In the year leading up to my rheumatoid arthritis diagnosis, I was navigating an uncertain and frustrating path. The symptoms started subtly—stiffness in my hands during the mornings that made getting dressed or making tea difficult. At first, these moments felt isolated. By the time my workday began, I felt mostly fine, and I could still play tennis, dance, and enjoy netball after hours.
It wasn’t until a holiday to Perth for a friend’s wedding that I began to suspect something more serious was going on. I woke up with swollen “sausage fingers,” and the pain and discomfort felt relentless. I returned home determined to get answers. Over many months, I visited my GP every six weeks. At first, they thought it was trigger finger or a vitamin deficiency. Despite my persistence, my symptoms were dismissed because I didn’t present with the “classic” swollen joints associated with arthritis.
One moment that particularly stood out was losing power in my tennis game. A friend I could beat easily began to outplay me, which bruised my ego and deepened my concern. Then, my wrists turned a constant bruised colour. I showed them to a different GP, who immediately referred me to rheumatology. Around the same time, my mum mentioned my grandma had rheumatoid arthritis.
At 28, in July 2011, I finally got the diagnosis: rheumatoid arthritis. I was relieved to have answers, but it was also the start of a new and daunting journey.
Redefining Life After Diagnosis
Being diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis at 28 felt like my life had been turned upside down. The consultant informed me I’d be on lifelong medication and asked my boyfriend and me—newly moved in together—if we were planning to have children. It wasn’t a conversation we’d even begun to have.
The early months after my diagnosis were a whirlwind of uncertainty. I saw statistics about people with rheumatoid arthritis leaving work within five years of their diagnosis, and I couldn’t help but wonder what my future held. Running, which I’d grown to love, was now discouraged. Every aspect of my life seemed to come under scrutiny—what I ate, how much alcohol I drank, how much rest I got.
But instead of succumbing to fear, I decided to act. In November 2011, I entered the ballot for the London Marathon. To my surprise, I was accepted, and the race date was set for April 2012. I began training, slowly but steadily. I was still getting used to the weight gain from months of inactivity, alongside not feeling like myself. Around the same time, I auditioned to be a volunteer dancer for the Olympic Opening Ceremony. Rehearsals for that started just one day before the marathon.
These experiences taught me about pacing—not just in running, but in life. I learned to listen to my body, balance my energy, and adapt. Fatigue and flare-ups became a reality, but they didn’t have to define me. Running that marathon and dancing in the Olympics symbolized reclaiming control over my life.
The journey hasn’t been without its challenges, but I’ve learned that a diagnosis isn’t the end of your story. It’s the start of a new chapter, and one where resilience, adaptability, and determination can shine brighter than ever.
