BY JENNIFER ROSE GRANSHAW, 2026
The neuro looked at me and said,
“Try not to rely on walking aids.
Your brain might learn to depend on them.”
And I sat there thinking—
Depend on them?
Mate,
I’m not using this thing for decoration.
I’m not carrying a walking stick
because it completes the outfit.
I didn’t wake up one morning and think,
You know what would really spice up my life?
A mobility aid.
I use it
because some days
my legs forget the bloody agreement
that they’re supposed to hold me up.
Because sometimes my brain says,
Walk,
and my legs answer,
No.
Sometimes the floor moves
when I know damn well it hasn’t.
Sometimes my knees buckle,
my muscles shake,
my balance disappears,
and every step becomes a negotiation
between me, gravity,
and a nervous system
that has apparently stopped taking my calls.
But I’m told,
“Don’t rely on the aid.”
Okay.
Then how am I supposed to walk?
Should I crawl?
Should I drag myself
from the bedroom to the bathroom
just so my brain doesn’t get
“too comfortable”
with something keeping me upright?
Should I fall?
Would hitting the floor
be considered better rehabilitation?
Because I’m trying to understand.
You tell me I need to keep moving,
but sometimes I need an aid
so I can move.
You tell me independence is important,
but the thing giving me independence
is apparently something
I shouldn’t become dependent on.
Do you understand
how cruel that contradiction can feel?
This walking aid
doesn’t represent giving up.
It represents
getting up.
It means I can make it
from one side of the room to the other.
It means I might get outside.
It means I can save enough energy
to actually live
instead of spending every damn spoon
trying not to kiss the floor.
I understand rehabilitation.
I understand wanting my brain
to relearn movement,
confidence,
balance,
rhythm.
Believe me—
I want that too.
I would happily throw this walking aid
into the bloody shed tomorrow
if my legs promised
they’d catch me every time.
But they don’t.
FND doesn’t make appointments.
It doesn’t politely announce,
“Hello,
your legs will stop cooperating
at approximately 2:15 this afternoon,
so please find somewhere safe to sit.”
No.
It flips the switch
whenever it bloody feels like it.
One minute I’m walking.
The next,
my legs are trembling beneath me
like they’ve forgotten
they belong to my body.
And in that moment,
I’m not thinking about
whether my brain is relying
too much on my walking aid.
I’m thinking—
Please don’t let me fall.
So maybe one day
I won’t need it.
God, I hope so.
Maybe rehabilitation will teach
my stubborn nervous system
a steadier road home.
But until then,
please understand:
I’m not holding onto this walking aid
because I’ve stopped trying.
I’m holding onto it
because I’m still trying.
Trying to walk.
Trying to participate.
Trying to leave the house.
Trying to keep some independence.
Trying to live inside a body
where walking can change
from automatic
to impossible
without warning.
So when you tell me,
“Don’t let your brain rely on it,”
please answer me one thing:
When my legs won’t listen,
when my balance disappears,
when my body starts shaking,
when every unsupported step
comes with the possibility
of meeting the ground—
what exactly
am I supposed to rely on?
Because sometimes
that walking aid
isn’t teaching my brain
to give up.
Sometimes,
it’s the only damn reason
I can keep moving forward.
Post published 21/08/26
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