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On why burnout might be the push you didn't know you needed There's a particular kind of tired that isn't fixed by sleep. I know, because I've felt it. That Sunday-evening feeling that starts creeping in around 4pm — the dread that settles in your chest before the week has even begun. The kind of tired where you're sitting in a meeting and you genuinely cannot remember why any of this matters. Where you're ticking things off a list, performing competence, going through every

I filed neuroplasticity under jargon. I was wrong. The biology behind why the story isn't over — written by a stroke survivor.

By coffee number ten, I'd finally managed to pour the milk in the right cup. My six-year-old helped. She didn't make a big deal of it. A week later, I thought I'd cracked it — only to drop the whole cup when I lifted it with my stroke hand. And I just stood there in my kitchen, surrounded by the mess, thinking: Sisyphus. Pushing the boulder up the mountain. Watching it roll back down. Getting up tomorrow and doing it all again. That's the thing nobody tells you when you sign

“Let’s run and cash the bush.” My daughter looked at me. “Mum, that’s not right.” She was seven. And she’d noticed before I had. That was one of the first times I realised something was off — not stroke off, not hospital off, but quietly off. The kind of off that doesn’t show up on a scan. Since my stroke, I’ve noticed what I can only call weird things. Little glitches. Quirks that don’t quite fit any diagnosis I’ve been given. Like the time I was out for coffee with a frien