On Tuesday, my daughter walked in from work and declared it “rude” that I wasn’t on the couch to greet her.
But I wasn’t lounging—I was in my office. Working. Creating. Thinking.
Three or four years ago? That version of me didn’t exist.
She was a ghost. A shell. A greyed-out, pain-soaked version of myself.
—>> TWO YEARS AGO TODAY I officially reclaimed my body.
April 17, 2023—I had surgery to remove the breast implants that were killing me. And reconstruct what was left behind.
It was huge.
Physically, yes—but the emotional and mental toll? That was the real monster.
And I’m still unwinding the effects of those f**king things.
They’ve since been affectionately nicknamed The Toxic Tits (because honestly—if you don’t laugh, you cry). Since then, I’ve been in full detox mode. Doing everything I can to repair, replenish, and rebuild.
Then came the wrist.
A clean break one one side. Tip of the bone snapped off on the other side. Titanium plate inserted. And with it? A full-blown symptom resurgence:
– Crushing fatigue
– Twitching eyes
– Hair falling out again
– Stiff, aching joints
– A brain so foggy I forgot words mid-sentence… I genuinely worried I was developing dementia. I thought I’d left that behind with the explant.. Nope.
I had the plate removed in October 2024. I haven’t looked back.
Research says it can take 2–4 years per year the implants were in to detox. Mine were in for two. So that’s another 2–6 years of healing, if the data holds.
But let’s talk about what people don’t see.
Let’s talk about waking up with 67 symptoms… and wondering if you’re just imagining it all. Some including:
– Burning feet
– Sore feet
– Blurry vision
– Hands so painful I couldn’t hold a pen or type (I couldn’t journal my way out of this one…)
– Anxiety that didn’t feel like mine
– Panic attacks out of nowhere
– Feeling 87 in your 40s
– Memory lapses that made me question if I was losing my mind
Every damn day, I ran a silent internal monologue:
“Is this real?”
“Am I just dramatic?”
“Lazy?”
“Broken?”
“Failing?”
Spoiler: I wasn’t any of those things. But that didn’t stop the self-talk:
“You’re just tired.”
“Other people cope with more.”
“You should be grateful.”
“You’re a coach—how can you lead anyone when you can’t even make your bed?”
“Maybe it’s just your age.”
“Maybe it’s hormones—and this is as good as it gets.”
“Who even am I without work?”
“I am worthless. I am worth nothing if I can’t contribute financially.”
It was an endless loop of second-guessing, minimising, masking, and performing.
𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐈 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 “𝐃𝐫 𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚” 𝐜𝐨𝐚𝐭 (𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐞 😏)… And I found it. Breast Implant Illness.
Not a rupture. Not a silent leak.
The shell of the implant—made of silicone—was poisoning me.
And my body was screaming NOPE.
At my lowest?
I couldn’t pick up three bloody pillows to make my bed.
I’d stand there sobbing, because the pain in my fingers was too much.
I’d crawl back into bed—or stay there until I absolutely had to move—then shuffle to the couch for the rest of the day.
𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐈𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐭? 𝐈𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐰?
That’s not living. That’s surviving.
If you know “Spoon Theory,” you’ll get this:
Most people wake with 10 spoons to spend throughout the day.
I woke with ONE. On a good day.
And I had to choose:
Make lunch?
Answer an email?
Get dressed?
Shower?
Be a mum?
Be a partner?
Be me?
Everything cost spoons. And I never had enough.
I napped daily. I cried often. I slowly wound my work down to nothing.
April 17, 2023—I went into surgery.
And then, I stopped.
I gave myself permission to do nothing. To rest.
I was still on the couch… but for the first time, I was there by choice.
And piece by piece, the spark came back.
Then… the wrist.
Cue another year’s setback. (Thanks, Universe.)
But now?
✨ 2 years implant-free
✨ 6 months titanium-free
✨ 67 symptoms either gone or fading (a few still linger—but they’re no longer debilitating)
✨ And my brain is BACK
I can work. I can write. I can feel like myself again.
I’m no longer mourning the version of me I thought I’d lost.
I am her. But stronger. Brighter. Wiser.
𝐓𝐋;𝐃𝐑:
– Research before geting implants. It’s not what’s in them—it’s what they’re made of.
– Don’t ignore your gut when something feels off.
– You’re not crazy. You’re not broken. And you’re definitely not alone.
– You don’t need fixing. You need support.
– You are kickass. Exactly as you are.
The end.
(Actually? Just the beginning.)
❤️
P.S. My daughter told me she fully expected to find me on the couch.
But seeing me in my office? Calling out through the house to find me?
That’s when she smiled and said, “𝘐 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳.”
And you know what?
She’s absolutely right.
𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒. 𝐈𝐒. 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑.
