My story. From losing control to finding my passion.

My Story — From Losing Control to Finding My Passion. My business is more than just candles and fashion.  It’s a story of resilience, hope and refusing to give up.  

I woke up one morning with a brain disorder.

There was no warning. No rhyme or reason. No gradual build-up that gave me time to prepare.

One day, my life was normal.

The next, everything had changed.

I woke up on a Sunday morning feeling exhausted and incredibly weak. I felt as though I had been hit by a bus. My legs didn’t feel steady beneath me, my arms were sore and my whole body felt completely drained.

I remember thinking, I’m just overtired.

So I rested.

Nothing really stood out to me as being seriously wrong. I wasn’t thinking about a neurological condition. I wasn’t thinking about hospitals. I certainly wasn’t thinking that my life was about to change forever.

On Monday, I went to work.

I wasn’t feeling right. I was still exhausted and weak, but I couldn’t put my finger on what was happening. I’m the type of person who goes to work even when I probably shouldn’t. I push through. I get on with things. I don’t give up easily.

But by Tuesday, things had become much worse.

I was completely exhausted. My body felt wrong, and after speaking with my manager, I finally decided I needed to phone the doctor.

That appointment changed everything.

The doctor examined my arms and legs and carried out test after test. Then she asked me to stand up so she could look at my eyes.

She told me to close my eyes.

I did.

And I fell backwards.

Thankfully, she was ready and caught me.

I remember the absolute fright that went through me.

She sat me down and told me she thought I had suffered a stroke.

A stroke.

I was completely shocked.

I hadn’t imagined anything remotely that serious. I thought perhaps I had an infection, a virus or something that would eventually pass.

Instead, she urgently arranged for me to attend the stroke clinic at the hospital.

I sat in that waiting room looking around at everyone, wondering what on earth had happened to me.

None of it made sense.

I was sent in to see the stroke specialist. He carried out several tests and then told me that I was fine. He said I definitely hadn’t had a stroke and that it was simply migraines.

I remember thinking, No. This isn’t migraines.

I knew my body.

This didn’t feel like a migraine.

I explained that to him, but he argued with me and told me it was perfectly normal.

Because I had lost my mum to a cancerous brain tumour a few years earlier, I asked him if he was absolutely sure. I told him about my mum.

He arranged a CAT scan of my brain for the following day.

Then came the waiting.

One and a half weeks.

It felt like the longest wait of my life.

Eventually, after my doctor and I chased for the results, I finally got the answer.

My brain scan was normal.

Normal.

I was flabbergasted.

Part of me wanted to celebrate that nothing had shown up, but another part of me was screaming inside.

Because I didn’t want someone to tell me my brain was normal.

I wanted answers.

I needed answers.

Something was happening to me, and nobody seemed able to explain it.

When I returned to my own doctor, she looked into my eyes and noticed that one pupil was larger than the other.

She told me that meant something neurological was happening.

I was referred to a specialist hospital in Glasgow for neurology.

I asked how long it would take.

Her answer was:

“I don’t know. It could be months.”

I burst into tears.

I remember saying, “How on earth is anyone expected to live their life like this?”

How do you carry on when your body doesn’t work properly?

How do you go to work when every step feels like a battle?

How do you smile at people and pretend everything is okay when you don’t even know what’s happening inside your own body?

The hospital was dealing with huge backlogs following COVID, and there wasn’t much anyone could do.

So I waited.

And waited.

Every day was exhausting.

Every morning it became harder to get out of bed and go to work. But I kept going.

Because giving up wasn’t something I knew how to do.

Then, one month later, everything became terrifying.

I had just had a shower and was about to dry my hair. I walked into the bathroom to get my brush.

By the time I walked back into the dining room…

I couldn’t see.

My vision had gone.

I was blind.

I remember standing there completely frozen, wondering what was happening.

My world had suddenly gone dark.

I didn’t know what to do.

I couldn’t find my phone. And even if I had found it, I couldn’t see it anyway.

I started trying to navigate my own home from memory. Somehow, I knew the route, but everything felt strange. I kept tripping over things. I felt lost in a place that was supposed to be familiar.

I shouted for my kids.

Thankfully, they were older and were able to contact my mother-in-law.

I eventually made my way into A&E by myself, wearing a mask, absolutely terrified that I was going to fall because I couldn’t see a thing.

I lay in that hospital bed for what felt like days, even though it was only hours.

Slowly, my vision began to return.

Blurry at first.

But I could see.

The relief was overwhelming.

Then I met a specialist who seemed to understand brains.

I called her my “nice brain lady.”

She was gentle. She sat beside me and explained things carefully.

Then she mentioned MS.

She explained that MS was common in Scottish white women in their mid-thirties.

I was speechless.

I walked out of that hospital terrified.

I remember standing outside crying, trying to get a taxi, desperately wanting to run as far away as I could.

But I couldn’t run away.

I had to go home.

I had to face my family.

I had to tell them what was happening.

Months later, I finally got my neurology appointment.

There were more tests.

Blood tests.

More examinations.

More questions.

I was asked to walk in a straight line.

I couldn’t.

I had weakness down one side of my body. I couldn’t walk properly. My memory was terrible.

Eventually, I was referred for a brain MRI.

And once again, I waited.

The waiting was unbearable.

By this point, I was suffering badly with depression. I was exhausted every single day. I had no explanation for what was happening to me.

Was I going to get worse?

Was I going to die?

Was this MS?

Was my life ever going to feel normal again?

Nothing made sense.

I had researched MS, and in my mind I had already convinced myself that was what I had.

Eventually, I had my MRI.

Then came another wait before I could see my neurologist.

When I finally sat down with her, she carried out more tests.

Then she smiled.

“I am pleased to tell you that you don’t have MS.”

The relief was indescribable.

I burst into tears.

She put her hand on my shoulder.

Then she said:

“You have FND.”

I looked at her.

“What on earth is FND?”

Functional Neurological Disorder.

She explained what was happening inside my brain. She explained that my brain wasn’t structurally damaged, but the way my brain was communicating with my body wasn’t working properly.

For the first time in what felt like forever…

I had an answer.

It wasn’t the answer I wanted.

But it was an answer.

I was told that FND could be a lifelong condition and that I would need to adapt my life and learn how to help myself.

So that’s exactly what I did.

I adapted.

I changed my life.

I learned to listen to my body.

And most importantly, I refused to let FND define who I was.

Because although every day can be a challenge, every day can also be an opportunity.

And somewhere along that journey, I found something that gave me back a piece of myself.

Creativity.

Making things with my hands gave me something I desperately needed.

Purpose.

When my body wasn’t doing what I wanted it to do, creating gave me something I could control.

I started making jewellery. Then came candles. Wax melts. Colour. Sparkle. Creativity.

And eventually, my passion grew into something much bigger.

Today, I pour everything I have into what I do.

My businesses aren’t just about selling candles, wax melts, clothing or gifts.

They’re about creating something that makes people smile.

They’re about colour.

They’re about fun.

They’re about individuality.

They’re about reminding people that life doesn’t have to be dull.

And they’re about proving to myself that something incredibly difficult can sometimes lead you somewhere you never expected to go.

I put my heart into every creation.

Every product.

Every design.

Every order.

Because I know what it feels like to have your life turned upside down.

I know what it feels like to be frightened, exhausted and desperate for answers.

And I know what it feels like to find something that gives you a reason to keep going.

That’s why I don’t see what I do as just a business.

It’s part of my journey.

It’s part of my fight.

It’s part of who I am.

FND may have changed my life, but it didn’t get to take my passion away from me.

If anything, it made that passion stronger.

Every colourful creation, every candle I make, every piece of clothing I design and every order that leaves my hands is a little reminder of how far I’ve come.

I went from being terrified that I was losing my life…

to building a life that I am incredibly passionate about.

I still have difficult days.

I still have days when my body doesn’t cooperate.

I still have days when simply getting through the day feels like an achievement.

But giving up?

That’s not an option.

I have fought too hard.

I have come too far.

And I have too much passion left to give.

**This isn’t just what I do.

This is what helped me find myself again.**

Pacing. Making. Helping others.