I grew up on a farm in South Africa that was less “quiet countryside” and more “chaotic cousin carnival.” With four of my dad’s siblings living on the property, there were always at least 15 cousins around, ready to play, prank, or push each other into the dam. Our days were filled with horse rides, motorcycle races, and zipline cable slides that were not safety certified. It was wild, wonderful, and I was happy, healthy, and constantly covered in mud.
Then came university—and a minor car accident that turned out to be a major plot twist. I walked away with a slight concussion, but over time, strange things started happening. Depression crept in. I’d lose balance, fall while running, and my hands would cramp like they were trying to mime a secret message. After seven years of medical mystery tours, I finally got a diagnosis: trauma-induced isolated adult-onset segmental Dystonia. Translation? My right side decided to go rogue—hand, hamstring, foot, shoulder, jaw. All part of the rebellion.
During those years, I wasn’t living. I was existing. I worked hard, but motivation was like a unicorn: magical and mostly missing. In 2016, I switched neurologists and met one who didn’t do pity parties. He gave me a choice: brain surgery or wheelchair; oh – and maybe missing my daughter growing up. Subtlety was not his strong suit, but it was the wake-up call I needed.
So, in 2018, I had Deep Brain Stimulation surgery. It gave me back some mobility, but the rest was up to me. I assembled my team: a rehab physiotherapist, a personal trainer, and a therapist. My new motto? “Happier, healthier me.” I made changes—for myself and my family. And guess what? Productivity soared. I now work fewer hours but get more done. I embraced the tech inside my head and learned to manage it.
I also learned to set boundaries.
Once upon a time, my husband stuck a Blackberry sticker on his forehead just to get my attention. Now? Work notifications are muted when I’m off-duty. I’m still available—just not everyone’s emergency hotline.
Managing Dystonia means dodging its triggers: stress, caffeine overload, and couch-potato syndrome. So, I meditate, run (without face-planting), hang out with my family, and dive into my hobbies. If you see my hand or jaw lock up, it’s a sign I’ve neglected one of my happy-house pillars.
The biggest lesson? A happier, less stressed me means a happier, less stressed team—both at work and at home.
Also, I discovered I totally rock a shaved head. That was before the surgery gave me some creatively placed bumps, which turned haircuts into a quest for a stylist who doesn’t flinch when touching my scalp.
September was Dystonia Awareness Month. So, here’s to raising awareness, embracing change, and living life with a little more laughter—even if your brain has a few wires in it.
