I Have a Dream… About FND

“I Have a Dream… About FND” (with apologies in advance to Martin Luther King!)

I am happy to join with you today in what will hopefully go down in history as a reasonably well-attended meeting in a community hall, with lukewarm tea and a biscuit selection that ran out too early.

But we are here because something matters.

We are here because for too long, people living with Functional Neurological Disorder have been told – sometimes gently, sometimes bluntly, sometimes by letter, sometimes by text – that nothing more could be done. That the scan was clear. That the symptoms were complex. That the service wasn’t quite right. That perhaps, one day, something might happen.

And so today, I say to you: I have a dream.

I have a dream that one day, a person will receive an FND diagnosis and will not immediately reach for Google at 2am, frightened by what they find.

I have a dream that diagnosis will come not with silence, but with explanation.
Not with discharge, but with direction.
Not with disbelief, but with kindness.

I have a dream that one day, clinicians will no longer whisper “FND” as though it were a confession, but speak it clearly, confidently, and compassionately.

I have a dream that one day, a GP will say: “This is real. We understand it. And you’re not on your own.” I have a dream that people with FND will no longer have to become experts in neurology, psychology, physiotherapy, social care, benefits systems, and the art of polite persistence – just to survive.

I have a dream that families and carers will be seen, not as “extras,” but as partners.
That their exhaustion will be recognised.
That their questions will be welcomed.
That their role will be valued.

I have a dream that social health will finally take its rightful place alongside physical and mental health.
That connection will be seen as care.
That community will be recognised as medicine.
That being in a room with others will be understood as powerful.

I have a dream that one day, no person with FND will hear the words:
“We don’t really know where you fit.”
Because in my dream, they fit everywhere.

I have a dream that systems will learn – not overnight, not perfectly – but steadily.
That services will talk to one another.
That voluntary groups will be treated as equals.
That lived experience will not be a box to tick, but a compass to follow.

I have a dream that one day, a nurse, a therapist, a commissioner, and a person with FND will sit around the same table – and no one will feel they don’t belong there.

I have a dream that one day, a diagnosis will be the start of a journey, not the end of the road.

And when this happens – when belief is no longer rationed, when support is no longer accidental, when people are no longer left to navigate alone – we will be able to say:

We did not fix everything.
But we made things better.
And we did it together.

Thank you. (And please, if anyone knows where the good biscuits went, do let us know.)