Hope is a tiny spark that can survive the darkest nights
- Liam Virgo
- 2 days ago
- 5 min read
Trapped inside his own body for many of his teenage years, Liam shares his personal story, which, despite the numerous battles he has faced at such a young age, is one of hope
The great shutdown
Before my illness, I was happy and healthy. Then in 2016, at age 13, the world began to blur. It started with mild cognitive slips and coordination issues, but within a few weeks, my physical health was deteriorating. I had to be physically held up by two members of staff while at school, as I could barely walk. I had to leave the school I was at, as it wasn’t safe for me due to my sudden decline. My brain and body rapidly deteriorated to the point where I had all my abilities taken away from me. I lost the ability to walk and talk almost overnight. My body didn't just stop; it shut down.
I was rushed to hospital for testing. I remember the bright lights of the children’s neurological ward where doctors filmed my case for international research. They were baffled. Every MRI, CT scan and blood test came back "normal". In the clinical world of FND (functional neurological disorder), your hardware—the brain and nerves—is structurally perfect, but the software—the signalling—is completely broken. To be told your scans are clear while you are physically paralysed is a unique kind of psychological torment. It makes you feel invisible, as if your suffering is a ghost that science refuses to see. I came out four months later with a diagnosis of severe FND (Functional Neurological Disorder). I don’t remember the early days of my condition and life before it is a blur. For six months my mind went blank, and I didn’t know who or what anything was.
A prisoner in a bed
My body was continuing to deteriorate, and within a few weeks, I lost my ability to sit up. It got to the stage where my body couldn’t tolerate being on any form of equipment apart from my bed. No wheelchair was suitable. I couldn’t tolerate sitting, so I became bed-bound. The only place my body felt comfortable was on my bed. The next three years were spent entirely bedridden. Whenever I was transferred to anything, I was in agony, my body would naturally drop forward and my head was on my knees. During this time, I required 24-hour care for everything. I was awake, aware and "trapped" inside a shell that wouldn't listen to me.
The isolation was compounded by a staggering lack of medical awareness. There were times my symptoms were misunderstood.
The spark in the dark
Recovery didn't happen in a sudden burst; it happened in millimetres. While I was housebound and non-verbal for a full year, I found comfort in a few things, one of them being London. It was my wish to visit the capital but because of my illness I wasn’t well enough to go. I could only dream of visiting the city from my bed. My team at CAMHS (Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services) used my dream of visiting London to build progress charts. Because my FND was very severe I was also seen by a team from Great Ormond Street Hospital and they came up with the idea of the progress chart. We turned my recovery into a map: moving a finger brought me a mile closer to the capital, whispering a word was a ticket to the train station.
These weren't just medical goals; they were life goals.
Tasting freedom
Eventually, after three long years, my physical health started to improve. The first time I left the house was just to collect a new wheelchair from the hospital. To most, a hospital corridor is a place of dread; to me, it felt like a whole new world. I could feel the fresh air again. Slowly, I relearned how to speak. It was a painful, isolating battle to reclaim my voice, but once it returned, I knew I had to use it.
I eventually achieved my dreams. I’ve visited London—my "special place"—multiple times and achieved another wish of meeting the cast of Loose Women. FND didn't own me anymore. I was no longer just a patient, I was a person again.
If I could go back to that 13-year-old boy in 2016, I wouldn't tell him it’s going to be easy. I’d tell him it’s going to be a fight. I’d tell him that people will doubt him, that his body will betray him and that the silence will be loud.
But I’d also tell him to keep looking at those maps of London. Because one day, he won't just be looking at the map—he’ll be exploring all over the city.
Advocacy and the road ahead
Today, I am still fighting. I am learning to walk independently, a milestone that felt like science fiction five years ago. My condition is still unpredictable—I have "rough days" where the symptoms flare—but I have learned to live with my "new normal".
FND is the second most common reason for people to see a neurologist1, yet it remains one of the least understood.
My message to anyone struggling is simple: hope is a tiny spark that can survive the darkest nights. Your illness is real, your pain is real and even when the medical world doesn't have all the answers, you are not alone. You can always find a way forwards and if something seems impossible, nothing is impossible if you put your mind to it. My body stopped working, but my spirit didn't and that has made all the difference.
Never give up hope. I lost my voice and my body at thirteen, but in 2026, I am Liam Virgo and I’m the one telling my own story.
Afterword
At thirteen, life is supposed to be a series of firsts. For me it became a series of lasts. The last time I walked unassisted, the last time I spoke a word, the last time I felt like a person instead of a medical mystery. Within days, Functional Neurological Disorder severed the connection between my brain and my body. I didn’t just develop a disability; I vanished.
The reality of developing a disability as a teenager is a brutal, quiet theft. While my peers were out finding their identities, I needed 24-hour care and was unable to leave the home. I spent a year in total silence, a prisoner in a body that wouldn't obey, watching the world through a window and wondering if I would I ever go outside again.
I didn't just lose my mobility; I lost my freedom. At an age when you crave independence, I was reduced to total dependency. I spent years bed-bound, locked inside my mind and body. The emotional weight of FND isn't just the symptoms; it’s the isolation of having an invisible condition that you can’t see. You become a case study for experts who have no idea how it feels to have your youth stolen by a glitch in your nervous system.
But silence eventually breeds a different kind of scream. My recovery wasn't a miracle; it was a long, hard battle. I reclaimed my voice not just to speak, but to shout from the rooftops about FND. I lost my teens to this disorder, but I found a purpose that is unbreakable. I am no longer a mystery to be solved—I am the one telling my own story and using my voice to raise awareness.
Socials
Instagram: @liamloveslondon
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