Sleep is supposed to be restorative. It’s the time your body heals, your brain resets, and you recharge to face another day. But for me, for over 20 years, sleep became something I feared. I’m a healthy-weight, 49-year-old woman, but I’ve suffered from severe obstructive sleep apnoea (OSA) for most of my adult life. My story isn’t unique—but it’s rarely talked about. So, I want to share it. Because if you’re struggling too, you’re far from alone.
My journey with sleep issues began when I was pregnant at 28. At first, it seemed like a funny quirk—snoring “like a freight train,” my family would say. They’d chuckle, roll their eyes, make playful comments at family gatherings. We laughed about it, but inside, I felt anything but amused.
Snoring during pregnancy isn’t unusual. Hormonal changes, nasal congestion, and the extra weight around the neck can all contribute. So I brushed it off, thinking it would pass once the baby was born. But it didn’t.
In fact, it only got louder and more relentless as the years went on.
And it was mortifying.
What started as a pregnancy side effect evolved into a defining part of my nights—and slowly, my identity. I became the snorer. Partners, family members, even friends on overnight trips all had something to say. I started to feel like a walking punchline.
My son’s father at the time even used to record my snoring on his phone—ostensibly for proof or as a joke. He’d play it back with a laugh, amused at how “ridiculous” it sounded. And I’d smile along, pretending it was funny too. But inside? I felt humiliated.
Imagine waking up groggy, head pounding, and being greeted not with concern or care—but a voice saying, “Listen to this! You sound like a chainsaw!” It stripped away any sense of intimacy, any sense of safety. I began to associate sleep with shame—something I dreaded, something I had to apologise for.
Over time, I became so embarrassed that I started avoiding relationships altogether. I didn’t want to share a bed, let alone open up about my snoring. I worried constantly about keeping people awake, about what they’d think of me, about how “unfeminine” or “unattractive” it all was.
And so, I stayed quiet. I didn’t seek help. I taped my mouth shut at night out of desperation (dangerous, especially since I couldn’t breathe properly through my nose). I tried over-the-counter aids, jaw straps, sprays. But nothing helped—not really. And all the while, my self-esteem took hit after hit.
What no one sees behind the snoring jokes is the deep impact it can have on your mental health. You start to believe that your body is broken, that rest is something you don’t deserve. And night after night, you suffer in silence—until silence itself feels impossible.
That was my reality for years. Snoring wasn’t just a sound.
It was a barrier between me and everything I wanted in life: restful sleep, loving connection, and peace in my own body.
Even sleepovers with friends or weekends away caused anxiety. I’d make excuses, pretend I was tired and needed to sleep alone, or try to stay awake as long as possible so everyone else fell asleep first.
Like many people desperate for sleep—and, honestly, silence—I turned to Google for solutions. One method that kept popping up was mouth taping. The idea sounds simple enough: tape your lips shut so you have to breathe through your nose, which supposedly reduces snoring. It seemed like a harmless, even clever, trick.
But for me? It was incredibly stupid and dangerous.
You see, I couldn’t breathe through my nose. It was always blocked—congested, tight, like someone had glued it shut. So when I taped my mouth closed, I was basically cutting off my only airway.
Every night, I’d wake up suddenly—choking, panicked, gasping for air. My heart pounding, struggling to catch breath, a sense of pure terror washing over me. And yet, despite all that, I kept trying.
Why? Because the embarrassment of snoring felt worse than the very real fear of suffocating.
Looking back now, I cringe. It breaks my heart that I was willing to risk my life just to sleep quietly, just to keep that noise from defining me. I was desperate, yes. But I was also terrified—of being judged, of being alone, of being “that snorer.”
Mouth taping was a dangerous game I played, blinded by shame and exhaustion. It’s a stark reminder that sometimes when you’re struggling, you reach for whatever seems like a quick fix—even if it’s reckless.
If you’re reading this and thinking about trying something similar, please don’t. Talk to a doctor. Get help. Because no amount of silence is worth your breath.
As the years went on, I started waking up every morning with splitting headaches. Not just now and then—every single day, like clockwork. They weren’t your average headaches either. These were deep, heavy, and all-consuming, as if a tight band had been strapped around my skull and slowly cranked tighter through the night.
The worst of it settled behind my eyes, a deep, throbbing pressure that made it painful to even open them fully in the morning. Some days, it felt like my brain was trying to push out through my forehead. It was more than discomfort—it was agony. I’d sit on the edge of the bed, eyes half-shut, trying to breathe through the pain, willing it to ease so I could start the day.
But the pain wasn’t the only thing weighing me down.
My memory began to feel unreliable, like a drawer I couldn’t quite pull open. I’d forget names, appointments, what someone had just told me—even entire conversations. I started to doubt myself at work. Things that used to come naturally—problem-solving, planning, staying organised—became a struggle. I’d find myself rereading emails over and over, unable to make sense of them. My focus would slip, and I’d lose track of tasks halfway through.
It felt like my brain was running on low battery, fogged and frazzled, even after what should have been a full night’s sleep. But I knew it wasn’t restful. It was broken, fragmented, gasping-for-air sleep that left me more tired in the morning than when I’d gone to bed.
Every day became about survival, not living. I wasn’t thriving—I was just getting through, trying to string together moments of clarity between the headaches, the forgetfulness, and the overwhelming fatigue.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand that these symptoms were classic signs of untreated obstructive sleep apnoea. I blamed myself—maybe I was just stressed, maybe I needed to drink more water, maybe I wasn’t coping well. But deep down, I knew something wasn’t right.
And that daily struggle—that cycle of pain, confusion, and exhaustion—was what finally pushed me to seek real answers.
Before I was formally diagnosed, I went through what I now call the desperate DIY phase—those long, confusing months (or rather, years) where I tried anything and everything just to get some sleep and stop the snoring. At the time, I didn’t realise I was dealing with severe obstructive sleep apnoea. I just knew I was exhausted, ashamed, and desperate to feel normal again.
I started with over-the-counter sleep aids, thinking that maybe if I could just get into a deeper sleep, I’d wake up refreshed. Spoiler alert: I didn’t. If anything, they made things worse. I’d fall asleep faster, but wake up groggier, still with headaches, and with that same brutal fog that followed me around like a shadow.
Next came the throat sprays—those hydrating mists marketed as anti-snoring miracles. I probably went through a dozen different brands. Each promised to coat the throat, reduce vibrations, and keep my airways slick and quiet. And while they may have made my mouth feel minty-fresh, they didn’t make a dent in the freight-train snoring or the oxygen-starved awakenings.
Then came the jaw support straps—you know, those wrap-around contraptions that look like a cross between a wrestling headgear and a Victorian torture device. They’re meant to keep your jaw in place to prevent your airway from collapsing. I’d go to bed feeling like I was in some odd, stretchy helmet, convinced this would be the night it worked. It wasn’t.
And perhaps my most bizarre experiment? (later I learned is a very effective and recommended treatment) I actually slept with a tennis ball strapped to my back. I’d read online that positional therapy can help people with sleep apnoea, especially if the condition worsens when you sleep on your back. So, I literally taped or velcroed a ball to my pyjamas to force myself onto my side. All it did was leave me sore, cranky, and twisted into strange shapes by morning. And if I happened to roll onto my back anyway? I’d wake up gasping for air.
Looking back, I can see the humour in it all—but at the time, it was anything but funny. I felt like I was fighting a losing battle every night, trying to engineer a solution from products on pharmacy shelves and online forums. I’d spend money I didn’t have on gadgets, pillows, sprays, and straps, clinging to hope that one of them might finally quiet the storm in my throat.
But none of it brought relief. Not the jaw supports. Not the throat sprays. Not the sleep aids or the tennis ball. Because the truth is, when you’re dealing with severe OSA, no amount of quick fixes or gimmicks can replace a proper diagnosis and treatment plan.
Still, I kept trying—because I had to. Because when you’re that tired, that ashamed, and that lost in your own body, even the wildest solutions feel worth a shot.
And even in that darkness, a tiny thread of hope kept me going. Because deep down, I believed there had to be something better than this.
Eventually, I tried mandibular advancement devices (MADs)—those bulky mouthguards designed to pull your lower jaw slightly forward, keeping your airway open as you sleep. They’re often recommended as a non-invasive treatment for mild to moderate OSA and, for some people, they work wonders.
So I gave them a go. Actually, I gave them several goes.
I tried every style and design under the sun. The boil-and-bite ones from the chemist. Custom-fitted versions from the dentist. Slimline models that promised comfort. Adjustable ones that let you tweak the jaw positioning. Some were hard plastic, others were softer and more flexible. One even came with a carry case and claimed to be “invisible.” (Spoiler: nothing is invisible when you’re dribbling in your sleep.)
No matter how many types I tried, they all ended the same way. I’d either gag within minutes, drool excessively, or wake up to find I’d spat the thing out halfway through the night. I’d spend half the night adjusting it, trying to convince myself it was “just a matter of getting used to it.” But it never happened.
Worse still, none of them solved the real problem. I still woke up tired. I still had morning headaches. I still felt like I was walking through fog every day. And emotionally, the constant failure took its toll. I started blaming myself—why couldn’t I just make it work? The shame of snoring, of disturbing others, and of struggling to find a solution only deepened.
Eventually, I had to admit defeat. While MADs may be a lifeline for some people, they weren’t enough for me. The exhaustion, the cognitive decline, and the emotional distress just kept piling up.
So, I took the next step. I finally booked a sleep study. I needed answers. I needed to be taken seriously. And most of all, I needed help I could actually live with.
So, I took the next step. I finally booked a sleep study—something I wish I’d done years earlier.
For those who don’t know, a sleep study (also called a polysomnography) is a medical test that monitors what happens to your body while you sleep. It tracks things like brain activity, oxygen levels, heart rate, breathing patterns, limb movements, and eye activity. It’s far more detailed than anything a fitness tracker or sleep app can offer. All that data is then analysed by sleep specialists to determine whether you have a sleep disorder—like obstructive sleep apnoea—and how severe it is.
But here’s the thing: unless you go private, you can’t just book a sleep study on your own. In the UK, you have to go through your GP. It starts with that first, vulnerable conversation—explaining your symptoms, how it’s affecting your life, and why you suspect something is wrong. Thankfully, my GP listened. After years of silently suffering, I was finally referred to a specialist sleep clinic.
The process was straightforward. I was sent home with a sleep testing kit—nothing too scary. It included a small device strapped to my chest, a pulse oximeter clipped to my finger, and a nasal cannula to monitor airflow. It looked a bit like I was wired up to a science experiment, and it wasn’t exactly glamorous, but I managed to sleep through it. And I’m so glad I did.
Because the results were stark: severe obstructive sleep apnoea.
Not mild. Not moderate. Severe.
I was told I was stopping breathing dozens of times an hour, and my oxygen levels were dipping dangerously low throughout the night. That was the reason behind the exhaustion, the crippling headaches, the memory lapses, the mental fog. It was a strange mix of emotions—part fear, part validation. But mostly, I felt relief. For so long I’d thought I was the problem—that I just wasn’t “good” at sleeping. But now there was proof. I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t dramatic. My body was literally suffocating in its sleep—and now I had the data to back it up.
The recommended treatment? A CPAP machine.
And that’s where the next chapter of my journey began.
CPAP (Continuous Positive Airway Pressure) therapy is often called the gold standard for OSA treatment. It involves wearing a mask over your nose—or nose and mouth—that pushes a constant stream of air into your throat to keep it open.
In theory, it’s brilliant. In practice? For me, it was incredibly hard.
Trying to fall asleep with a mask strapped to your face, air blowing forcefully up your nose, and tubes tangling around your pillow is not exactly restful. I felt like an astronaut strapped into a rocket—not a woman trying to sleep. I’d wake up with a dry mouth, air leaks, and a general sense of frustration.
It also made me feel deeply unsexy. There I was, climbing into bed with this chunky mask and headgear, feeling more like Darth Vader than a partner. But this is where my husband stepped in and truly helped me emotionally. Every night, just as I was putting on the mask, he’d look at me with a cheeky grin and say, “Cabin crew, prepare for take-off.”
It always made me laugh. Somehow, with that one line, he turned something awkward and clinical into something light-hearted and bearable. That small moment of humour eased my embarrassment and made me feel loved, even in my most vulnerable state. I’m so grateful for that—because when you’re dealing with OSA, the emotional side of treatment can be just as important as the physical.
So while CPAP was tough, I kept at it—because I needed it. And because a little laughter in the dark goes a long way.
Eventually, after months—actually years—of struggling, I was finally referred for surgery. My ENT specialist explained that structural issues were playing a huge role in my obstructive sleep apnoea. A blocked nose, large tonsils, and a bulky tongue were all physically narrowing my airway and making it impossible to get a proper night’s sleep.
I made the difficult decision to go for it, hoping that surgery might offer some relief where everything else had failed.
The first procedure was to drill through my nose to improve airflow. It was uncomfortable, a strange grinding sensation inside my head, but somehow bearable. I knew it was just the beginning.
Then came the tonsillectomy. And I won’t sugarcoat it—this was the most agonising experience of my entire adult life. The pain was brutal and relentless. Swallowing felt like I was forcing down shards of glass. Every gulp sent a sharp ache radiating deep into my throat.
For weeks, I lived on a diet of ice lollies and paracetamol, avoiding anything even remotely solid or hot. Talking was difficult, and sleeping was only slightly easier because the pain made it hard to do much else.
But even that wasn’t the end.
Next, I faced two separate operations to reduce the size of my tongue—a bulky tongue was partially blocking my airway during sleep, so shrinking it was the only option. Both surgeries were invasive, and the recovery was slow and painful.
Eating, talking, even moving my tongue was agony. Every swallow reminded me of the work that had been done—there was this strange, constant sensation, like scar tissue pulling and tugging inside my mouth.
To this day, I can feel the scar tissue with every swallow. It’s a daily reminder of everything I endured for a chance at better sleep and better health.
Despite the pain and the long road to recovery, I don’t regret having the surgeries. They have helped reduce my snoring, improved my breathing, and given me hope for the future. But the scars—both physical and emotional—are very real and very much a part of my story.
If you’re considering surgery for sleep apnoea, know that it’s a tough journey. But sometimes, it’s a necessary step toward reclaiming your life.
Today, my husband tells me that my snoring has lessened. That roaring freight train sound that used to echo through walls? It’s mostly gone. But not completely.
I still struggle with some level of snoring and disturbed sleep. I still feel tired more often than not. But the progress has been worth it. I can breathe through my nose now. I no longer tape my mouth shut. And while the CPAP still isn’t my best friend, I can tolerate it better.
Beyond the physical struggles, what many people don’t realise is that OSA takes a massive emotional toll. The shame, the isolation, the constant tiredness—it all chips away at your confidence, your mental health, your relationships.
And at the heart of that shame? The snoring.
Snoring is one of those things people joke about all the time. It’s seen as comical, something to laugh at over breakfast or mimic in a silly voice. I’ve lost count of how many times people—friends, colleagues, even strangers—have made throwaway remarks about snorers. “You could wake the dead,” or “You sound like a chainsaw!” Everyone laughs. It’s all good fun. Unless you’re the one they’re talking about.
For me, snoring wasn’t a punchline—it was a source of deep embarrassment. I became hyper-aware of it, even paranoid. I’d lie awake at night, rigid with fear, wondering if someone in the next room could hear me. I started sleeping alone whenever possible. I made excuses to avoid shared accommodation. I dreaded sleepovers, holidays, or group trips.
What hurt most was when people I cared about—people who didn’t mean to be cruel—would make me the brunt of the joke. They didn’t realise how personal it felt. They didn’t understand that every time someone laughed about my snoring, it reinforced the belief that I was flawed, unattractive, or somehow less deserving of intimacy and connection. I shrank into myself, trying to hide this part of me I couldn’t control.
Eventually, the shame started to shape the way I saw myself. I felt less feminine, less desirable, less ‘normal’. I convinced myself that no one would ever want to share a bed with me, let alone a life. Snoring became more than just a sleep issue—it became a barrier to connection, a trigger for anxiety, and an anchor for self-doubt.
It’s strange, isn’t it? Something as common as snoring can be so isolating. But when it’s chronic, loud, and rooted in a serious condition like obstructive sleep apnoea, it’s not just “a bit of noise.” It’s a symptom of something bigger—and for me, it became a quiet but constant source of shame and loneliness.
And that’s why finally getting a diagnosis—being told it wasn’t just in my head—was such a profound relief. For the first time, I realised this wasn’t a character flaw or something to laugh off. It was a medical condition. And I deserved help. Not ridicule.
After years of struggling with the shame of snoring and the awkwardness of sleeping with a CPAP mask, I never imagined I’d be in another relationship again—let alone one where I felt completely accepted. I’d convinced myself that intimacy and sleep were incompatible in my life. How could anyone love me through the noise, the equipment, and the nightly routine that made me feel more like a patient than a partner?
But then I met someone new. A kind, gentle man who, despite having his own sleep disturbed by my condition, never once made me feel like a burden.
From the very beginning, he was understanding. When I opened up about my sleep apnoea, I braced myself for awkwardness, maybe even disappointment. Instead, he listened. Not just politely, but with genuine curiosity and care. He asked questions, he wanted to understand. And most importantly, he never made a joke at my expense.
Even on nights when my snoring slipped through or when the CPAP machine whirred louder than usual, he never sighed, never made a sarcastic comment, never rolled his eyes. He might have had broken sleep, but he never broke my spirit. His attitude was simple but powerful: “We’ll deal with it together.”
And yes, he did give me a nickname—“The Snorus.” But it wasn’t cruel. It was playful, affectionate, said with a smile that made me feel adored, not ashamed. In fact, hearing him say it often made me laugh. For once, my snoring wasn’t a source of ridicule—it was something we could share light-heartedly, as part of our bond, not a barrier between us.
That kind of empathy was healing. It softened years of self-protection. With him, I didn’t feel like I had to hide or apologise for my condition. I didn’t feel unattractive. I didn’t feel ashamed.
He made space for both of us—literally and emotionally. And that space gave me the courage to embrace not just treatment, but acceptance. For the first time in my adult life, I realised I could be loved as I am, CPAP mask and all.
Yes, my sleep apnoea still affects me. Yes, it still affects him. But he shows me daily that love isn’t about perfection—it’s about patience, humour, and compassion. And that, more than any treatment or surgery, has made the biggest difference in my healing journey.
As I approach 50, I’m cautiously hopeful. Medical technology is improving all the time. New, less invasive treatments for OSA are being developed. From inspire implants (a device that stimulates your airway muscles) to customised oral devices, I’m keeping my eye on the future.
Because sleep is not a luxury—it’s a necessity.
If you’re struggling with sleep, snoring, or daytime exhaustion, please speak to your GP. Push for a sleep study. Ask questions. Advocate for yourself. I wish I had done it sooner. My journey has been long, painful, and exhausting—but I’m still here. Still fighting for good sleep. Still believing it’s possible.
And if nothing else, know this: you are not your snoring. You are not your CPAP. You are not broken. You’re human. And you deserve to sleep in peace.