The Pieces Hold Together: When Vasovagal Syncope Shatters Your Day (And How We Find The Gold)

VVS Voices™: a lotus for resilience, a swirl for dizziness, and a turquoise ring for dysautonomia awareness.

Imagine a perfect porcelain vessel. It is smooth, flawless, and completely unbroken. For a long time, that is what we expect our lives to look like. We expect to step out of a warm bath, catch a train without a second thought, or browse a crowded high-street shop in complete peace.

But for those of us living with Vasovagal Syncope (VVS), life doesn’t stay in one smooth piece. It can shatter into a million unpredictable fragments, at any given moment, anywhere on earth.

At Mended Arts™ we mend in the spirit of Kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold. This is the story of some of my cracks, and the gold I found in them.

What Is Vasovagal Syncope?

Vasovagal syncope (VVS) is a common condition that can affect anyone. Certain triggers affect the nerve signals that control heart rate and blood pressure. Blood pressure drops too low, and less blood reaches the brain. The result is dizziness, and sometimes fainting.

•        Common triggers include standing for long periods or standing up too quickly, heat or dehydration, stressful or emotional situations, and the sight of blood or having an injection. Some NHS hospital leaflets also advise being careful with long hot baths.

•        Warning signs often include feeling dizzy, sweaty, sick and pale, with blurred vision or sounds that seem far away. Sometimes there is very little warning at all.

•        The NHS describes fainting as not usually serious, and many people learn to manage VVS. But the fall itself can cause injury, and some symptoms need urgent checking.

This is general information. For advice about your own symptoms, speak to your GP.

Now, here is what it looks like from the inside.

The Shatter: When the World Tilts

My very first shatter happened back in 1991. I was a young mum to a two-year-old son, and I loved nothing more than a soaking hot bath. One evening, I stood up from the hot water to shower off, and the entire room tilted. The dizziness hit with a ferocious, violent speed. I barely made it to the closed toilet seat before a cold sweat began to pour, drenching my head, neck, chest, and arms. My heart raced like a trapped bird.

To survive the wave, I slid straight onto the bathroom floor. The cold lino was my only sanctuary, cooling down a physical system that felt entirely out of my control.

If you don't live with VVS, you might think it's "just a simple fainting spell." What the medical textbooks completely omit is the brutal, undignified domino effect. For many of us, the extreme dizziness triggers severe stomach cramps, sudden diarrhoea, and vomiting. It leaves you shaky, completely disoriented, and literally crawling through your own hallway walls just to reach the safety of a bed.

The Missing Minutes and The Invisible Fear

One of the most terrifying parts of this condition is losing time without even realising it.

I don’t keep a clock in my bathroom (honestly, maybe I should start! Lol). During one severe turn, I laid on that cold floor, staring at the ceiling, fiercely repeating to myself: “Slow your breathing. Slow your heart rate. Concentrate.” I was completely focused on surviving, riding out the wave until I could finally drag myself up and make it back to my bedroom.

But when I finally glanced at my bedroom clock, my heart dropped. I thought I had been in the bathroom for maybe 25 minutes. In reality, it had been 55 minutes. Half an hour had simply vanished.

Did I fall asleep from pure physical exhaustion? Or did I completely pass out alone on the floor?

Now that my son is grown and I live on my own, that question haunts me. What happens if I lose my footing, hit my head, and no one is there to help? It is an invisible, terrifying prison that makes simple independence look like an extreme sport. It makes going out alone feel like walking a tightrope without a safety net.

A World Not Built For Our Cracks

Living with an invisible illness means navigating a world that often refuses to see your humanity.

I will never forget being in a store filled to the rafters with customers, crying and pleading with a shop assistant for a quiet place to lie down before a full turn took over. I was eventually led into their staff room and left on the floor with my feet elevated.

I wish I could say they gave me privacy, but instead, staff members kept walking into the room. They pretended they needed to get something from their lockers or make a cup of tea, using it as an excuse to take sneak-peak looks at "the sick woman on the floor." Yet, despite all the pacing back and forth, not a single one of them actually looked me in the eye or asked if I needed a glass of water. The passive embarrassment was almost unbearable.

Or the day I took a short run to catch a train to meet a friend. By the time I stepped into the carriage, my head went light, my tummy turned, and my heart hammered. When my stop arrived, my legs were like lead. I forced myself off, holding onto handrails for dear life—pale, sweaty, and terrified. It was during the Covid era. People rushed past me to catch their connecting trains. They looked at me, saw a mess, and chose to see nothing at all.

When I finally reached the top of the stairs and called out to my friend, my legs completely gave out. There were no benches to lie down on—only those modern station chairs with metal handrails separating every single seat. Picture my tiny body trying to squeeze and contort between those rigid metal bars just to get my feet up! We have to laugh, because if we don't, we will cry.

But the peak of my embarrassment came moments later, waiting for a taxi by a busy roadside. I started vomiting into a plastic bag, and then my bowels completely betrayed me. My friend had to help me stick my bottom into a giant roadside bush, holding an extra-large umbrella over me to shield me from commuters rushing to the station.

In that moment, hidden behind an umbrella, I felt completely broken.

Wear Your Gold Loudly

But here is the truth: That roadside bush? That staff room floor? Those missing 45 minutes? Those are just our cracks. The fact that we get back up, that we pack our bags, that we keep trying to meet our friends, and that we survive every single wave—that is our gold. You are not damaged goods. We are warriors holding ourself together with golden lacquer. We are here to make our invisible strength entirely visible.

The Emergency Protocol: What is in Your Lifeline?

To survive in a world not built for us, we have to become our own first responders. I never leave the house without my personal emergency lifeline kit. My first protocol is always salt: putting a salt sachet straight under my tongue at the first sign of dizziness, followed by plenty of water, and praying my heart rate slows down.

Because of how unpredictable VVS is, my kit also has to contain worst-case contingencies: a change of clothing, bags for vomiting, and bags for soiled items.

But I know everyone’s body handles this battle differently, and I need to hear from you.

Join the VVS Voices™ Conversation

We are building a global community here, and your story matters. I want you to drop a comment below and share your raw experiences with me:

Do you experience those same terrifying "time jumps" on the floor? Do you find yourself passing out or falling asleep?

What does your personal out-of-the-house emergency kit look like? What is the one absolute "must-have" item you pack to preserve your safety and dignity during a sudden turn?

Let's swap notes, share our survival strategies, and paint our cracks with gold together. Rise louder, speak up, and let your voice be heard.

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