Hi, I’m Angela

I’m 39, a mum, a wife, a Therapist and apparently part-human, part-dislocating jellyfish.

A year ago, I was officially diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS) – hypermobility type. What this basically means is that the collagen holding my body together is faulty, so my joints have the structural integrity of overcooked spaghetti. Fun, right?

It also comes with an extra party trick called POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome)—which makes standing up feel like I’m attempting to run a marathon after spinning in circles.

On top of that, I’ve got osteoarthritis in my hips and neck (I’m waiting for a new hip, though spoiler alert: it won’t magically fix mobility), a herniated disc at C5/6 (twice—because my spine clearly enjoys drama), degenerating tissue around my Achilles (walking feels like knives in my foot), and knees that have recently joined the chaos by sliding out of place on the stairs like they’re auditioning for Dancing on Ice. Oh, and if I twist the wrong way getting out of the car? Pop!—hips dislocate. Zero stars, would not recommend.

At this point, the amount of hair I’m losing feels like it should be insignificant compared to everything else… but honestly, if my joints don’t finish me off, my shower drain might.

And just for a bit of extra sparkle ✨—in the past 10 years, I’ve racked up over 45 hospital admissions (yes, I’m basically on first-name terms with the staff by now). Some of those ended in surgery. For years, doctors thought all this chaos was down to one negligent surgery I had ages ago… but turns out, that was just the supporting act. The real star of the show is my EDS, which has been quietly wreaking havoc on my gastrointestinal system. Apparently, around 80% of my issues are down to how EDS affects digestion and motility. So while everyone thought it was one big surgical whoopsie, it was really my bendy, faulty collagen running the whole circus.

Here’s the part that really hurts: for the past year, without realising it, I started giving up. I stopped even imagining days out with my daughter or adventures with my husband, because it felt impossible. My daughter is only six—I don’t want her memories of me to just be “Mum on the sofa, too sore to move.”

I want to roll along the beach with my husband. I want to take my daughter to the zoo and let her run wild in the park while I actually keep up. I want to live again, not just survive.

Because of the neck degeneration, I can’t use crutches. After a long assessment, I’ve now been told I need a powered wheelchair—not for full-time use yet, but definitely for anything beyond shuffling into the corner shop. And here’s the kicker: the chair I’ve been assessed for costs £12,500. Twelve. Thousand. Five. Hundred. Pounds. (Apparently, being ill comes with a luxury price tag.) The NHS could help eventually… in a few years. Meanwhile, life is happening right now.

So… I’m swallowing my pride and asking for help.

For 14 years I have worked as a therapist, teaching people to be their own cheerleaders. Turns out, I need to take my own advice (shocking, I know). I don’t want to keep sitting on the sidelines of my own life.

If you can help me get this wheelchair, you’re not just funding equipment—you’re helping me get my freedom back, helping me be the silly, sarcastic, slightly chaotic mum and wife my family deserve. And I’ll be forever grateful.

With love, sarcasm, and hope,
Angela