jones 

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

My son Zach’s walking challenge was partly inspired by Captain Tom Moore, partly by boredom.  

I took him out of school at the very start of the Covid-19 pandemic; he has cerebral palsy as well as epilepsy, which made him clinically vulnerable.  

He left his walking frame at school thinking lockdown would only last a couple of weeks but he never went back for it, and after watching Captain Tom Moore on the news, Zach decided he wanted to do a walking challenge too, just to see how far he could go under his own steam.  

We drew a 20m track in the garden and decided to raise some money for Epilepsy Society: £260. 

We reached that target on the first day, so friends encouraged us to push it to £2,600. We hit that then just kept going. I reached out to Epilepsy Society, asking if they’d share Zach’s fundraising page on their socials. 

That’s when the trouble started. 

The day after sharing Zach’s story, Epilepsy Society got in touch to say they had been targeted by trolls posting GIFs designed to invoke seizures in people with photosensitive epilepsy.  

I couldn’t understand it. Why on earth did we deserve that? This was an eight-year-old boy they were targeting, and while these people were idiots, they were deliberately trying to cause harm. 

For Sarah

Last year, on March 10, we lost our beloved colleague Sarah Whiteley. Sarah was a fantastic journalist; she was Metro’s parenting columnist and a valued member of our first-person and opinion desk.

Sarah died aged 39 from SUDEP - sudden unexpected death in epilepsy. It is thought that every year around 1,000 people die from causes related to epilepsy.

With support from Sarah’s family, Metro is fundraising for two very important charities: SUDEP Action and Epilepsy Action.

From March 10 to March 26, which marks Purple Day (epilepsy awareness day), we will be running a series of features and first-person pieces, raising awareness of epilepsy and SUDEP.

Sarah was so incredible at helping other people share their experiences; she was a born storyteller and we hope to do her proud with this series, while raising money in her memory.

By that afternoon, I was being sent the images, too. Zach was eight but he could see I was upset and knew something was going on, so I explained it as online bullies trying to be mean.

I showed him stills of the GIFs; he has focal aware seizures that are triggered when he starts to fall asleep but I didn’t want to find out he was photosensitive too, and especially not in this way. 

I reported the troll accounts but they simply set up new profiles and carried on. The Epilepsy Society went to the police but were told nothing could be done.

That’s when I learnt that the charity had been campaigning to make sharing seizure-inducing posts illegal for years, and they asked if Zach would like to join. 

What happened next was a whirlwind. 

One of Zach’s first events was an online roundtable with all the social media companies, discussing how they could target people’s malicious activities.

Then Zach started travelling up and down the country, for different appearances, radio and media interviews.   

He sat in meetings that went on for hours and met various people, always introducing himself and standing up from his wheelchair to shake hands. People may think these things are just a few photo shoots but he worked so hard.  

‘Zach’s Law’ came into force in October 2023 as part of the Online Safety Bill. It makes it illegal to digitally send or show flashing images to people with epilepsy and those caught doing so face a prison sentence of up to five years. Social media companies can be fined up to £18 million if they don’t comply with the law. 

It’s a great step forward and I’m so proud of Zach. However, as the law is only applicable in the UK, someone in another country can still send a seizure-inducing post.

Other countries were watching when we passed it here but the whole world needs to follow the UK’s lead to make the law truly effective.  

Zach developed epilepsy when he was five years old. I’ve always been honest with him – there’s no point hiding it, he is the one who has to live with it. There were a lot of complications during his delivery, which resulted in a 29-day intensive care stay and a diagnosis of cerebral palsy. 

He had seizures at birth as a result of his brain injury, and I was told he’d be at higher risk of developing epilepsy in the future. 

In May just before he turned five, I woke up to find him having a fully convulsive seizure in bed. 

Epilepsy can’t be diagnosed on the basis of one seizure but when Zach had another the following September, he had an EEG and was diagnosed and started on medication. 

Originally it was tricky to get his epilepsy under control. We went through so many different medications, and combinations of medications, but he was still having frequent seizures.

I was trained to give him rescue meds, and keep tabs on every seizure, and I always had a bag packed in case Zach needed to be blue-lit to hospital.  

When his neurologist recommended a drug called Levetiracetam, I was reluctant; it has a reputation for its side effects. Eventually, we had to bite the bullet as nothing else was working. Now, touch wood, Zach has been seizure-free for four years. 

He’s now 13 and I am so proud of him – he has done something amazing. Zach has been invited into the Speaker’s Bench at Westminster; he has met Rishi Sunak and Keir Starmer and been given awards, but he really knew his achievement was big when he was sitting on the This Morning sofa.  

My role is to keep him grounded. It’s strange to think about my child as the figurehead of Zach’s Law when I’m sorting his breakfast and washing his pants!

And as he’s getting older, he wants to stay up on a weekend, and see his friends, and it’s a balance between letting him be a kid and have fun, and being aware that something might happen.

His epilepsy is always in the back of my mind – I don’t know if it’s at the back of his.  

People are always asking Zach what’s next. I thought he should take a break but he recently came back from a weekend at his dad’s to say he’s started campaigning for improved accessibility on public transport.  

He’d already been in touch with our local MP and the media, and he’s set up a petition which now has over 1,000 signatures. He’s so damned polite but his reputation as a fierce young man precedes him, so people listen to him. 

We never intended on any of this when Zach started doing his walking challenge but it’s given him so much confidence. He has seen what he is capable of and he is so driven, he won’t stop.  

This experience is showing him: yeah, I’ve got cerebral palsy and yeah, I’ve got epilepsy. And what?  

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

I made sure to park close to the starting line at my local organised 5k, then I apprehensively got out of my car.

I was worried – scared even. I felt a real fear of the other runners not accepting me because I’m a trans woman. Parking close by meant that if something kicked off I could easily escape. 

But I needn’t have worried. Nobody cared that I was trans – phew! – and everyone greeted me with a smile and zero judgement.

The run itself was exhausting, but in the best way. As I ran through the park I felt a sense of freedom from normal life, even when my feet began to ache and my pulse was racing, I felt happy, comfortable and prouder of myself than ever.

As a child, I had always felt that I didn’t fit as a boy. But back in the 60s and 70s, being trans simply wasn’t a thing that was spoken about, so I suppressed it.

Later in life, I heard about people ‘changing sex’, but that wasn’t something for a working-class person like me. So I continued to push it all down and try to live up to the expectations of society.

But at 56 – in 2017 – the real me couldn’t hide any longer, so I finally came out to the world.

I didn’t really care about what my family would think. I know they are not happy with my transition and some have made negative comments, but I expected that reaction.

More difficult was coming out to colleagues and friends. 

At work, I had been a fairly typical IT person and presented as male – mostly wearing jeans and T-shirts. But once I acknowledged to myself that I was trans, things sort of escalated rapidly.

I remember getting ready to go into the office one morning and just knowing that I couldn’t do the boy-mode thing anymore. So I took a deep breath, gathered my courage and wore a skirt and top.

Nothing was said about me presenting as female for a couple of days, by which time I had become more confident that I was going to be able to sustain this.

Eventually people started asking questions, which I answered as best I could and gradually most seem to have accepted me and my pronouns. A few are obviously hostile but there is a strong equality policy so those that are negative try to keep it to themselves, though I still get the looks of disapproval.

After dipping my toe into socially transitioning, I decided that I wasn’t to ever go back to hiding who I was. No more boy-moding.

Before coming out, I didn’t want to even think about my body. I basically just didn’t want to have anything to do with it.

But I became much more aware of it after coming out. At first, in a negative way – it wasn’t the body I should have, but I couldn’t ignore or suppress it any more.

That spurred me onto realising I could do something about it, even if surgery wasn’t a realistic option because NHS waiting lists are too long and private healthcare is way too expensive.

Hormone replacement therapy (HRT) was possible, as was taking care of me, getting fitter, losing weight, and so on. That triggered me to start looking at options.

I don’t like the gym environment or the fact that it’s costly. So I looked around for alternatives and parkrun was there – which is a free community event where you can walk, jog, or run 5K with a group in your area.

It wasn’t really ever something I even considered doing pre-transition. But after that very first one, I was hooked.

I’ve done four 5k parkruns since then – so a total of 20k so far – and my best time is around 42 minutes at the moment.

Speed and distance aside though, I enjoy it because everyone is just there to run and I feel accepted.

Critics might argue that trans women are not welcome or shouldn’t take part as who they are. Some might even call us a threat to the entirety of female sport. But honestly, everybody is so encouraging – even for a slowcoach like me.

While I don’t hide who I am, I don’t go out of my way to advertise my transness either. I do however tend to wear trans colours (pink, white and light blue), including a trans coloured ribbon in my hair when I run so anybody who cares to know can easily identify me as being trans if they want to. 

If anyone has noticed, they’ve never commented. Instead, I’m just accepted as another mad fool running 5k in the cold and rain. For me this is the most inclusive thing that could happen.

In fact, it’s precisely the lack of any comments, positive or otherwise, that makes parkrun such a safe space for me.

To them I’m a runner (albeit a slow one), not a trans person, an exception or someone to be seen as a threat or managed, and that’s wonderful. So I’d encourage all trans people to try parkrun.

There are obviously the fitness and health benefits but – for me at least – there is the knowledge that I am now taking care of my body and myself. As the real me – and I’m starting to like myself.

I would say trans people participating in this is both a statement of belief in ourselves and a pushback against those that hate us.

As for my own personal goals, I want to get my fitness up to a point where I can actually run the course. Then maybe I can get my time below 30 minutes.

For me, there is no going back to how I used to be. I simply couldn’t exist as I was – and I wouldn’t want to. So my transition plans are to carry on with the private HRT for as long as I can afford it.

But most importantly, I want to continue to defy the world and simply exist as the true me. One that is happy with who I am.

As told to Sophie Molly

In September 2001, my husband Roger and I were woken by strange noises.

We rushed to our eight-year-old daughter Becky’s bedroom to find she was having a seizure. When she came round, she had no idea that anything had happened. 

We saw her GP urgently that morning who gave us a referral letter in a sealed envelope to take to the hospital. 

I will always regret not reading that letter. 

Becky was seen at the hospital by a registrar who told us not to worry as it was probably just a migraine, and told us to give her paracetamol if it happened again. They said that they wouldn’t be able to investigate further unless these episodes became ‘regular and frequent’.

Over the next two years, Becky had a handful of nighttime seizures, each spaced several months apart. 

For Sarah

Last year, on March 10, we lost our beloved colleague Sarah Whiteley. Sarah was a fantastic journalist; she was Metro’s parenting columnist and a valued member of our first-person and opinion desk.

Sarah died aged 39 from SUDEP - sudden unexpected death in epilepsy. It is thought that every year around 1,000 people die from causes related to epilepsy.

With support from Sarah’s family, Metro is fundraising for two very important charities: SUDEP Action and Epilepsy Action.

From March 10 to March 26, which marks Purple Day (epilepsy awareness day), we will be running a series of features and first-person pieces, raising awareness of epilepsy and SUDEP.

Sarah was so incredible at helping other people share their experiences; she was a born storyteller and we hope to do her proud with this series, while raising money in her memory.

This was extremely worrying but as they weren’t ‘regular and frequent’, we believed there was nothing we could or should do. 

When they started happening at monthly intervals in January, February and March 2004, we saw a different GP who agreed to refer Becky again.

Tragically, we subsequently found out the referral was incorrectly triaged. Instead of a neurology specialist, Becky saw a general paediatrician who diagnosed migraine and prescribed medication to treat them.

They stated that even if I was right that she had epilepsy, as by now I had come to suspect, she wouldn’t be prescribed anti-seizure medication as she was approaching puberty.

But not to worry, said the paediatrician: Becky couldn’t come to any harm from the seizures.

Becky then told him about regular lapses of attention and visual disturbances she was experiencing at school (which it was clear to us were absence seizures). 

The paediatrician was still adamant it wasn’t epilepsy but agreed to arrange for an EEG to ‘prove me wrong’. Even then, he reiterated that seizure control medication would be out of the question, and that if she had already been on epilepsy medication, he would have taken her off it due to her age. 

We have subsequently found this information to be totally unfounded and extremely dangerous. 

The EEG did indicate a problem and Becky was referred for an MRI, the results of which were due on May 6. Two days before, on May 4, 2004, our lives changed forever.

Roger found Becky lying face down so he ruffled her hair but she didn’t stir. He pulled her duvet back and knew straight away something was seriously wrong.

He yelled for me and I rang 999 who talked us through CPR but in our heart of hearts, we knew we had lost her. 

That was the worst day of our lives. Much of it is a blur but I will never forget having to say goodbye to Becky at the hospital and then being interviewed by the police back at home.

It was the police who called us a few days later to say that Becky had died from sudden unexpected death in epilepsy (SUDEP). 

At no point had any of the doctors mentioned SUDEP before. We heard it as just a phrase until my sister, who herself has controlled epilepsy, called to say she had done some research and found the charity SUDEP Action, who have been, and still are, an amazing support to us and many other bereaved families.

We felt totally let down by Becky’s GP, the registrar and the paediatrician – none of whom appeared to take us seriously or have any knowledge of epilepsy. 

We requested Becky’s medical notes before her inquest and the letter the GP had written for the hospital following Becky’s first seizure stated ‘IMO (in my opinion) migraine’.

I have no doubt Becky’s misdiagnosis was based solely on those words in the GPs hand-written note.

Since Becky’s death aged just 11, I have discovered a great deal about SUDEP including the fact that around 80% of all epilepsy deaths are potentially avoidable, which for us is obviously devastating. 

I feel passionately that everyone with epilepsy and parents and carers of children with epilepsy, should be given the facts about SUDEP risk very early on so they can make educated choices about their lifestyle to dramatically reduce any risk – and it can be reduced. 

I believe many clinicians withhold this information for fear of ‘upsetting’ people who have been newly diagnosed with epilepsy but SUDEP risk should be openly talked about in the same way most people are aware you can die if you have asthma. 

I have no doubt our lives would be vastly different if anyone had mentioned SUDEP risk while Becky was alive. I would far rather be upset than bereaved. 

We will never know what Becky’s future looked like but I know she would definitely be the most caring aunty to our six-month-old granddaughter.

Our beautiful Becky was a very bright, happy girl with a wise head on her young shoulders. She was a loving sister and loyal friend who also enjoyed her own company whether it be writing poems, drawing or creating ‘crafts’ in her bedroom. 

For us, everything changed that day in May 2004 and I know there will always be a Becky-shaped hole in our lives.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

Looking at the sun glistening on the water, I braced myself as a wave roared towards me.

I paddled, then jumped up onto my board, feeling only exhilaration as I surfed the wave to the shore.

Six months prior, this would have been unimaginable – I would have been lying in bed screaming in pain due to severe stage 4 endometriosis. My torturous symptoms not only affected my fertility and organs but my daily life. 

Moving to Spain has changed everything.

For the first time in over a decade, I am pain free. I can exercise without collapsing, eat without rushing to the toilet. And instead of surviving on a concoction of pain medication, mountain hikes, boxing classes and weekly surf lessons form my new routine.

For 10 years since the age of 17 I visited the GP every month with excruciating pain during my period. I was always told it was ‘normal’.

As time progressed, the pain became unmanageable. I missed work, was bed-bound and even vomited or blacked out from the pain.

Then, in 2013, I was rushed to hospital with severe abdominal pain. A scan revealed I had a 15cm ovarian cyst. I was given a laparoscopy – a procedure where a thin tube with a camera is inserted into the body – which confirmed stage 4 endometriosis, the highest grade of the condition.

My fertility had already been compromised; I was 27.

Endometriosis is a condition where cells like the ones in the lining of the uterus are found elsewhere in the body. It usually affects the ovaries and fallopian tubes but can also be found on organs such as the bowel and bladder. Sadly, it affects 1 in 10 women and takes an average of eight years and 10 months from the first GP visit to get a diagnosis.

The pain I’d experienced is a common symptom, as are painful periods, heavy menstrual bleeding, fatigue, painful bowel movements and pain during sex.

Following my diagnosis, I was naively under the impression I could be cured, but there is no known cure for endometriosis. Following diagnostic surgery, most patients are advised to manage symptoms with hormone treatments. Radical surgery is an option in severe cases.

I was told to start IVF immediately as pregnancy would help symptoms – but what followed was 10 years of hell.

My endometriosis was aggressive, spreading like wildfire to my bowel, colon, rectum and bladder. I underwent four private surgeries, my fallopian tubes were removed and I was hospitalised repeatedly with pain and ovarian infections.

I also experienced nine failed cycles of IVF. One resulted in an early miscarriage, and another a termination for medical reasons at 21 weeks, during peak lockdown. Following this loss, I was hospitalised with sepsis.

The next step was complex surgery, which involved a bowel, rectum and bladder reconstruction, potentially resulting in a permanent colostomy bag. I was terrified of my life changing so much at only 37.

Around this time, my mum suddenly passed away. It was then I started to look at life with a new perspective.

Though I was mentally, physically and financially broken, I didn’t want to be defined by a disease. I felt there had to be another solution to fixing my endometriosis and as they say a change is as good as a rest, I decided to test the theory.

In September 2022, my husband and I decided we wanted to move to Spain. We’d previously lived in Ibiza for a year in 2016, and knew we loved the slower pace and outdoor lifestyle.

It wasn’t easy: Brexit made moving abroad challenging. We researched visa options and found a route that worked for us. Luckily my husband holds an EU passport, and I was able to apply for residency as a non-EU family member. 

We spent a summer in Andalusia, exploring the region’s stunning natural landscapes and Pueblos Blancos, the white, hilltop villages. We visited different cities and coastlines, before settling on the beautiful foodie city of San Sebastián.

While we settled into our Spanish way of life, I noticed my health significantly improving. I reduced my reliance on painkillers, transitioning from frequent morphine use in the UK to occasional paracetamol. 

After a long, complicated process with mounds of paperwork – my residency took eight months to complete alone – we finally got the green light on our residency application and officially moved to Spain in June 2023 with our dog.  

My daily routine became so much slower. Instead of waking up, taking a painkiller and trudging across a muddy field with the dog, only to be in pain hours later while struggling at the laptop, I’d wake up, enjoy a leisurely coffee on the terrace then take a long dog-walk on the beach, before settling down to work from home as a freelance editor.

Rather than eight hours at the laptop, I followed in Spanish footsteps and prioritised life and health. I took little breaks strolling around the city or had lunch at a local bar. 

A lunchtime surf is something I could only have ever dreamt of before, but now it’s become my reality.

My stress and endometriosis pain has eased, allowing me to move more and feel healthier; I drove a lot in the UK, now I usually walk everywhere. While fatigue persisted, it became less frequent and my daily cold swims in the sea have reduced my inflammation.

My diet has also changed drastically. I eat smaller portions thanks to San Sebastián’s signature pintxos (tiny, tasty bites, usually a small piece of bread with a delicious topping). As supermarkets only stock produce that’s in season, there are fewer instant food and frozen products, which encourages me to cook from scratch.

One year ago, I would never have been able to survive on a diet of cava and jamón – they would’ve caused extreme pain – but now I enjoy them.

I asked my endometriosis consultant earlier this year how such improvement could be possible. His instant explanation was ‘the produce.’ He believes the quality of the food is having a significant impact on reducing my inflammation and therefore my symptoms.

And this summer, my annual endometriosis MRI showed no progression or new adhesions. For the first time, my condition was dormant.

While I am not cured, and I take a hormone pill daily, I am stable. Plus I was overjoyed to be removed from the surgery list – I cried happy tears.

I believe a slower, healthier lifestyle in the sunshine has significantly improved my endometriosis and I only wish I’d done it sooner.

This isn’t to say that a move abroad is necessarily going to help every other endometriosis sufferer, but I believe my experience can help people who want to make positive lifestyle changes.

The UK’s fast pace isn’t essential; slow down and say no to extra commitments. It might take longer to walk to the store or gym, but do it. You’ll get exercise, a healthy dose of fresh air and feel better for it.

Shop at your local weekly market; make it an enjoyable, slow-living experience. Join a local wild swimming group and reap the benefits of cold-water therapy.

Two years ago, I was in constant pain. I’m living proof that significant improvement is possible, and that a change really is as good as a rest!

This article was originally published January 4, 2025

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Ross.Mccafferty@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

When Rosie opened a letter and saw the words ‘abnormal cells’ she felt pure panic.

‘I didn’t think I’d be told that way,’ the 38-year-old tells Metro. ‘No one explained what those words actually meant. All I got was a number to make an appointment for a procedure to remove them.’

The letter, which Rosie Dixon received in 2018, was inviting her to undergo a large loop excision of the transformation zone (LLETZ) to remove some pre-cancerous cells discovered in her cervix.

When she made the appointment, she claims there was no room to question the procedure because she was funnelled through an efficient ‘conveyor belt’ system to remove them.

‘I could only ask questions once I was already in the room; there’s no pre-appointment where you can speak to the doctor and explain your fears,’ she remembers. ‘I did ask what are the chances of the cells becoming cancerous and are there any alternative treatments, but they couldn’t answer them. It felt like the doctors were being extremely pushy and that if I didn’t have it done now there was a chance I might not get seen. It was almost as if they were surprised anyone would question the process.’

Rosie says she also felt forced into going ahead because her loved ones were scared by the phrase ‘pre-cancerous cells’ combined with a real sense of urgency. ‘I don’t blame them — the doctors or my loved ones — but it felt like there was no room to make a different choice or at least slow down,’ she explains.

Plus, she adds, there was one side effect that wasn’t discussed with her at all: sexual dysfunction.

‘They only told me about short-term side effects, like bleeding and higher risk of pre-term labour. In their opinion, there were no long-term side effects. Yet, now, after sex, I often experience cramping, and it feels like there’s something wrong inside me. I also have chronic pelvic pain that started after the LLETZ. 

‘I made the link by asking myself, when was the last time I felt intact and pain free? And it was before the procedure.’

Every year, pre-cancerous cells are removed from 50,000 cervixes in the UK via a large loop excision of the transformation zone, commonly known as LLETZ. 

It’s become a standard procedure typically done under a local anaesthetic, designed to remove cells often caused by high-risk strains of the HPV virus before they develop into cervical cancer, the fourth most common cancer in women globally and 14th in the UK. 

‘The procedure uses a small, thin wire with an electric current to burn off the abnormal cells; it’s very quick,’ explains Dr Oluwatobi Adesanya, a GP with a special interest in women’s health. ‘It’s successful for nine out of 10 people who have it. The whole system is an excellent screening programme for cancer because it’s preventative.’

With the NHS aiming to eliminate cervical cancer by 2040, it’s undoubtedly a massive win for women’s health; however, some patients, like Rosie, claim to face long-term side effects that massively impact their sex lives.

Maddie Brown*, 43, had the procedure in 2022. 

‘It was a positive experience and went really well; I was given leaflets with lots of information,’ she recalls to Metro. However, over the next year, she noticed a side effect not included in the leaflets. 

‘At first, I didn’t notice anything because I was single, but when I started seeing my partner in 2023, I immediatelywas aware of differences in sensation,’ explains the civil servant from Wales.

‘I put it down to being with someone new, but once our relationship became more established I started to question what was happening. I’ve never had a super high sex drive, but I did notice a drop, and I couldn’t orgasm from penetrative sex anymore. 

‘Luckily, my clitoris still works, but I didn’t expect something like this to happen and I only made the link after I researched my symptoms and found other women online sharing the same experiences as me.’

Though her partner is always understanding, the impact on Maddie’s confidence is significant. 

‘It’s changed what I enjoy,’ she admits. ‘Especially as we’ve managed to find our relationship at this point in our lives, and everything else works so well. I sometimes feel we’ll never have the closeness and intimacy that I really crave. 

‘I’m keen not to put people off getting a procedure if that’s what they need, but it’s not really informed consent if you don’t know how it could affect you.’

Research into the impact of LLETZ on sexual dysfunction is limited, making it difficult to determine precisely how common the problem is. One study published in the Journal of Korean Medicine showed that as many as 65% of women experience some degree of change in sexual sensation after LLETZ, while a 2010 Thai paper found that the procedure is connected to ‘small but statistically significant decreases in overall sexual satisfaction, vaginal elasticity, and orgasmic satisfaction.’

Despite these findings, such side effects do not appear in any literature given to patients before or after the procedure. It also isn’t mentioned on the NHS page about LLETZ. However, the Royal College of Obstetrics and Gynaecology does mention sexual dysfunction in relation to the procedure, with symptoms including decreased lubrication, pain during intercourse, altered orgasmic sensation, and a feeling of reduced sexual satisfaction. 

Pharmacist Anna, 30, had LLETZ procedures in 2014 and a decade later, in 2024.

‘After both, I didn’t have any libido, struggled with lubrication, and while I can get aroused and orgasm, it feels so different – like it’s not happening to me,’ she tells Metro from her home in Cardiff. ‘I’ve also had pain and some bleeding after sex. I didn’t realise this would be an issue because no one mentioned it. I felt quite prepared to look out for signs of infection, but not this.

‘Now, I’m often self-conscious of bleeding, and I worry that it’s going to hurt me when I have sex or that my partner is going to feel the difference. I don’t feel comfortable or as sexy.’

As someone who works in healthcare, Anna was surprised by the lack of opportunity to ask questions before and after the procedure. ‘I’m reluctant to criticise the people involved because I know what the pressure is like, but It felt like a conveyor belt and kind of a tick box procedure,’ she admits.

One of the issues is that the process is streamlined mainly due to time and monetary constraints. Cervical screenings are conducted on 3.5 million women a year, and following any abnormal results, the NHS is under intense pressure to process these swiftly, meaning patients may not get to discuss the procedure with their GP before or afterwards. 

Patients will have a short consultation immediately before the LLETZ procedure, but there is no follow up appointment for patients to discuss concerns. All results are communicated by letter or text, and a follow-up cervical screening is conducted six months later.

‘In an ideal world, most healthcare professionals would want that pre-counselling and after-counselling. You would want the patient to feel they have more autonomy and choice,’ says Dr Adesanya. 

Without any check-in from their GPs, Rosie, Maddie, and Anna figured out the root of their newfound sexual dysfunction alone by finding a Facebook group with nearly 9,000 members supporting people healing from LLETZ procedures. There, they encountered many other women with similar side effects.

Lots of the posts share struggles to reclaim pleasure after this life-saving procedure, often without the support of doctors. Even after confirming the authenticity of their symptoms, the women still didn’t feel comfortable reporting them, citing fear of dismissal, disbelief, and enduring stigma around women’s sexuality.

Dr Olivia Giovannetti, assistant professor at Queen’s University in Canada, who has conducted several studies into the long-term effects of LLETZ and the information available on it, believes that medical misogyny may play a part in the problem. 

‘Women in the eyes of the healthcare system are still very much viewed as the vessel to birth children, and there’s a lack of consideration for sexual pleasure,’ she tells Metro.

‘I get responses, particularly from older men, like ‘well, my patients never complain,’ or they get defensive, saying treating the cancer is more important [than sexuality]. While the greater good is always removing the cancer cells, that doesn’t change the fact that some people are going home unable to connect with their partner or feel like they’ve lost a part of themselves.’

Dr Adesanya adds that more counselling should be offered to women.

‘It’s been trained in our minds that when you request a prostate-related blood test for men, you counsel them to let them know what doing this may mean regarding hospital appointments, biopsies, and procedures,’ she explains. ‘Do we routinely say this to women when inviting them for cervical screening? No. More definitely needs to be done in terms of educational awareness.’

While Rosie acknowledges that the LLETZ is potentially life-saving, sheadmits she would decline the procedure if she could do it all over again. 

‘If there’s a 1 in a 100 chance of getting cancer, what would you prefer, that, or 1 in 10 that you will be emotionally scarred, physically scarred?,’ she asks. ‘I would go with the odds of chancing it because, to me, quality of life is more important than its length.’

Meanwhile, although Anna is angry about her treatment, she would still do it again if adequately informed, she admits. ‘The cervical screening test and the HPV vaccine are amazing services that help identify and reduce the risk of cancer, ‘ she says. ‘I just would have felt more prepared with how to deal with the side effects if I’d been told. I would have felt less alone.’

An NHS spokesperson told Metro: ‘This treatment is offered to remove abnormal cells with the aim of preventing cervical cancer, and as with all treatments this has to be balanced against any potential risks associated with the procedure itself, including pain, bleeding or discharge.

‘We’d encourage all patients to discuss any concerns about this procedure with their clinician so that they can make an informed decision about whether to proceed.’