You remember that song from the 60’s, right?
“Dizzy
I’m so dizzy my head is spinning
Like a whirlpool, it never ends”
Well it has just taken on a whole new meaning to me this past week… I’ve spent years sitting across from patients, listening to them try explain dizziness.
“Like I’m on a boat.”
“Like the floor isn’t quite still.”
I understood it… clinically. Last week, I felt it.
It started out of nowhere. One moment I was completely normal, and the next it was as if someone had shifted the world just slightly off its axis. Not lightheaded. Not that quick spin you get when you stand up too fast. This was different. The room was moving even when I wasn’t. My eyes couldn’t quite lock onto anything, and every small head movement made it surge again. Within minutes I felt nauseous, clammy, and completely disoriented. The kind of feeling where your body tells you very clearly—stop, sit, don’t move.
Walking wasn’t really walking. It was more like being guided. I remember needing help just to get from the car to the bedroom, holding on, unsure of where “straight” actually was. My head felt like it was pulling in one direction, and my body wanted to follow.
That first phase was intense—unrelenting spinning, waves of nausea, that horrible disconnect between what your eyes are seeing and what your body feels. And then, slowly, that part passed.
What I didn’t expect was what came after.
A week later, the spinning has settled, but I’m not steady. Not in the way I would have assumed. It’s this constant, subtle rocking, like I’ve just stepped off a boat and my body hasn’t quite realised I’m back on land. It’s not a spin anymore—it’s a sway. A gentle but persistent shift, like the ground underneath me isn’t completely reliable.
Walking in a straight line takes more thought than it should. I find myself correcting mid-step, slightly veering without meaning to. Turning my head too quickly—especially in busy environments—brings a wave of that unsettled feeling straight back. Even something as simple as scanning a supermarket shelf feels like too much visual input. My eyes want to keep moving, and my brain struggles to keep everything stable.
It’s not dramatic anymore. I’m not collapsing or holding onto walls. But it’s there. Constantly. That quiet, underlying sense that something isn’t quite right.
And that’s the part I think is hardest to explain. Because on the outside, you look fine. You’re functioning. You’re talking, walking, working. But inside, your brain is working overtime trying to recalibrate something that used to be completely automatic—balance, orientation, knowing where you are in space without thinking about it.
Even knowing what this is—Vestibular Neuritis—there were moments I caught myself thinking, “Why do I still feel like this?” or “Shouldn’t I be further along by now?”
Which has been humbling.
Because I’ve reassured patients with those exact words before:
“It takes time.”
“Your brain will adjust.”
And it will. I know that.
But living in that in-between phase—where you’re better, but not right yet—is something else entirely. It chips away at your confidence in small ways. You hesitate before moving. You think twice about things you would normally do without a second thought.
There’s also this shift that happens in recovery. At the beginning, all you want is for it to stop, so you lean on medication just to get through it. But then you reach a point where you realise that staying completely still isn’t helping anymore. The way forward is actually to start moving again—gently, gradually—letting your brain relearn how to interpret those signals, even when it feels uncomfortable.
I think the biggest thing I’ve taken from this is how real that “I just don’t feel right” feeling is. It’s not vague. It’s not exaggerated. It’s very specific, very physical, and very difficult to describe unless you’ve felt it yourself.
I’m getting there. Not 100%, but definitely better than I was.
And I know I’ll probably sit across from someone soon who tries to explain this same feeling—searching for the right words, unsure if it makes sense.
I think I’ll hear them a little differently now.
