The hard reality of doing worthwhile things

It’s been a tough race start for Team UNICEF. Our Leg 1 has been plagued with breakages, and some hard lessons have been learnt from the crew as sails have taken damage. As I ready my gear to journey to Uruguay and join the boat for Leg 2, I find myself constantly refreshing the race tracker and checking our UNICEF social media for a glimmer of good news.

In some strange way, it has felt like my own struggles here in the UK have somehow manifested upon the boat in sympathy. Sorry for that, crew.

What I’m about to write about is deeply uncomfortable, for me at least. I have a healthy dose of admiration for people who regularly bare their minds and souls online, or otherwise publicly; it’s something that instinctively terrifies me. My personal inclination is to hide away all the soft, vulnerable parts of myself and yet - here I am.

I can’t deny how much it has helped me on my own journey to find little insights into things I am dealing with from people who have been through it themselves. So, I find myself writing this, in the hope that perhaps if a few people read it, maybe one of them will recognise something of themselves in it, and find that it helps.

A little over a year ago I sat in front of a psychiatrist after what felt like the worst summer of my life. Which was strange, as objectively I knew I’d been through worse times, and on top of that there were some very good things that had been happening, too. And yet, I felt like I was drowning after years of treading water in unforgiving seas.

My personal experience with seeking medical help has rarely been a positive one; I was already feeling exceptionally dejected and had no expectations for that appointment. So, you can imagine my shock when this psychiatrist smiled sympathetically and said “I think you have type two Bipolar”.

I’m not sure I can accurately capture my reaction to that statement. It was a frenetic rush of relief, and fear. Relief, because it meant that the way I struggled wasn’t all in my head - I wasn’t weak-willed, or dramatic. Bipolar meant there was an actual physiological reason that my brain didn’t work the way I needed it to. I wasn’t going mad, I was trying to manage a brain that worked differently to how I thought it did.

But the fear. Oh, that wasn’t far away. One of the first things I thought was, 'how is this going to limit me’, because no matter how much of a relief the diagnosis was, it also came with the knowledge that mental health disorders still come with stigmas, that I would now need to declare this on all manner of paperwork throughout my future, and what if I couldn’t do something because of that diagnosis? Terrifying, to me.

Well, I could only tackle one problem at a time. Since receiving that diagnosis, I’ve worked hard to embrace the medication, keep up with regular therapy, and learn how to manage my brain so that it doesn’t manage me. I’ve travelled a lot in the last 12-months, and heavens knows I certainly haven’t let it stop me from running my own business and working to make it a success. Being a one-person-band left me with no choice; I had to succeed and I couldn’t let my lowest lows get in the way of that. It hasn’t always been enjoyable, but it has definitely been worth it.

So how does all of that connect to what I am about to do on the Clipper race? And why am I telling you about it? Because something I have really taken to heart in the past 12-months is this: sometimes we have to be the example we are looking for.

I was so scared that a bipolar diagnosis would get in the way of my ambitions. My travel insurance became more expensive, I suddenly started noticing all the places I was expected to declare it on forms, whether that be for activities or visas. It felt (admittedly, perhaps as a conjecture of my own paranoia), like an axe hovering over my head, ready to fall at any moment and decree that I wasn’t fit - or safe - to do something. All I wanted was an example of somebody living their life unfettered, who was managing the same condition. I found a few examples of professional sports people, which was encouraging, but they had teams of people helping them to manage and compete. What about people like me? People without the best professional help and resources, who still wanted to do big things with their lives.

As I was managing this ongoing internal crisis, I saw the advert for the Clipper race. I’d never sailed before, but it was exactly the sort of thing that appeals to me; competitive, physically challenging, requires learning a new skill, a little dangerous, and a lot exciting. I knew instantly I wanted to do it. The application process had me very nervous. All medical conditions to be declared up front. Very sensible, but I was convinced they’d take one look at ‘bipolar’ and say ‘thanks but no chance’.

Still, they offered me an interview and during that interview we discussed what having bipolar meant for me, and how I thought it may or may not impact my ability to do the race. I have to say here, full credit to the Clipper team (especially the lady who interviewed me), they were very open-minded and when I was able to provide a letter from my psychiatrist confirming I was managing the bipolar well with medication, they had no objections. Getting the email to say I was able to partake in the race felt almost disproportionately momentous. I knew logically that this was perhaps an obstacle I had invented within my own mind, but nevertheless it felt like I had overcome something significant.

But, here’s the kicker. Because of course there is one. My medication does not mix well with the reality of living on the boat. The medication I take has strong drowsy effects, so I take it at night just before bed, and it knocks me out easily for a minimum of 8-hours. Which is great, usually. But during the race, we are on a continuous rotating watch-system. You work and sleep in a 4-on-4-off-4-on-6-on-6-off pattern, which means I have had to find a solution that works. Through some experimentation during my training, I’ve found the best compromise is taking a reduced dose once a day before my 6-hour off-watch. It’s low enough that I am able to wake up after only a few hours sleep, without any residual drowsiness.

Great! A solution.

Yes, but a solution with a cost.

I have spent the last month steadily reducing my medication in preparation for getting on the boat in Uruguay. It has sucked, there’s really no other way to put it. Any lingering doubts I was harbouring as to the efficacy and importance of the medication have been entirely put to rest. The trails and tribulations my team have been facing at sea feel like they have almost exactly mirrored the mental struggles I have been dealing with throughout this process. Some days have felt outright hopeless.

My therapist asked me very earnestly if the mental cost to me of doing this race was worth paying.

Now, I’m not saying that everybody in my position should answer yes to that question. Not at all. It’s the sort of thing that we each individually have to consider and decide for ourselves. But, for me, I could honestly say - yes, this is a cost I am willing to bear. I have been fighting my brain my whole life, and it’s only in the last 12-months that I have finally been given a strategy and the tools to do so effectively. I know I can do hard things. And I would rather try and fail, than let my personal struggles preclude me from doing wonderful and challenging things with my life.

Acknowledging that was unexpectedly freeing. It felt good to admit that I believe some things are worth a bit of suffering for. Perhaps that is my catholic upbringing rearing its head. In reality, the ‘secret’ to dealing with this was to face it head on and accept that it would get worse before it got better, to tell people that I was struggling, and to let them bear some of that burden with me, to let myself have bad days without seeing that as failure.

However you cut it, this whole experience to-date has been a much-needed reminder that just because something is a struggle, doesn’t mean it’s not worthwhile. That success is not floating easily through a challenge to showers of applause, but more often is grinding your way to the finish line despite setbacks and periodic failure.

I chose this particular challenge for a lot of personal reasons, but also because I saw how the whole enterprise raises money for UNICEF which funnels aid to the children most in need across the world. It’s needful, and impactful, and certainly puts my own struggles into perspective.

I now find myself counting down the last few days before I get on the plane. I’ve found a new equilibrium on my reduced medication, as I knew I would, and I’m preparing myself for dealing with all the challenges I know are awaiting me on the boat. And though I say this slightly tongue-in-cheek, I do honestly think a career in bid management has set me up for success. If I can handle the organised chaos of bid production, with the well-known challenges of crushing deadlines, sliding goal posts, stretched resources, and impossible word counts, then I have total faith that I can cope with anything the South Atlantic might throw at me whilst my amygdala is its erratic and unhelpful self.

Mostly, I hope that by being (terrifyingly) open about my particular mental health challenges and how I face them to do things like the Clipper race, that someone else will take heart and know that they are not defined or restricted by their own mental health. We are not less capable. We may need to take more precautions, or ask for help when it feels raw and uncomfortable to do so, but that does not make us weak.

Looking at the hard road ahead and setting off on it anyway is important. Few worthwhile goals are reached by a path of roses.

Progress over perfection, always.

To my fellow crew and competitors across the other boats, may we have fair winds and following seas on our voyage to Cape Town.

The Clipper fleet sailing towards the storm.