Too Tired to Function, Too Awake to Sleep.

It’s three O’clock again. And, I’ve officially given up on getting any more sleep.

So, naturally, I spent the sleepless hours doing some research about why I couldn’t sleep—which is always a soothing thing to do in the middle of the night.

Apparently, around half of people living with MS report insomnia symptoms.

Great. Another symptom to add to the collection.

Sleep problems in MS can have several causes. Changes in the nervous system may play a part, but so can pain, reslessless and mood.

Let’s just file the whole thing under:

“My body’s systems are no longer communicating in a way i feel like talking talking back.”

The cruel irony is that people with MS really want to sleep because the fatigue can be relentless.

Too exhausted to function. Too awake to recover.

I’m thinking this might be a badly designed system.

Despite this,, I've learned that bubbles over breakfast are delightful. So I'm questioning my research.

Fine—I’ll try everything again. 🙂

The red flag in the mirror.

Isn’t it interesting how we ignore red flags, negotiate with deal-breakers and somehow justify decisions we already know are bad?

Yet the most uncomfortable warning can be the one sitting directly in front of us: a glimpse of our own possible future.

Watching our parents grow older can expose truths we would rather avoid. We tell ourselves, “That won’t happen to me.” Then, almost without noticing, we drift through life—putting things off, surrendering choices and eventually calling the outcome fate.

Or we go the other way:

“Well, it happened to my parents, so it will probably happen to me.”

Of course, ageing isn’t a punishment, and everything that happens to our bodies is within our control. But that doesn’t mean we have no say in how we live today.

Spending time with Mum has laid some uncomfortable truths bare. I’m seeing them unfold in real time, and I’m choosing to treat them as motivation: a reason to keep moving, keep training and keep forging ahead—regardless of the naysayers.

My mother included.

Yes, Mum. Thanks for the support.

Where do I end this post?

In the only place I can:

I’ll continue to do better tomorrow.

The 3 A.M. Business Plan

Yes, it’s that time again—somewhere between 2 and 4 a.m.—when I wake up and my body announces:

“That’s it. No more sleep for you.”

So I lie there asking myself the obvious question:

“What’s keeping me awake at night?”

The answer?

Who knows?

Still, I persevere—night after sleepless night—while wondering how much money I could make if I solved this problem for millions of people.

Perhaps insomnia isn’t the problem.

Perhaps it’s my next business opportunity.

When in Doubt, Go to the Pub.

So, here we are—following yesterday’s realisation about the temperature situation and one difficult truth I’ve finally had to accept:

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

And yes, it really is me.

If I don’t like the cold, perhaps I should get out of the cold. It’s hardly rocket science. I’ve been so busy training in the heat that I’ve barely considered any other possibility.

Right then—decision time!

Actually, I’m going to have to think about it tomorrow.

Ahhh, sleep—the great escape. Sleep through the night and you wake up one day closer to “walking on sunshine.”

Until then: dress warmly, layer up and go to the pub.

It’s warm there.

Adapt. Or Freeze Trying

The first thing I want to talk about is adaptation—why the body and mind change in response to a challenge.

Having said that, I can’t work out why I’m not adapting.

I’ve been doing some research about my temperature situation, and it turns out that a drop of 15 degrees during the day—and more than 20 degrees overnight—would make even the world’s greatest greatest athlete retreat in shivering horror.

So, there’s a new plan: bear down, do my best and, above all else, stay warm.

And never, ever, ever, ever fly south in winter again.

Unless money changes hands. 😂

Once again, I’ll do better tomorrow!

“Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit drinking.”

Oh yeah athletes don't drink!

Ever!

I'll start again tomorrow 

Stockholm Syndrome: We’re Siding with the Heater Now

Isn’t it interesting how, in a hostage situation, the hostages eventually turn on each other? 😂

My teenage daughter has accompanied me on this pilgrimage to the south, and the strain is beginning to show.

She lives in one of the coldest parts of the country, yet even she has noticed something peculiar: no one here turns on the heater—but everyone complains about the cold and how much heating costs.

How the fuck would they know?!

They never put the fucking thing on. 😬

At this point, I think we’re developing Stockholm Syndrome. Another few days and we’ll be defending the heater, bonding with the electricity bill and insisting the cold only hurts us because it cares.

But I digress.

This too shall pass.

At least that one is a statement I know to be true.

You Do Know About the Top of Australia?!

Blessed relief!

Now, let’s get on with it.

For the first time in a very long time, I regret not bringing every item of clothing I own. Even the clothes I washed still aren’t dry after 24 hours.

And I find myself uttering those words again:

“How do you people live here?!”

“You do know about the top of Australia, don’t you?”

There’s sunshine up there. And warmth and stuff.

It’s the kind of place where clothes dry somewhere between the laundry and the clothesline—and you can swim in an outdoor pool without dying.

But no matter. To each their own.

Today is podcast day, and I’m excited!

Give me coffee or give me Death

Push-ups: done.

Squats: done.

Crunches: after coffee.

Decisions: in 15 minutes.

Perhaps hypothermia has set in, but I definitely feel warmer.

Now I need to listen to a tarot reading. Apparently, the cards are in charge until the coffee kicks in.

Push-Ups, Planks and the Bed Trick

I’ve framed 16:8 as Liz’s chosen routine rather than a universal prescription, which keeps the confident tone without overstating its health effects.

Now I need to get down on the floor and do some push-ups—or, at the very least, hold a plank.

Yes, let’s do this.

It’s time to stop focusing on the cold and get back to doing something. Anything!

It’s also time to return to 16:8—my magic equation for health, longevity and looking younger than the candles on my birthday cake might suggest.

Here’s how it works for me: I wake in the morning and continue fasting from the night before until I reach 16 hours. During that time, the only thing entering my body is water. Nothing else.

And, if I can manage it, no scrolling either—just a bit of focus on my health and wellbeing.

Then, during the eight-hour window, I eat, work, scroll and catch up with the world.

My approach to food is simple: nothing heavily processed, just whole foods that fuel my active body. Getting advice from a qualified nutrition professional is probably the best way to make sure you’re doing what’s right for you. It’s your body, and it needs the right fuel if you want it to perform at its best.

One of the best things about being an athlete is looking great and being able to do up your pants without lying on the bed like we all did in the ’90s.

Or was that just me? 🤔

Bed trick aside, I’m all for repeating the past.

As Gatsby proclaims in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s *The Great Gatsby*:

“Can’t repeat the past? Why, of course you can!”

Let’s do it.

Could We Start Again, Please?

After a disappointing day yesterday working on my inaugural podcast with my producer, I’ve realised it’s not all about me.

Well, who knew? 🤔

What seemed like a perfectly reasonable request somehow turned into, “Let’s try again on Friday.”

And yes, it was a learning moment for everyone. We could reach for the old clichés: “Rome wasn’t built in a day” or “All’s well that ends well.”

Or we could borrow that unforgettable line from *Jesus Christ Superstar*:

“Could we start again, please?”

I remain optimistic.

I’m an athlete. Of course I’m optimistic. 😎

Too Cold for Comfort Food

For me, the cold is more disabling than any other fuck-up my body can pull on me.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I remembered how winter works in this part of the country. 😑

Yes, it gets cold.

Fucking cold.

Another thing about me: I don’t reach for comfort food. In fact, I don’t reach for any food—because I can’t hold it in my shaking hand.

Oh good. More weight loss. 📉

I’ll get back to writing a more informative journal entry once I can function again.

I suppose I could go for a jog.

Except I can’t.

I should probably work on that—once my life has returned to normal.

The Elephant in the room.

Oh yes, you’ve noticed it too?!

Why is this athlete not doing athlety things? 🤔

It’s day four of *What the hell am I doing at the South Pole?*—and there’s not a gym, pool, walking track or piece of exercise equipment in sight.

Let me explain.

Put simply, it’s the hit I take when I do “normal” things. You know—travel, spend time with family, catch up with friends on the other side of the country.

In the fewest possible words: it’s too fucking hard to do the athlete stuff and all the other stuff at the same time.

That’s the price of doing it all. For me, doing it all doesn’t mean doing it all at once. It means getting it all done in manageable stages.

And then there’s my perfect catchphrase: “I’ll do better next time.”

Because there’s always a next time. And while I maintain this incredible level of fitness, I get to do it again and again.

So, the upshot—or the endgame, if you will—is this: I’ll be home in 10 days. I’ll hit it hard and get completely back in the zone.

Until then, I’m focusing on grabbing every bit of warmth that comes my way.

Coffee Before Conclusions

Great plans are always made when I’m full of energy and promise.

It’s usually around the second round of I can’t sleep, but, "I’ve gotta pee again" , or Oh FUCK, it’s still fucking freezing here that I start to doubt myself.

Again. And again.

Then I follow my rule: make no decisions until you’re up, you’re moving, coffee has entered your body and 20 minutes have passed.

I call it the 20-minute rule.

It serves me well.

The Spell We Cast

It’s been a rough—and bitterly cold—three days. Then I found myself watching my 86-year-old mother, who, for all intents and purposes, seems to have given up on life.

Everything is too hard. I keep hearing, “I can’t do that anymore.”

Life is a word game, and once you say those words, the spell is cast.

I look at Mum and wonder: where was the tipping point? When did she begin to believe she could no longer do the things she once did?

I realise that, for some of us, once that decision has been made, that’s it. And I can’t help imagining that if she had been an athlete—if she had spent a lifetime believing in the strength and possibility of her body—perhaps she would still feel capable of everything from lifting something heavy to going for a run.

As for me, I’ve stopped saying those words.

I’m excited about my future. It’s not over yet.

Not by a long shot.

That’s No Way to Treat an Athlete.

As a creature of habit, I find myself railing against reality whenever I’m away from my natural habitat.  You know,  I feel like a bearded dragan thats lost her heat lamp.

I live in Far North Queensland, and at this time of year I always contemplate travelling even farther north—to the very top of Australia, where it is temptingly warmer and, crucially, never, ever cold.

But I digress. The purpose of these journal entries is insight, not a diatribe about the weather. Suffice it to say, we are all different. This is especially true when it comes to living with a chronic condition: the literature does not tell the whole story—or, at least, it does not tell everyone’s story.

For me, the cold is more limiting than alcohol, poor sleep, bad food, stress or the ongoing decline.

And my point?

It’s fucking cold.

That’s no way to treat an athlete—especially not this athlete.

The 4th circle of Hell seems cozy.

And then there are people for whom the impacts can be crippling—(PUN)ishment intended.

Let me paint you a picture. I’m a heat-seeker, and although the literature says otherwise, heat is my friend. I’m more flexible, less weighed down, and better able to function when I’m warm.

Naturally, I’ve landed in a part of Australia where the temperature drops below zero overnight and barely improves from there.

Everyone has heating, but most people don’t believe they can afford to turn it on. Meanwhile, I’ve arrived with cash—and a lot of it—to throw at anyone willing to turn their bloody heater on or, for the love of God, close their fucking doors and windows.

After a night spent mostly shivering, I can’t even think straight. On the upside, I’ve read that shivering can count as a form of cardio, so at least it may lead to weight loss.

Mind the gap.

It's day two, and I've realised that walking through a moving train isn't easy for anyone.

So I did the sensible thing and found the accessible carriage.

Plenty of room for wheelchairs.

Not a handrail in sight.

Or a handbasket to go to hell in. 🤣

So, once again, I remind myself:

You're an athlete.

You can do this.

There's only one leg of the journey left—the car ride into a tiny country town in the middle of nowhere.

Well... that's not entirely true.

There's still the long walk to baggage collection.

The negotiation across the railway tracks.

The little conversations I have with myself before every set of stairs.

And then...

I arrive.

It's usually about then that I remember I'll have to retrace every single step to get home again.

But that's tomorrow's negotiation.

Today, I made it.

Tomorrow I'll head back.

And then I'll be exactly where I belong—

Training.

No. You move.

They move.

But before that comes the negotiation.

Taxis. Turnstiles. Stairs.

The most important thing is making sure the people you're travelling with either pretend not to notice how hard it is... or, even better, just roll with it.

And people ask me, "Why don't you like travelling?"

Because every step is a negotiation. Mostly with myself.

By day two of dragging myself across the country, I don't burst into tears quite so much anymore. I'm usually up to laughter—the kind that says, "She's not okay... but at least now she knows it."

So I repeat the same mantra I've used a hundred times before:

"Let's just get through this."

Followed closely by:

"You've done it before, and you'll do it again."

And underneath all of it, there's only one thing I really want.

I just want to go training.

Just fucking sleep.

Although I now identify as a morning person, I'm always surprised that no matter what time I went to bed, those first few hours feel like dragging a heavy suitcase through quicksand.

And I've worked out the logistics. The secret to being a morning person is actually pretty simple: just get the fuck out of bed... and make sure you're back in it early enough to get enough fucking sleep to do it all again tomorrow.

Logical.

Easy to follow.

Except it isn't.

Without constant vigilance, it can all unravel. One late night becomes two. One sleep-in becomes a week. Before I know it, the routine has disappeared and I'm right back where I started.

So I start again.

Again.

Rebuild the habit.

Because habits are fragile little bastards.

Above all else, athletes are morning people.