Hi I'm Emily and a big part of who i am is my health...

Wow, a blog! I never imagined I'd take on a new hobby like this anytime soon, but I've always enjoyed writing, so why not give it a try? Allow me to share a little about myself. My name is Emily. I am 23 years old and live in Auckland, New Zealand.

I feel the biggest part of me right now is my illness, so let's start here...I created this blog to share my journey living with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND)—the challenges, the victories, the setbacks, and everything in between. Functional Neurological Disorder (FND) has become a significant part of my life and has shaped many of the experiences that have led me here today.

FND is a neurological condition that affects the way the brain and body communicate. Although there is no structural damage to the brain or nervous system, the signals between them are disrupted, resulting in very real and often debilitating symptoms. These can include seizures, movement difficulties, weakness, fatigue, pain, speech problems, and cognitive challenges, though symptoms vary from person to person.

Living with FND has been one of the most challenging experiences of my life. It has forced me to adapt to a reality I never anticipated and to navigate a level of uncertainty that can be difficult to put into words. One of the hardest aspects has been the misunderstanding that often surrounds the condition. Because many symptoms are invisible, it can be easy for others to underestimate the impact FND has on everyday life.

Despite the challenges, this journey has taught me a great deal about resilience, patience, and self-compassion. It has shown me the importance of celebrating progress, no matter how small, and finding strength in moments I never thought I would.

By sharing my experiences, I hope to raise awareness of FND, offer insight into the realities of living with the condition, and help others feel less alone in their own journeys.

In June 2025, I was rushed to the hospital during a severe episode of functional seizures. I remember drifting in and out of consciousness on the way there. One of the last things I recall is my dad struggling to carry me through the hospital doors.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a hospital bed. I was confused, attached to a drip, surrounded by machines, and being checked over by a nurse. I had no memory of what had happened or how I had ended up there.

My first words were, "Where's my mum? You need to call my mum."

At the time, I was living out of home and flatting with friends. I had a terrible habit of not replying to messages, so for all I knew, my parents were at home asleep with no idea where I was. I'd never spent a night in a hospital before, and with large gaps in my memory, my mind immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario.

I spent the next week in the hospital. During that time, I watched my parents cry almost every day. I saw a level of fear in them that I had never witnessed before. Parents are supposed to be the strong ones, the people who reassure you that everything will be okay. For the first time in my life, they looked terrified.

What I didn't know at the time was that there were concerns about a medication I had been given in the Emergency Department. It was believed that my body had reacted badly, causing my condition to deteriorate significantly. The details were unclear, but what was clear was the fear that surrounded my hospital room.

While I lay in that bed, confused and searching for answers, my family was facing the possibility of losing me.

My parents believed they might lose their baby. My sisters believed they might lose their little sister. No one could tell them exactly what was happening, why it was happening, or what would happen next. The uncertainty was unbearable.

Looking back, one of the hardest parts isn't remembering the fear I felt. It's knowing the fear they felt. While I was unconscious and unaware of much of what was happening around me, the people I love most were preparing themselves for a future without me.

These days, life feels a little different.

I still live with FND, and it remains a part of my everyday life, but it no longer feels like every chapter of my story is written by it. Over time, I've slowly started rebuilding pieces of myself that I thought I'd lost.

At the moment, I'm on medical leave while I focus on my health and recovery. It's not where I expected to be at this stage of my life, and there are days when that reality is difficult to accept. But this season has also given me the opportunity to slow down, listen to my body, and focus on what I need rather than what I think I should be doing.

Some of my biggest achievements probably wouldn't seem remarkable to anyone else. They're found in ordinary moments: spending time with my family, laughing with friends, playing netball, cooking a meal, or finding the energy to do something I enjoy. After everything I've been through, those moments feel anything but ordinary.

While FND has changed many parts of my life, it has also shown me just how much support surrounds me. The people who stood by me during my darkest moments continue to remind me that I am more than my diagnosis.

I don't know exactly what the future looks like, and for the first time in my life, I'm learning to be okay with that. Right now, my focus is on taking things one day at a time, continuing to move forward, and trusting that there is still a fulfilling life waiting for me beyond the challenges of FND.

My story is still being written, and I'm excited to see where the next chapter takes me.