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I was volunteering at George House Trust – a charity which offers support to people living with HIV – cataloguing their archive, when I reached for a large black leather album.

I could feel the tears welling up as I flicked the pages to the one I was looking for.

There it was. The words ‘To be remembered’…Paul Higson. Born 31.8.68. Died 01.11.96, and a photo of a smiling young man.

Just one entry in a memorial book for people who died of AIDS.

As I read those words, surrounded by boxes of reports, photos, memorabilia and meeting minutes, the memories flooded back – from nearly 30 years ago, but strong as ever.

Such joy and happiness; pain and loss.

I first met Paul in 1992, when I was 29 and a student at Sheffield Hallam University. He was visiting a friend who’d told me Paul needed cheering up; he’d just found out he was HIV positive.

The three of us met at a club. By the end of the night, our mutual friend had disappeared, leaving Paul stranded – so he came home with me.

We talked until the sun rose, constantly laughing as he made jokes and sang along to the music that was playing. By the morning I felt I knew everything about him: His love of music and cars, his work at an accountancy firm, and his family.

But behind the carefree façade I could see there was also a frightened young man whose world had been turned upside down.

When I hugged him goodbye I didn’t want to let go. We swapped numbers and spoke daily on the phone until he came to visit me from Lancashire the following weekend – a routine that then carried on for a year.

Being with Paul just felt right. I’d found my soulmate.

I moved to Manchester to do a Masters – but then Paul started having health problems.

First, Paul had several seizures, which meant he could not drive for six months and had to take additional medication, in addition to his preventative medication, as his immune system started to weaken.

He started a course to complete his accountancy exams but after a few months his health got worse with night sweats, sickness and diarrhoea, leaving him weak and losing weight.

I picked him up and brought him back to live with me in Manchester.

Weeks passed with no improvement and he became thinner and weaker, eventually needing a wheelchair when we went out.

By this point, I’d given up my studying to care for Paul. His sister, Linda, was a great support but lived in Canada and his widowed mother would not have been able to cope with the illness – so it was up to me and there was no way I would ever let him down.

He was my world.

There were regular stays on the infectious diseases ward at North Manchester hospital. The terrace house I was renting was unsuitable for Paul’s needs so Body Positive, a Manchester HIV charity, helped to get us a flat in Hulme.

By November 1995 it looked like the stomach infection that was causing his illness – an opportunistic infection that took advantage of the suppressed immune system – was going to kill him.

With little left to lose, doctors put him on a large dose of drugs – and the results were incredible. Within a few months Paul had put on weight and all symptoms had gone. It was like a miracle.

Paul visited Linda in Canada and she rang me in tears saying, ‘I don’t believe it – I’ve got my brother back.’

I started work and life got back to normal. But the bug causing Paul’s illness slowly became resistant to the treatments and started to return.

SIx months later, he was back to how he had been.

This time, I continued working while caring for Paul, as he had support from two ‘befrienders’ – Paul from Body Positive and Barbara from George House – who visited regularly and provided emotional support.

Along with the team at North Manchester hospital and a home help, they helped us to cope; soon I was lucky to get four hours of sleep at night, what with changing bedding wet from Paul’s night sweats and helping him to the bathroom.

At lunch, I’d come home to help Paul get out of bed, shower and dress. Evenings were spent doing laundry, cleaning and preparing his medicine for the following day.

The only time I had for myself was at a weekly group for HIV-negative partners run by George House Trust volunteers that provided support from others who were going through the same things.

Eventually Paul was so weak a feeding tube was inserted into his chest to provide nutrition, and I was taught by nurses how to administer it along with all his other drugs.

By this point, Paul was a shadow of his former self but his humour always shone through.

The treatment seemed to work and his health improved – until he became unwell again and, this time, was diagnosed with an E.coli infection.

The feeding tube was removed in case it was the infection site.

When Paul told the consultant that he didn’t want the feeding tube replaced, because he didn’t want to go on like this and it just seemed to be delaying the inevitable, there was a strange sense of relief for both of us.

Without any nutrition, Paul would have about three weeks left to live – but the rollercoaster of illnesses followed by slow recovery would be over.

There’d be time for tears later but there were three weeks to pack with memories first.

Having come off treatment, Paul was started on palliative care, including regular doses of morphine administered through a syringe driver, and we returned home.

Initially, there was a relief from symptoms and the first week we went out daily – but by the second week Paul was too weak. So many people came to visit and say goodbye: Physiotherapists, nutritionists and social workers, as well as friends and family.

Paul died at home on 1st November 1996 with me and Linda lying by his side.

He was 28 years old.

The situation now is so different with effective HIV treatment. Paul was so unlucky that these treatments were not available in time for him.

I often think about what Paul would have achieved if he had not died so young. AIDS took so much talent, so many wonderful people from us.

I now work for the Passionate about Sexual Health (PaSH) Partnership: A collaboration between BHA for Equality (formerly Black Health Agency), the LGBT Foundation and the George House Trust, which offers support to those living with HIV and which aims to help end HIV transmission within a generation.

Caring for and losing a partner to any disease is devastating but the stigma and fear around HIV in the 1990s made it particularly intense and probably brought Paul and I closer together.

I treasure the memories I have of Paul – and count myself lucky to have people in my life who also remember him.

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

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Depressed. Isolated. Disconnected.

These were the main things my patient, Seamus*, was feeling when he came to me for help in February last year.

As a GP I see my fair share of patients and treat all manner of physical and mental ailments.

Mostly though, I listen. That’s what helps me get to the root cause of a problem.

That’s why, when Seamus explained to me that he and his wife had recently separated – leaving him alone and living miles away from his kids – I knew it was unlikely any medication would help in the long run. But I knew something that could.

‘Have you tried parkrun?’ I suggested with a smile. And a confused Seamus shook his head.

Parkrun first launched in 2004 but has since grown to have a huge following across the UK.

Every Saturday at 9am, in public open spaces across the country, a group of volunteers put on a free 5K walk, jog or run.

And in my personal opinion, these runs are the perfect prescription for patients – even I’ve benefitted.

Now, a poll of 2,000 people has found that 65% agree with me, and 51% believe prescribed parkrun could reduce pressures on the NHS.

My first run in (if you’ll pardon the pun) with the organisation came in 2016. I was 25-years-old, overweight, sedentary, had little work-life balance and was eventually diagnosed with fatty liver disease.

As there is no specific medication to treat this condition (only pills to manage the problems that occur as a result), my only choice was to make healthy lifestyle changes. That’s when a colleague suggested parkrun to me.

Attending my first event at Leamington Spa one Saturday in October 2018 was nerve wracking. I hadn’t run any distance for seven or eight years, and I’d never completed a 5K before, so I was braced for a serious challenge.

To my surprise, the first 400m felt amazing. The joy of running, jogging and walking alongside others was incredible and I felt myself enjoying it. But then the exhaustion began to set in.

My legs soon felt heavier, my breathing became laboured and I started to slow down – I even recall being passed by those twice my age and even some pushing buggies.

Had it not been for my wife, who was by my side the whole way, I would have called it quits. But I’m thankful I didn’t, because as I reached the end, there were swarms of people cheering me on as I plodded through the finish funnel.

It really was such a buzz to have so many people, so many strangers, supporting you. And it was that moment, that community feel, which made me want to come back and commit to a healthier lifestyle.

Soon I’d committed to an event each week, which then encouraged me to start making small changes in other areas of my life. I began eating better, adjusting my work day to move more regularly and slowly it transformed my health.

I felt healthier and more confident and like a whole new person. Now all I wanted to do was tell more people about it.

So when, in 2018, parkrun launched its ‘Practice Initiative’ – which aimed to foster engagement among both staff and patients of GP surgeries – I was keen to get involved.

I started by leaving the parkrun magazine in the waiting area of my surgery, then I encouraged other members of my practice to ‘take over’ one of the Saturday sessions – meaning everyone from myself to the receptionists filled the volunteer roles.

By doing this at my own surgery I witnessed the benefits for both our patients and community first-hand. My patients had improved menopausal symptoms, diabetic control and those that started attending parkrun with us seemed to be coping better when it came to mental health in general.

And now, I’m the Royal College of GPs physical activity lead, which sees me support other surgeries to become parkrun practices.

Personally, I’d love all GP surgery’s to get involved and I can’t help but wonder how many lives could be helped by prescribing parkrun as a course of treatment.

We already know that physical inactivity contributes to as many deaths as smoking in the UK, yet we are 20% less active than in the 1960s and around 26% of men and 27% of women are classed as sedentary.

Physical activity has been shown to play a significant role in the prevention and management of over 20 chronic illnesses, including: type 2 diabetes, cardiovascular disease, depression and certain cancers – all of which are on the rise.

As a GP I often see patients who have more than one health problem and, in many cases physical activity can help tackle more than one issue. So why wouldn’t I prescribe it?

It’s also zero cost and has no side effects, unlike medications, so to me, it’s a no brainer really.

We regularly prescribe parkrun at our surgery and have done so to hundreds of patients, including Seamus.

While not all patients take this prescription seriously – we, of course, continue to work with those people on barriers they face to physical activity and treat them in other ways – those that do have never once given negative feedback.

Even in Seamus’s case, though he was, understandably, perplexed at first, I knew it could be a way to help him connect with the community and that the physical activity itself could help his mood.

Of course, we agreed that if he did not find parkrun helpful, he could come back to me and we could revisit the medication discussion. But he never did.

Instead, we regularly bump into each other at parkrun events – where we have a catch up.

And he has since told me that connecting with others in the community has made a real difference to improving his mental health. I second that.

I always feel welcome, well supported and have met incredible people from all walks of life and volunteering is equally rewarding.

Perhaps one of the most rewarding aspects of my work though is seeing patients like Seamus at parkrun and witnessing the joy and the benefits they get from it and the friendships they have formed.

As a nation we need to get more active and with 1,247 events around the UK, there’s plenty of opportunities to get involved. It doesn’t matter if you’re a patient or a practitioner, a runner or not, you will be welcome at parkrun.

I believe in the benefits, and that anyone can do it. So I guess I’ll see you at the starting line soon?

A version of this piece was originally published in June 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.

Some lucky people will find themselves out like a light as soon as their head hits the pillow at night.

Others will be tossing and turning, replaying the day’s events, counting sheep and watching the hours tick away as they struggle to fall asleep.

Thankfully there are tips and hacks aplenty to practice better sleep health, and handy trick might be just what you need.

Have you tried to, just stay up? We know it sounds totally counter-intuitive but it seems there is method in the madness.

A technique called paradoxical intention has been in the works since the 1930s, usually used to treat anxiety disorders, but it can also be utilised for better sleep – you just have to tell yourself you’re not falling asleep and not put any pressure on yourself to drift off.

Paradoxical intention is an accepted psychological technique for treating insomnia. It was first named by the Psychologist Victor Frankl in 1939. He believed to treat anxiety we need to face the fear of whatever it is that is making us anxious.

As well as anxiety and insomnia, the technique is also used to treat OCD, anorexia and many different phobias.

For insomnia, the theory is that when we get into bed and try to go to sleep, the pressure of trying to sleep, causes anxiety. This switches on the sympathetic nervous system (SNS) – the body’s ‘fight, fright and flight system’ which is the response needed for the body to flee from danger.

The anxiety of trying to sleep then puts you on high alert, something that isn’t helped if you keep glancing at the clock. However, you can lull yourself into a sleep by telling yourself to do the opposite.

We spoke to Dr Deborah Lee, sleep expert from Doctor Fox, who tells us about how to practice paradoxical intention, and activate your PSNS instead of the SNS nervous system.

Dr Lee tells Metro: ‘If you get into bed and tell yourself you must stay awake, funnily enough the opposite happens, and the parasympathetic pathway (PSNS,) the body’s main rest and relaxation pathway is activated.

‘The PSNS is the dominant autonomic nervous system in operation when we sleep. Your natural sleep drive takes over and you find yourself falling asleep.

‘The key principle is that you need to be convinced that it’s fine to be lying there awake and that sleep will come. If you don’t buy into the exercise, it won’t work.’

While more tests need to be carried out, in 2002 a study concluded that paradoxical intention was better at reducing sleep-related anxiety than other passive methods of trying to induce sleep. In some studies, the effects of paradoxical intention on insomnia led to large improvements in insomnia symptoms.

Dr Lee notes that there a myriad of reasons why someone may be having trouble dozing off and that it’s worth interrogating what these are. She also warns that paradoxical intention alone might not be enough, as you’ll also need to be practicing good sleep health.

‘Sleep and falling asleep are complex,’ she explains. ‘Many of us are kept awake by all sorts of issues such as noise, overheating, an uncomfortable bed, night-time allergies and worrisome thoughts.

‘Paradoxical intention can’t fix everything! It’s only likely to work if you practise good sleep hygiene, with all these variables corrected, and a set bedtime and getting up time.’

But given that the brain is so powerful, you could run the risk of manifesting the assertion that you won’t fall asleep and end up staying up.

The expert adds that while you might not get the technique right straight away, don’t put pressure on yourself and don’t give up – come back to it.

‘Learning to control our thoughts is a crucial part of going to sleep. By facing up to what we dread, we are normalising the situation. Each time we go through it, it feels a little less frightening.

‘Paradoxical intention is not a quick fix and it works little by little, over time. If you find it isn’t working, go back to basics and address all the key issues for sleep hygiene. Work on increasing your natural sleep drive by not napping during the day, taking exercise during the day and going to bed a bit later when you feel tired.’

Do you have a story to share?

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

Confused, I repeated the doctor’s words back to her. ‘I have endometriosis?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘And I recommend going straight for IVF, promptly.’

I was too stunned to speak. What had started as a check of my reproductive health after trying for a baby for nearly a year was now more serious.

While I’d expected some complications with conceiving as a result of my 16-year-long battle with anorexia, I never could have predicted this.

Growing up I’d had a stable, happy childhood and no serious body image concerns.

However, at age 20 when I started my PhD, I joined the gym for the first time in my life.

I wasn’t striving for skinny, just aiming to feel ‘toned’, strong and healthy. But very quickly I became obsessed with the calorie counter on the treadmill as it represented all the food I was ‘earning’ – not that I ever did repay myself.

Though I didn’t know it at the time because I was on the pill, I had stopped menstruating around this period due to being underweight.

By the time I turned 21, my obsession with being ‘virtuous’ turned into a full-blown eating disorder.

It felt like I was saving up for a day when I would eat all the food I’d ‘earned’ but that day never came.

In 2007, now 22 and feeling trapped, I sought help from university health services and was officially diagnosed with anorexia.

It made me feel like an imposter, not least because by this point I wasn’t yet drastically underweight.

So, I carried on as I had been. Before long, I was exercising every day and eating in a restrictive, ritualistic way.

None of it was enjoyable, but I felt unable to live any other way. In my mid-twenties I moved cities to start my first job and was quite reclusive, unable to socialise because of my strict gym regimes and fear of eating anything other than my safe foods in the environment of my flat, which I rented alone.

A few years later, however, I requested help again as, by now, my weight was dangerously low.

I knew I looked visibly ill and my family and friends were very concerned. I was also absolutely sick of being trapped in a disordered lifestyle.

I went to a new doctor, who took me off the pill, which I’d been on since I was a teenager, as he suspected my menstrual cycle would have been stopped anyway due to my weight.

Sure enough, even after stopping contraception, my periods were absent.

My eating disorder was obviously doing serious damage to my reproductive system, which scared and saddened me.

Inpatient treatment was suggested but I refused because I just couldn’t see myself living in a hospital.

I therefore began treatment as an outpatient at a NHS eating disorders unit. Despite this, my weight continued to decrease and, just days before my 29th birthday, the mental health crisis team arrived on my doorstep.

I came to realise that gaining weight was my way out of this mental torture, as the brain needs nourishment to think clearly

They told me the eating disorder unit had a bed waiting for me, insisting I needed to go into inpatient treatment. Once again I refused, forcing the crisis team to conduct an assessment, there in my living room, to see if they could section me.

I answered their questions in a way that avoided that fate, but it left me frozen in stasis – I felt I had no fight left.

Gradually I gathered strength and decided to garner more agency over my recovery.

I leaned into self-help, including podcasts, books and blogs, and my love for science was ignited in learning about the mechanisms of this complex illness.

Through this, I came to realise that gaining weight was my way out of this mental torture, as the brain needs nourishment to think clearly.

Slowly, I saw food as a sort of medicine.

I started gaining weight and the mental torture slackened. I stopped all exercise except walking and introduced more food, and more variety, into my daily intake.

Importantly, I started seeing eating as an opportunity to challenge anorexia by realising what my illness wanted me to do, and doing the opposite.

In the midst of these difficult years, I’d met my soulmate and, in February 2020, we got married – my weight just within ‘healthy range’.

Against all odds, when I was almost 36, my periods restarted.

They weren’t regular, which I put down to ongoing recovery, but suddenly, the thing we’d barely dared to dream about  – having children – was now a possibility. I felt proud, hopeful and with a renewed sense of responsibility.

But when we still weren’t pregnant after a year, we were referred to reproductive medicine and received that shocking endometriosis diagnosis.

I’d presumed the reason I wasn’t getting pregnant was that my body needed help ovulating, that I’d be given some tablets to encourage ovulation and that a baby would follow soon after.

Now I was facing IVF and the fact I had endometriosis without knowing it?! I felt blindsided.

On reflection, the fact that the disease had been hidden was understandable. Endometriosis can be silent, but I may have noticed symptoms – perhaps irregular, painful periods – had I been menstruating throughout my adult life.

Specifically, I have something called ovarian endometriosis, large cysts which have damaged my egg quality and quantity, which has significant implications for fertility.

‘Combined with your low egg reserve and age of 37, there’s no point bothering with less invasive forms of treatment because your chances of success are too low,’ the doctor explained kindly.

I was crushed, and daunted.

After seeing me through a life-threatening mental illness, my husband and I had thought our battles were mostly behind us.

We’d come out stronger together so we could get on with being married and starting a family, but now there was another hurdle in our way.

As it later transpired, my endometriosis was all over – spreading to my pelvis and twisting my fallopian tubes – meaning we’ve had to face the fact that, even with IVF, our chances of success are relatively low.

Determined not to give up, we’ve followed the doctor’s advice and started treatment –  our fertility crusade continues.

So far we’ve been through 10 egg retrievals, 9 embryo transfers but zero pregnancies. We are still holding out hope and, fortunately, our relationship seems to go from strength to strength with every setback.

Had I not been ill for almost the first decade of our relationship, we’d probably have started trying for children sooner.

If we had, maybe my endometriosis would have been discovered at an earlier age before my egg reserves were so damaged, so treatment could have started quicker and improved our chances.

During recovery I’d become philosophical about my eating disorder, almost grateful to anorexia for the empathy, compassion and resilience it gave me. I was even starting to accept its part in my life trajectory.

Now though, I will never forgive it for its part in infertility. 

If I could go back to 2006 and drag that young woman off the treadmill, or smash the calorie counter, I would.

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.

In the world of pro wrestling, when both your shoulders are pinned down flat on the ring and the referee counts to three – otherwise known as a three-count – you’ve lost that match.

I’m a pro wrestler and my shoulders have been pinned down in that way many times.

I’ve often been unable to ‘kick out’ – using my legs to break out of the pin and get my shoulders off the mat – before gingerly walking backstage to shake my opponent’s hand.

I expect it in the ring; but I would have never thought my shoulders would be flat on a hospital bed instead, as I was wheeled into an operating theatre to remove a tumour from my kidney. Diagnosed with renal cell carcinoma – stage 3 kidney cancer – I faced my biggest opponent yet.

It started on a perfectly normal evening.

I was at home playing Call of Duty: Warzone with the boys in lockdown 2020. We were all joking around, waiting for the next game to start. I got up to use the bathroom, and that’s when my world shifted.

Blood. In my urine. A vivid, unmistakable red.

What was happening? My thoughts raced but I convinced myself it wasn’t worth spiralling yet.

That was the beginning of my journey with kidney cancer.

After that initial shock, I went back to my game, trying to shake the unease. ‘Hey, something weird just happened,’ I said casually, as if downplaying it might make it less real.

When I told my friends about the blood, the joking around stopped. Their concern was immediate, but so was their advice: ‘You need to get that checked out.’

But the macho wrestler in me decided to leave it for a few more weeks, ignoring the daily image of blood in my urine. It became increasingly red but I continued to brush it off. Google told me it could be a UTI, so that was the narrative I stuck with.

Around this time, I started noticing other changes too. My appetite vanished. I could barely eat half of what I normally would – I had always had a big appetite from lifting weights.

But I dismissed it, blaming lockdown and not being able to work out how I did due to the gyms being closed. So, I accepted my 7kg muscle loss.

I eventually told my sister. She’s the kind of person who doesn’t mince words. ‘Adil,’ she said firmly, ‘You have to see a doctor.’ I brushed it off at first but her insistence stuck with me, and when I saw blood again a few days later, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

I finally booked an e-consult with my GP, a month after the initial red flag. The doctor’s voice grew serious as I spoke over the phone and they immediately referred me for tests.

From that moment on, everything moved fast: blood tests, urine samples, ultrasounds, a cystoscopy, CT scans, and finally a biopsy. Each appointment brought a mix of dread and hope. ‘Maybe it’s nothing,’ I’d think. But also ‘What if it’s something?’

The day of my diagnosis is etched into my memory. I asked to be called with my biopsy results instead of traveling 45 minutes to Hampstead’s Royal Free Hospital. I just wanted them to rip the band-aid off.

‘You have kidney cancer,’ said the doctor on the phone.

Time seemed to slow down. I remember staring at the floor, trying to process what that meant.

Cancer. How? Why me?

All I could think about was how drastically my life had just changed, but I needed my mindset to be bulletproof.

The decision to have surgery was made quickly. My tumour was large, and surgery was the best, and only option to remove it before it could grow further. I was terrified but also relieved that something could be done.

Between my diagnosis and the surgery, only a few weeks passed, but those weeks felt endless. The wait was agonising. I spent a lot of time reflecting, praying, and trying to prepare myself mentally for what lay ahead.

The surgery was physically and emotionally gruelling – my abdomen was bandaged up, I was still high from the anaesthesia and sat in an empty ward with no friends and family around me as lockdown restrictions were still active.

The pain was intense, but so was the relief – the tumour was gone. The surgery had been major – they’d removed my entire kidney, so recovery was slow.

There were days of frustration and tears, as I processed what I’d been through and struggled to adjust, but also moments of gratitude. Friends and family rallied around me – their support was a lifeline through the tough days.

When I got the all-clear that I was cancer-free, ‘Alhamdulillah’ was the first thing I said. The Arabic phrase meaning ‘All praise to God’ captured my overwhelming relief and joy.

But the experience left its mark, which is why I decided to share my story and make a documentary – ‘Wrestling with Cancer’. It’s a self-made project, directed by me, with my good friend as the director of photography Saif Babur, and SHXRPSHOOTRS production house.

It went to film festivals worldwide and is aimed at helping others going through similar battles – we talk to other cancer survivors and their journey, raise awareness about cancer, and show that there is hope, even in the darkest moments.

Working on the documentary has been incredibly rewarding, and given me the opportunity to go on national TV to tell my story – it has turned this from a negative into a positive.

I also get DMs from newly diagnosed cancer patients saying that they didn’t think there could be any light at the end of the tunnel, until they found my story.

It’s important I tell people that cancer cannot put you in a box and shackle your life down – instead it gives you the biggest fight of your life and if you are blessed to overcome it, anything is possible.

These days, I’m back to acting and wrestling, a passion I’d put on hold during my treatment.

Getting back in the ring after one year post op was both terrifying and exhilarating. My body felt different, but it also reminded me of my strength and what I’d overcome.

If there’s one thing I want readers to take away from this, it’s this: Listen to your body. Don’t ignore the signs, no matter how small they seem, and contact your GP to get checked.

When faced with challenges, lean on the people around you. Their support can make all the difference.

Cancer changed my life, but it also gave me a new perspective.

My doctor told me that I still have to live with the fact that there’s a one-in-three chance my cancer will come back, but I’m more determined than ever to live fully, to chase my passions, and to make every moment count.

But finding cancer early makes it more treatable, so I won’t be putting off any warning signs in the future.

There’s no way in hell I’m letting cancer pin me with my shoulders down for the three-count. Instead, you best believe I am kicking out.

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

I’ll never forget the moment my cardiologist looked at me, shook his head, and said: ‘You were cutting it fine, Mr Howells.’

I was sitting in his office, gripping the arms of the chair a little too tightly, as he explained that one of the main arteries in my heart was dangerously blocked, and could have failed at any moment.

When I signed up for a health assessment, I wasn’t expecting much more than a reassuring nod from a doctor, and to be told to keep doing what I was doing.

I was 73, living a busy life as an artist in Cornwall, and felt pretty healthy all things considered. I walked my dog every day, I’d quit smoking years ago, and hadn’t experienced any major health issues.

But something nagged at me. A little voice in my head said, Just check, it can’t hurt. So, on instinct, I booked the test.

I’d seen Bluecrest’s ads online for these full health MOTs, and since they weren’t offering them through the NHS where I lived at that time, for £189 I thought it was worth the money.

I went to a clinic just around the corner from me, had a few blood tests, a body composition scan, as well as testing things like blood pressure, and heart rhythm. The process was easy, and I was told I’d have my results within a week – so to be honest, I didn’t think much more about it after I left the room.

What happened next changed everything.

The first red flag came in the initial results: an irregularity in my heart.

It wasn’t something I had ever worried about before – I’d never had chest pains, never felt faint. That’s what was so scary about it all.

I took the report to my GP, who immediately referred me to a cardiologist and everything happened quickly after that. A series of tests followed, each one seemed more urgent than the next, and finally, an angiogram confirmed I had a serious blockage in one of my main arteries.

The cardiologist was very clear with me. Without intervention, I was at high risk of a heart attack.

I sat there, stunned. I’d gone into this process expecting a routine check-up and was now facing the reality that my heart was apparently a ticking time bomb.

I underwent an angiogram – where a dye was injected into my arteries to highlight the blockage – and there was no debating the result.

It was clear to see most of the blood vessels filled smoothly with the dye, with an obvious gap where the blockage was. Seeing it for myself really drove home the seriousness of the situation.  

A stent was fitted immediately to restore my blood flow, and though it was uncomfortable and sore for a little while afterwards, it was nothing compared to the likely alternative outcome.

I thought I was in the clear at this point. It was an ordeal, but something I could move past and continue what I thought was a healthy life.

As I got my strength back over the next few weeks, I felt grateful that this had been picked up early and was seemingly in the past. But my health journey didn’t stop there.

A follow-up CT scan a few weeks later revealed new abnormalities in my lungs. After further tests, I was diagnosed with emphysema, a chronic lung condition.

This was news to me, and if I hadn’t had been in the doctors following up on my health MOT results, they would have never taken a closer look at my lungs.

I’d just overcome one issue, to be hit with another felt insurmountable.

I had assumed that my breathlessness was just a normal part of aging, or due to my use of pastels in my artwork. To learn that the damage had already been done from smoking, even though I had given up 25 years ago, felt like a huge blow.

I overhauled my lifestyle: while I had always been active, now, I was focussing more on breathing exercises and ensuring my environment was lung-friendly (goodbye smoky venues, dust and pet hair).

The diagnosis also forced me to reconsider how I worked. I said farewell to the pastels that had helped me to create beautiful (but dust heavy!) pieces, and shifted to acrylic painting – a cleaner alternative.

Artistically speaking, it’s been a challenge as I feel like I’m starting from scratch again. But I also knew it was a necessary shift, and one I’m glad I made as I’m getting better every day.

As for my nutrition, whereas before I’d eat red meat, roast dinners, the lot, now I follow a plant-based wholefood diet.

If you’d have told me 10 years ago that I’d genuinely be enjoying meat-free dinners and wholefood salads I’d have laughed!

But what happened to me is no laughing matter, and I’m determined to take it seriously.

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

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Gen Z workers who are fed up with the corporate grind are taking micro-retirements for a better work-life balance.

The trend, which has emerged on TikTok, sees workers stepping away from their jobs for extended breaks, despite being far away from the traditional retirement age.

According to videos posted on the app, micro-retiring allows them to focus on themselves, ‘make the most of their youth’ and ‘optimise their mental health’.

‘It’s basically where, throughout your career, you take time off instead of waiting and deferring until you’re older to take all of your retirement,’ TikTok user @anaisfelt explained.

Having been on a micro-retirement for six months after quitting her corporate job, she claims she’s ‘never felt better’ and ‘highly recommends it.’

The creator explained she saved a ‘sizeable chunk’ of money which allowed her to take the break.

The length of time can vary from a few weeks to a year, or even longer, with people using the time to travel, work on personal projects, or recover from burnout. Many plan to return to work feeling more refreshed and motivated afterwards.

In another video, British creator Adama Lorna told her followers: ‘It’s this idea that instead of waiting until you’re 60 or 70 to travel the world and try and indulge in hobbies, you do them when you have your youth, energy and health – you dot them around your life.’

She added that the mini-retirements ‘frees up your mind to think about so many other things’.

However, not everyone is convinced by the trend. Some have dismissed it as nothing more than an extended holiday.

‘You’re literally just going on holiday,’ one person commented under the video. Another added: ‘In other countries, they just take a holiday and have retirement too.’

Others wonder how you would transition back into the workplace after such a long break. ‘How do you possibly go back to work after the break?’ one user wrote. While some questioned how much you would need to fund the career break.

The phrase ‘micro-retirement’ was first described in The 4-Hour Workweek, a self-help and career guidance book published in 2007 by Tim Ferriss.

With the retirement age set to rise from the current age of 66 and becoming further out of reach for Gen Z, many are opting for these short breaks to avoid delaying their personal fulfilment and well-being.

Metro spoke to psychologist and careers expert Dr George Sik at eras to explain why the recent trend is more than simply taking a holiday.

He explains: ‘Micro-retiring is quite different from a holiday or even a standard career break. A holiday is typically a short escape, lasting a couple of weeks, and while it provides rest, it doesn’t allow for the deep reset needed to truly combat burnout or reassess career goals.

‘Many people return from holidays still feeling workplace stress or quickly falling back into the same routine.’

Dr Sik claimed that micro-retirement can be a proactive way to combat burnout by allowing individuals to ‘fully recharge’ – rather than just finding ways to manage stress day-to-day.

He adds: ‘Unlike annual leave, which often isn’t enough to truly disconnect, these intentional breaks provide the space for rest, personal growth, or travel.’

A 2025 report from Mental Health UK found that one in five people need time off work due to burnout, highlighting a growing concern in the UK workforce.

Young workers are also reporting lower levels of job satisfaction, according to a Pew Research Centre survey from last year.

Micro-retiring, Dr Sik explains, can help with career sustainability in the long run.

‘Rather than pushing through exhaustion until a major burnout forces time off, planned breaks can help maintain steady engagement and productivity,’ he says.

From an employer’s perspective, Dr Sik adds: ‘Companies that invest in the well-being of their employees will see benefits in retention and productivity.

‘Today’s workforce, and particularly Gen Z, thrive in environments that support mental health and work-life balance. When employees feel valued and supported, they are more likely to stay with a company and perform at their best.’

Micro-retiring is just one of the many ways they’ve adapted to the challenges of the modern-day workplace.

Some have opted for ‘quiet quitting’ –  which involves employees stepping back from taking on additional responsibilities, leaving work on time, and not volunteering for extra tasks. While some are quitting the traditional 9-5 jobs in favour of side hustles and a better work-life balance.

A recent poll by Santander revealed that three-quarters of Gen Zare not planning to work a nine-to-five job for the rest of their career.

Around 77% of respondents also expressed confidence in their ability to launch and run a business successfully, with 39% saying all they needed to do so was their smartphone.

This shift in mindset has also led many to seek out remote or flexible work, which Dr Sik explains, ‘allows people to continue earning while travelling or taking time off’.

Do you have a story to share?

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

Lots of people say that your first time might hurt ‘a bit’.

But when I lost my virginity at 17 it was agony.

It felt like everything inside me was burning and being pulled apart. I remember tensing my whole body, gritting my teeth, wanting it to stop.

And the moment my boyfriend finished, I thought: ‘I never want to do that again.’

I have of course had sex since, but it has always been an ordeal rather than a pleasure. I have always experienced anxiety or dread at the prospect of sex, if it gets to that point of feeling like I can’t make another excuse to a partner.

For years I wondered why I couldn’t enjoy sex in the same way my friends did but it was only in 2019, after turning 35, that I got my answer: I have endometriosis.

My symptoms started with my first period at the age of 13.

Not only was it incredibly heavy – leading me to wear multiple sanitary pads because I was scared of leaking – but I wound up bed bound for days due to severe pain both in my pelvic region, lower back and when using the toilet.

Each month the symptoms were the same and I soon began to dread my period’s arrival.

Knowing this wasn’t normal, I decided to speak to my GP with my mum. At that first appointment I was told I wasn’t special, and that painful periods were a part of life. But I knew something was wrong.

However, no matter how many appointments I booked – sometimes as many as 10 times a year – my concerns were usually dismissed as me being overdramatic, or they’d suggest it must be irritable bowel syndrome (IBS).

Sometimes, I’d have blood tests or be suggested various medications, but nothing ever worked. At no point during those 22 years, did a doctor ever recommend that I see a gynaecologist.

I even had one doctor tell me I was just ‘attention seeking’.

If that was the case then why, when I was 15, did I spend an evening sitting on the toilet, crying in pain, wishing for a hysterectomy?

The whole ordeal made me miserable, so much so that at 16, I was prescribed antidepressants. They didn’t help at all, they just made me feel more isolated – and there was a lot more stigma around mental health then, so I was unable to talk about it.

I always thought my first time would be painful, but when the second, third, and fourth were still as painful, I realised that sex for me was going to be distressing, not enjoyable.

But still, I just wanted to be a normal teenager, who had a ‘normal’ sex life with my boyfriend, despite my first experience.

So, I started faking orgasms. I just wanted to get sex over with as quickly as possible, and then run to the toilet to curl up in a ball, waiting for the pain to pass. I was too embarrassed to talk to my boyfriend about what I was experiencing, in case he saw me as broken, so I would make excuses.

And when I mentioned it to friends in passing, they brushed it off as pain from first-time sex.

As I got older, I began to feel more confident discussing the pain with my partners. But I still didn’t know what was wrong with me, I didn’t have a diagnosis, with the exception of IBS, so it was quite difficult to get them to understand the severity of the symptoms.

And some boyfriends even thought I was still making excuses.

Usually, we had to stop part way through sex, and then, after a while, we just stopped trying altogether. And that’s when, sadly, I learned the hard way that a relationship without sex isn’t much of a relationship at all.

I’ve often felt very lonely, spending most of my adult life single. Dating with a chronic condition is extremely challenging – I have a fear of rejection, and feel anxious thinking about having to share my health challenges with someone for the first time, all over again.

All the while doctors were still struggling to give me any real answers.

Nobody, not even the nurses after seeing me in that much pain during cervical cancer screenings, told me that I was allowed to ask for a longer appointment, without any rushing, or to ask for a smaller speculum to help reduce that pain.

Nor do I believe they ever recorded my more than mild discomfort in my notes.

I’d already spent my teens feeling like no one believed me, and right through my twenties, I never got the sense that had changed. I often felt like I was being gaslit, ignored and disregarded.

Not even when I got pregnant in 2013 at 29, only to heartbreakingly miscarry at 12 weeks, did it raise any red flags.

It wasn’t until six years later, while having an open chat with a supportive colleague at work, that I learned other women have experienced these symptoms too.

‘That sounds like what my wife has’, he said, ‘It’s called endometriosis.’

I sat down with his wife, and we exchanged what we called ‘war stories’. I found that almost all of our symptoms matched up, it was like a weight had been lifted when I finally realised I wasn’t alone.

After that, I immediately arranged to see a gynaecologist privately.

We talked for a grand total of 15 minutes before he told me he was 99% certain it was endometriosis.

Fifteen minutes!

I couldn’t believe it. After spending 22 years with awful symptoms, a 15-minute chat was all it took for someone to work out what was going on. Not long after, I was formally diagnosed. I felt simultaneously elated and infuriated.

Endometriosis is a common menstrual health condition. It impacts one in 10 women and those assigned female at birth and is the second most common gynaecological condition in the UK.

How then, could my symptoms have been missed for all this time? It didn’t make sense.

But then I learned that it takes, on average, 8 years and 10 months from the first GP visit to get a diagnosis; and it’s even higher in Wales, where I live. My case obviously took longer than the national average, but that has to change.

Still, as angry as I was that it took so long to receive the diagnosis, all I wanted to do now was move forward.

In February 2020 I had my first surgery, which confirmed and removed the presence of deep infiltrating endometriosis – it is a rare and severe form of endometriosis that occurs when tissue similar to the lining of the uterus, grows deep into nearby organs. It can affect the bladder, bowel, reproductive system, and other organs.

Sadly, this grew back within six months, and I had two more surgeries the following year to attempt to clear it again.

During the third surgery it was also discovered that I have adenomyosis – a condition like endometriosis, but where tissue grows into the lining of the uterus.

Though pain management and physio provided some relief, the pain was getting so intense that I struggled with daily activities like walking the dog or even walking up the stairs, so eventually I decided to have a total hysterectomy in April 2022. After that, I finally felt that my battle with endometriosis had come to an end.

There have been other battles since – I’ve been in surgical menopause ever since the hysterectomy, which has led to brain fog, arthritis, hot flushes, anxiety and vaginal atrophy (a thinning, drying and inflammation of the vaginal walls, which can occur when you’ve not got enough oestrogen) – but I am gradually improving with HRT.

Annoyingly, surgeons and doctors have all agreed that my endometriosis should have been caught much earlier. If it had, then it wouldn’t have infiltrated so many areas of my body and would have allowed me to make proper choices about preserving my fertility.

I’m also frustrated because I feel like endometriosis has robbed me of what could have been some wonderful and important life experiences, both sexually and in other areas.

There is hope though. As I continue to navigate my life post hysterectomy, I believe I will be able to have a healthy, stable and intimate relationship in the future.

Now all I want to see is more awareness and understanding.

For a start, warnings about painful sex should be taught as part of sex education classes at school. That way young girls will know it’s not normal and be able to speak up as soon as possible.

We also need to encourage doctors and nurses to ask more than the standard ‘are you sexually active or not’ questions.

Ask if sex is painful and to what degree. Yes, it’s a sensitive topic, but the embarrassment of having that conversation would be far less upsetting than the years of agony your patient might be going through.

Most of all, if you are a young woman who is experiencing these symptoms – including excruciatingly painful sex – please speak up about it.

I promise, you are not to blame, you’re not making it up, and you are definitely not alone.

This article was originally published December 27, 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.