For many years I lived with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome—often called M.E.—without fully understanding what was happening to me. It started one winter, after a virus I simply never seemed to shake off. One day I was running, swimming, doing yoga, working hard and socialising freely; the next I was struggling to put one foot in front of the other or even string a sentence together. It was as if the version of myself everyone knew had vanished overnight, and no one could see why I was suddenly so different.

Talking about it felt almost impossible. When I tried to explain, “I have CFS and I’m really struggling,” well‑meaning friends would describe being tired after a late night or a busy week. They’d mention needing a lie‑in or a glass of wine, as if energy were purely a matter of rest and leisure. But CFS isn’t ordinary tiredness; it’s like having a mobile phone with a dodgy battery that never holds a full charge, randomly dying from 90% down to 2% with no warning. Some days a short text could drain me; others, even a simple conversation left me needing to cancel everything and retreat.

That lack of energy reached into every corner of my life. My thinking fogged over; simple tasks like matching lids to pots or remembering basic words became huge efforts. I felt slow, clumsy, stupid—like I was failing at things that had once been effortless. To save what little energy I had, I stopped saying yes to social plans, hobbies, even things I loved. I carried emergency snacks everywhere, always on the lookout for a chance to “recharge,” but I still crashed in meetings, at social gatherings, in supermarkets. Slowly, my world shrank and loneliness settled in, underlined by the fear that no one really understood me.

Behind the exhaustion lay years of stress, anxiety and a battered adrenal system. CFS isn’t just “not getting enough sleep”; it’s an outcome of the body’s stress‑management machinery burning out. Constant cortisol production, repeated fight‑or‑flight responses, and unresolved trauma can leave the adrenal system weak, so it struggles to regulate hormones, blood sugar, immune responses and even tolerate everyday foods or stimuli. In that state, my system became hypersensitive: caffeine, sugar, late nights, gluten, dairy, strong smells, even a “normal” week of work could tip me into a crash that left me bed‑bound for days.

Recovery didn’t look like a single dramatic cure. Instead, it became a continuous process of recalibration. I learned to reduce “toxins” my body struggled with—substances others might tolerate easily—so my adrenal system had less to do. Regular home‑cooked food, gentle movement like yoga, fresh air, consistent sleep and emotional regulation all helped my body drift back toward balance. On good‑week days, a small indulgence might be manageable; after a busy, stressful week, even a glass of wine could trigger a crash. But over time the crashes became shorter and less severe, and I grew confident in my ability to steady myself.

Now, as a clinical hypnotherapist, I use my own experience to help others who feel as isolated and confused as I once did. I help them re‑energise, reconnect with who they are beyond their symptoms, and design a life that supports their nervous‑system health instead of exhausting it. Recovery from CFS is possible, but it’s less about returning to an old “normal” and more about building a new way of living—one that honours the mind–body link, respects the adrenal system, and allows for both survival and, eventually, thriving.