In the beginning, I was convinced I had my life perfectly orchestrated. Balancing two careers I cherished—one as a marriage celebrant and another within a school setting—and being a parent to a delightful 18-month-old son felt like the dream I had always envisioned.

On the surface, it seemed I had achieved everything I aspired to.

I also believed I was in a stable marriage. I thought my husband and I were partners, working hand in hand to construct a life together. Reflecting on it now, I realize how misguided that belief was.

It all started with an overwhelming sense of fatigue. This wasn’t the kind of tiredness that could be remedied by a quick nap or a full night’s rest; it was a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that made even the simplest tasks feel daunting. Each morning I would rise feeling more depleted than when I had gone to sleep. Climbing a flight of stairs felt like a Herculean effort.

My mind was enveloped in a thick fog, as if it were trying to navigate through treacle.

I went to the doctor over and over, explaining that something wasn’t right, but they kept brushing it off. ‘You’re a new mum,’ they’d say. ‘You’re meant to be tired.’

But this wasn’t just tired. This was something darker. I felt like my body was shutting down and nobody would listen.

Then one morning, while getting ready to marry a couple, I noticed a blurry spot in my left eye. It didn’t go away. Not that day, not the next. Then I started feeling pins and needles in my hands and feet. Soon, I couldn’t tell hot from cold. I could no longer feel my son’s skin or his soft little hair. It broke my heart.

‘And my husband? He was nowhere to be found emotionally. He’d sit on his phone at appointments, barely looking up’

I went back to the doctor again and again, but nobody listened. So I did the thing you’re not supposed to do. I turned to Google.

And Google saved my life.

When I typed in my symptoms, the first things that came up were diabetes and multiple sclerosis. I was 32, right in the age range for MS. The pieces fit. So I went back to the doctor and said, ‘I want to be tested for MS.’

Three GPs told me it wasn’t that simple. That it would take time. That it would cost money. I didn’t care. I pushed anyway. I knew early intervention led to the best outcomes, and I had a young son. I needed the best outcomes.

Finally, I got a referral to a neurologist. The first refused to see me because I didn’t have headaches. The second said the wait was 18 months.

By then, I was falling apart. I broke down crying at work one day, and the school nurse – who happened to have MS herself – took me into her office and told me to hand over all my referrals. She passed them on to her MS nurse, who passed them on to her neurologist. Within two weeks, I was in for an MRI.

The scan showed lesions on my optic nerve and spinal cord. But the neurologist still refused to diagnose me. She said it wasn’t enough.

At the same time, something was happening to my right wrist. It came out of nowhere. One day it just started hurting, and it never stopped. I couldn’t drive. I couldn’t turn a doorknob. I was in constant agony.

‘My brain and my body were betraying me, and nobody would help me with either’

Every doctor I saw told me the same thing.

‘You must have had a fall.’ I told them again and again that I hadn’t. I knew my own body. Nothing had happened. But they wouldn’t believe me.

So there I was, fighting two separate battles. My brain and my body were betraying me, and nobody would help me with either.

And my husband? He was nowhere to be found emotionally. He’d sit on his phone at appointments, barely looking up. When I’d cry out in pain or fear, he’d shrug. ‘You’ll be right,’ he’d say. This, from a man who took to bed for days with a head cold.

I went back to the neurologist and begged for a diagnosis. She told me that it was possible that a lumbar puncture would identify proteins in my spinal fluid that would indicate MS. She was not keen, but I was. I needed answers.

When I had my lumbar puncture, a terrifying and painful procedure, my husband sat in the corner scrolling through his phone. I lay there flat on my back, unable to move, and he didn’t even ask if I needed a drink of water. That was the day I realised I couldn’t count on him.

Then came September 17, 2024 – the day everything changed. I’d booked two appointments on the same day: one with the orthopaedic surgeon for my wrist and one with the neurologist for my brain. I thought I’d finally get my MS diagnosis and maybe some answers about my wrist.

Instead, the orthopaedic surgeon told me I had rheumatoid arthritis. Another lifelong autoimmune disease.

I was in shock. My husband didn’t say a word. Didn’t reach for my hand. Didn’t even ask a question. We went to lunch afterward and he stared at his phone the whole time. When I said, ‘At least now we know what it is,’ he replied, ‘Yeah, I know what it is. It runs in my family.’ That was it. Dismissed.

Later that day, the neurologist confirmed what I already knew – the protein found in my spinal fluid meant I had MS. But again, she refused to diagnose me. She told me I had markers for MS, but because I didn’t yet have a visible lesion in my brain, she wouldn’t make it official.

I begged her to start treatment anyway. I knew that early intervention could make all the difference in slowing the disease and preserving my quality of life. But she shook her head and said she needed to ‘see more’. More lesions, more damage.

It felt like being told I had to get sicker before I could be helped.

I was desperate. By now I had a two-year-old at home. All I could think about was being there to watch him grow up. Every day that passed without a diagnosis felt like another step closer to losing that.

When I walked out into the waiting room in shock, barely able to process that I still could not get help, my husband kept walking to the car. He left me to pay the bill. When I got in the car, I asked gently, ‘Are you okay?’ He started yelling. He yelled the entire drive home.

I snapped and told him to leave. He did, for a few days, before coming back like nothing had happened. But things never got better.

I was losing work. Losing income. Losing hope. I couldn’t get government help because I didn’t have a formal diagnosis. Everything was crumbling, and he didn’t seem to care.

Then, finally another stroke of luck. A new occupational therapist listened to me and helped me get in to see an orthopaedic surgeon faster. She was kind. She cared. She believed me.

And when I took my dad instead of my husband to the next appointment, everything started to shift. My dad asked the questions, held my hand, and supported me in ways my husband never had.

Eventually, through friends and clients, I found a specialist in Melbourne who finally listened. A professor looked through my file and said the words I’d been waiting months to hear: ‘I’m going to diagnose you.’

I cried with relief.

He referred me to The Alfred, where I could finally begin treatment under the public system. The team there has been incredible. They reply to my emails straight away, they take me seriously, they make me feel like I matter.

My husband barely reacted. Not even a ‘well done’ or a ‘thank God.’ Nothing.

That’s when I knew it was really over. I ended the marriage.

Now, I’m on Ocrevus, a treatment I receive every six months. It helps both my MS and my rheumatoid arthritis. I’m still fatigued, still can’t feel my hands, but I’m here. I’m alive.

And I’m determined to see my little boy grow up. I’ll dance with him at his wedding one day. I’ll be there to meet his children, even if I can’t feel their tiny hands.

This whole journey has taught me one thing: nobody knows your body better than you.

Doctors aren’t gods. If you know something’s wrong, keep pushing until someone listens.

Because in my case, when no one else would, Google did. And it saved my life.