The Stoma Accountant

My ulcerative colitis story didn’t begin with a dramatic hospital admission.

It started with things that were easy to dismiss.

Constipation. White mucus streaks. Then blood!

At first I was told it was haemorrhoids, and when you’re given a simple explanation for something embarrassing, it’s very easy to accept it and try to move on.

But my symptoms persisted, and eventually I was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis in 2013.

At the time it was initially considered mild and limited to the re**um. I certainly didn’t imagine that years later I would end up having surgery and living with an ileostomy.

That is one of the strange things about looking back on a long illness. The beginning can seem so small compared with where the journey eventually takes you.

I share this because people can be embarrassed about bowel symptoms, especially blood, mucus or changes in toilet habits. Embarrassment can make us put things off.

This post isn’t about diagnosing yourself from Instagram. It’s simply a reminder that if you have persistent symptoms or something has changed and doesn’t feel right, it deserves a proper conversation with a healthcare professional.

Did your diagnosis start with symptoms you initially dismissed?

Would you know I have a stoma if you passed me in the street?

Most people have no idea. My ileostomy is usually hidden under my clothes, along with the practical thinking that can happen quietly in the background: when I last emptied my bag, whether I’ve packed spare supplies and whether I’m drinking enough.

You also wouldn’t see the confidence it took to go swimming again, travel or stop worrying that everyone could see my bag. Being comfortable talking about it took time too.

My stoma gave me freedom I had lost to ulcerative colitis, and that’s something I’m grateful for. Sharing the less visible parts of my experience helps people understand what everyday life can involve.

Someone who looks well may still need an accessible toilet, understanding at work or a little patience. You cannot always see the reason they need support.

Share this to help more people understand invisible illness and disabilities. 💙

I’ve gone global! Well… across the Irish Sea, at least! 🇮🇪😂

I’m in complete and utter awe that my image and words have been included in today’s Stoma Aware Day promotion by the stoma care team at Beaumont Hospital in Ireland. Seeing these photos of the team standing beside a banner featuring me and my stoma bag has honestly made my day!

When I had my ileostomy in December 2020, I never imagined I’d one day be on a hospital banner in another country. I started sharing my experiences because I wanted people to feel less alone and see that there is still so much life to enjoy after stoma surgery. Knowing that my story is reaching people across the Irish Sea feels pretty special.

A huge thank you to Beaumont Hospital’s stoma care team for including me, and to Colostomy UK for helping spread awareness. If someone sees that poster and feels a little less scared about their own future, that means more to me than I can put into words. 💙

As the banner says: “A stoma didn’t end my story. For me, it gave me the chance to start a new chapter.”

My stoma saved my life. 💙

That is the sentence I wish I could have believed before surgery.

When a stoma was first becoming a real possibility, I didn’t see freedom. I saw everything I thought I might lose.

I had spent years living with ulcerative colitis. By the end, the illness was dictating where I went, what I did and how far away I could be from a toilet. Treatment after treatment had been tried, and eventually surgery became the next step.

On 29 December 2020, I woke up with an ileostomy.

It took time to learn my new body. There were difficult days. There still are occasionally. A stoma isn’t a magic wand and awareness should never pretend everything about it is easy.

But I also woke up at the beginning of a completely different chapter.

The urgency that had ruled my life was gone. Slowly, confidence came back. I returned to normal things I had once taken for granted. Work. Days out. Swimming. Eating. Travelling. Being present with my family rather than constantly thinking about my bowel.

Today, for Ostomy Awareness Day, I want people without a stoma to understand that a bag is not a punchline, something disgusting or a sign that somebody’s life is over.

And I want anyone facing surgery to see people living openly with stomas and know there is life on the other side of that fear.

I am an accountant, a husband, a dad, a grandad, an ostomate and a hundred other things before I am simply “the bloke with the bag.”

But I’ll keep showing the bag too — because the more normal it becomes to see a stoma, the less frightening it becomes for the next person.

One community. Stronger together.

Please share this today. Someone in your feed may need to see it more than you realise.

For Day 2, I’m tackling five assumptions about life with a stoma, from worries about smells and everyone noticing your bag to the belief that swimming and everyday life are no longer possible.

I understand why the unknown can feel frightening. Before my surgery, I had plenty of fears about what life with a bag would mean for me. Getting used to it took time, and there are still leaks, frustrating moments and days when my confidence takes a knock.

But I also work, swim, go on holidays and enjoy time with my family. Most people wouldn’t know I had a stoma unless I told them—or put a picture of it on their Instagram feed! 😂

For me, the hardest part was living with the illness and constant urgency before surgery. My ileostomy gave me back freedom that ulcerative colitis had taken away, and that’s something I want people facing surgery to hear alongside the challenges.

Everyone’s experience is different. I’m sharing mine to help make those conversations more open and a little less frightening.

Swipe through the five myths, and tell me: what’s the biggest misconception you’ve heard about stomas? 💙
Save this for later or share it with someone who might find it helpful.

You can look completely fine… and still be mentally planning your escape route.
That’s the bit people don’t always understand about IBD.

Someone might see you sitting in a café, walking into work, turning up to plans, smiling in a photo, or saying “I’m okay.”
But they don’t see what’s happening in your head.

Where’s the nearest toilet?
How long can I stay here?
What if urgency hits suddenly?
What if I don’t make it?
How do I leave without making it obvious?

That constant background noise is exhausting.
And when you live with Crohn’s, Ulcerative colitis, or any form of IBD, it isn’t just “going to the toilet more.”
It can affect your confidence, your freedom, your relationships, your mental health, your work life, and the way you feel in your own body.

That’s why World IBD Day matters.
Because so much of this illness happens quietly.

Behind normal faces.
Behind cancelled plans.
Behind “I’m fine.”
Behind people who are just trying to get through the day without their body taking over.

So if you’re living with IBD and you’ve ever felt like nobody really sees what it takes just to function — I see you.

And if you don’t live with it, please take a moment to listen.

Awareness isn’t just about knowing the name of the condition.

It’s about understanding the reality behind it. 💜
Save this if it puts words to something you’ve felt.

Share it if someone needs to understand IBD beyond the surface.

Over 500,000 people in the UK are living with Crohn’s or Colitis.

But IBD is still massively misunderstood.

People hear “bowel disease” and assume it just means going to the toilet more.

It doesn’t.

It can take over your confidence, your social life, your work, your relationships, your mental health, and your ability to feel safe in your own body.

It’s the urgency you can’t explain. The anxiety before leaving the house. The constant checking for toilets. The cancelled plans. The exhaustion of pretending you’re fine when everything inside you feels out of control.

And the hardest part is that most of it happens quietly.

You can be sitting in public, looking completely normal, while mentally working out where the nearest toilet is, how quickly you could leave, and whether you’re going to make it through the next hour without something going wrong.

That’s the side of ulcerative colitis people don’t always see.

And that’s exactly why I’m talking about it properly.

This World IBD Day, I’m using the moment to relaunch my blog — The Stoma Accountant — where I’ll be sharing my real story of living with UC, losing control, hospital admissions, and eventually getting a stoma.

Then from 1st June, I’ll be posting a 30-day series about what living with ulcerative colitis was actually like.

Not the polished version.

The real one.

If you live with IBD, Crohn’s, colitis, a stoma, or any invisible illness, I hope this makes you feel a little less alone.

And if you don’t live with it, please stick around.

Because understanding starts with listening.

Read the blog, follow the June series, and share this with someone who needs to understand what IBD really feels like.

“I need some advice… I’m really struggling with this.”

A couple of weeks ago I was back at Torbay Hospital seeing my consultant for the first time in 2 years.

My stoma has honestly given me my life back… but there’s still something going on behind the scenes.
My re**al stump is badly inflamed from diverted colitis and it’s bleeding every day.

If I’m honest, I’ve just been getting on with it. Compared to what I went through before surgery, this felt like nothing. So I’ve just dealt with it and carried on.

But my consultant wasn’t happy with that.

Because of how inflamed it is, there’s a higher risk long term and it’ll likely need removing at some point. That decision comes later… but right now it’s about trying to calm it down.

I’ve been put back on meds I used to take before surgery… and I thought I’d handle them fine.

But this time it’s different.
The foam is unbearable. The pain is instant and my body just rejects it within seconds.
The suppositories stay in, but they’re still painful and leave me sore all day.

And mentally… it’s hit me more than I expected.

It feels like I’ve been pulled back into a fight I already fought so hard to get out of. Back to battling my own body again. Back to relying on meds and hoping they work so I don’t end up needing more surgery.

I’m tired if I’m honest. Properly drained.

I know I’m not the only one who’s been through this, so I’m reaching out…

Has anyone else dealt with this?
Does it get easier?
Do these meds actually start working after a while?

I think right now I just need someone to tell me…
it’s going to be alright. 🙏💜