"Unbreakable: Conquering Pain, Defying Limits" is not just a podcast—it's a battle cry against chronic pain, limitations, and doubt. Join me, as I share my raw, relentless journey from decades of severe, debilitating illness and dependency on medications to reclaiming my life through advanced pain management, mental endurance, and unyielding resilience. From a wheelchair-bound existence to smashing ultra-endurance cycling challenges, this podcast empowers listeners with the tools, strategies, and mindset to redefine what's possible. Because pain doesn't own you—you own the fight.

A Lifetime of Unrelenting Pain I haven’t had a pain-free day since I was three years old. Not one. Born into Pain (1970–1984) My first memories of pain go back to before I turned three. Three-year-olds aren’t supposed to hurt all the time. But I did. By four, my knees and hips ached every time I moved. I bruised like I had been in a car crash—massive black and yellow bruises covered my arms and legs.

For years, I lived in a cage—a prison built from pain, doubt, and limitations. My body dictated the terms of my existence, and I let it. I accepted that my world would always be small, confined to what was "safe," to what was "possible." But deep down, something inside me refused to die. A fire still burned. And when the opportunity came to board SV Tenacious, a fully accessible tall ship with the Jubilee Sailing Trust, I knew one thing: I had to take it.

You don’t know what you’re made of until you’re at the edge of breaking. I set out on this ride not for fun, not for leisure, but to test my limits. To see how far I could push myself before my body—or my mind—gave out. 54 miles. Rolling hills. Brutal climbs. A fight against the road, the pain, and the voices in my head that told me to quit.

I didn’t get into cycling to prove a point. I didn’t do it for validation or recognition. I got into cycling because something inside me refused to sit still. I needed to move. I needed to push. I needed to take back control of my body, my mind, my future. So I found a way. Most people would have looked at my situation and said, …

People throw the word “resilience” around like it’s just about being tough—about standing your ground, pushing through pain, and refusing to quit. But resilience is more than that. It’s about adaptation. It’s about reinvention. It’s about refusing to accept the limits the world tries to put on you. This is not just a story about cycling. This is a story about defiance.

There came a moment in my life when I had to make a choice—stay comfortable, or step into the fire, embrace the suffering, and forge myself into something unstoppable. On 24 September 2022, I made that choice. I strapped into my modified wheelchair, locked in my mindset, and set my sights on Snowdon, the highest peak in Wales. I knew it was going to be brutal.

ou think the journey is over? You think because I’ve crossed a finish line, hit a milestone, or overcome one more obstacle that I’m done? Hell no. Every mile, every challenge, every brutal, soul-crushing moment I’ve fought through—it was never about getting to the end. There is no end. This was never about comfort. It was never about proving something once and sitting back.

Pain was my first memory. Not the warmth of a mother’s embrace. Not the carefree laughter of childhood. Just pain. While other kids were running free, climbing trees, living without a second thought—I was learning how to endure. I didn’t have a choice. Pain wasn’t something that came and went for me. It wasn’t an injury that healed or a bad day that passed.

There’s a war most people will never understand. A battle so ruthless it strips you to the bone, forcing you to face who you really are. No shortcuts. No easy way out. Just you, your demons, and the pain that refuses to let go. This is the fight of opiate withdrawal—a war I had to win to take my life back.

Most people go through life never testing their limits. They live inside their comfort zones, convinced that "impossible" is a permanent wall. But every wall can be climbed, every limit can be shattered—if you’re willing to suffer, to push, to dig deep when everything in you is screaming to quit. In July 2022, I boarded SV Tenacious for a 10-day voyage from Liverpool to Dublin.

Pain was my first memory. Not the warmth of a mother’s embrace. Not the carefree laughter of childhood. Just pain. It crept in before I even understood what it meant to live without it. I haven’t had a pain-free day since I was three years old. Not one. There is no cure. There is no fix. I wake up in pain.

The Ultimate Endurance Challenge After completing Race the Ship, I set my sights on something even more gruelling—Chase the Sun. A ride from sunrise to sunset, covering 205 miles in a single day. No timing chips, no medals—just the raw challenge of riding against time and my own body’s limits. The Start – Sunrise Optimism The day started with the golden glow of dawn, …

Taking on the Challenge After discovering the freedom of cycling, I wanted to prove to myself that I could take on a major endurance challenge. The London to Brighton ride—54 miles of rolling terrain, steep hills, and unpredictable weather—was the perfect test. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. My body wasn’t built for endurance, and my joints were still unstable.

After Snowdon, I sought my next challenge. Cycling became my freedom, my way of moving beyond pain, proving to myself that I could adapt and go further than I ever thought possible. The Unexpected Beginning I hadn’t ridden a bike in years. My body, riddled with pain and joint instability, made cycling seem impossible. But after conquering Snowdon, something inside me shifted.

On 24 September 2022, in my modified wheelchair, I climbed Snowdon—tearing my rotator cuff in the first mile but pushing through another seven hours of pain to reach the summit. That moment changed everything. The Challenge Snowdon is the highest mountain in Wales, standing at 1,085 meters (3,560 feet). For most, it’s a grueling hike. For me, it was a test of endurance, resilience, and the will to push beyond my body’s limits.

There’s a certain kind of suffering that words can’t touch. The kind that drags you so deep into yourself that you forget who you were before the pain. That’s what opiate withdrawal was for me—a reckoning, a war, a near-death experience I had to endure while still trapped inside a body that never stopped screaming in agony. The Beginning: A Life Drowned in Pain and Pills…

On November 8th, 2019, I cut off gabapentin cold—2800mg a day, gone in an instant. Then, the real war began. I started detoxing from opiates, and within 36 hours, my body was in full-blown withdrawal. There was no tapering, no safety net, no alternative medications to soften the blow. My pain consultant gave me full autonomy to do it…

1984 to 2001. Nearly two decades of trying to pretend I was fine. Two decades of waking up every morning already exhausted, already in pain, already fighting a battle that no one else could see. I was a kid when this all started, but by my teens, I knew one thing for certain: my body was not normal. Every step hurt.

I have spent decades being told my pain wasn’t real. 42 years. Forty-two years of doctors and specialists dismissing me, belittling me, treating me like a liar. Forty-two years of hearing the same patronizing, infuriating phrases over and over again: “You’re exaggerating.” “It’s all in your head.” “You can’t possibly be in that much pain.” “Your tests are normal—there’s nothing wrong with you.”

In June 2025, I will have lived with pain for 55 years. Fifty-five years. That’s not just a number. That’s a lifetime—a lifetime of relentless, soul-crushing, body-destroying pain. Fifty-two of those years, the pain has been constant. Every second. Every breath. There has never been a break. Never a single moment where I felt "normal." By August, I’ll be…

Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome isn’t my only curse. I also have a life-threatening hereditary illness. One that has killed every single relative who had it before me. Every one of them had their first heart attack in their 20s. Every one of them died in their 30s. Not because they were unhealthy. Not because of lifestyle choices. But because their bodies—

There is no cure. There is no fix. I wake up in pain. I go to bed in pain. I have lived through pain for 55 years, and I will die in pain. That is my reality. But I’m still here. I have fought for every day. Fought through every moment of agony, every doctor who doubted me, every time I wanted to give up. And I’m still fighting. Because pain may have taken my body. But it will never take who I am

The road doesn’t end here. It stretches forward, full of unknowns. And I plan to keep riding. Every challenge I’ve taken on, every ride, every mile—none of it has been the finish line. Each one has…

The road doesn’t end here. It stretches forward, full of unknowns. And I plan to keep riding. Every challenge I’ve taken on, every ride, every mile—none of it has been the finish line. Each one has been a step toward something greater. I never set out on this journey expecting it to have a clear end. There is no final victory, no single moment where I will say, …