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After learning the true identity of her biological father, Victoria Hill’s life was turned upside down forever. And there further horrors in store after the mum-of-two realised she’d been ‘intimate’ with her own brother

When it comes to living a healthy, happy life, it’s safe to say that Scandinavia has it pretty well figured out.

First came hygge, a Danish concept that, according to the country’s tourist board, denotes ‘creating a warm atmosphere and enjoying the good things in life with good people.’ And now, it’s all about the Norwegian art of Dugnadsånd.

Coined by the founder of the world’s first Happiness Research Institute Meik Wiking, the concept is all about ‘community or volunteer spirit,’ defining it as ‘the collective willingness of people to come together in the context of community projects – emphasising cooperation and selflessness.’

And, considering that Norway currently ranks in seventh place on The World Happiness Report (while its Scandinavian siblings Denmark and Sweden sit in second and fourth place respectively), it’s probably worth taking a leaf or two out of their book.

In 2024, 32.9% of Norway’s population spent time volunteering, while in the UK, just shy of 31.1% of people did the same. So, clearly we’re doing it – but what meaning does it hold for our mental wellbeing?

As Dr Elena Touroni, a consultant psychologist and co-founder of The Chelsea Psychology Clinic tells Metro, volunteering can foster a ‘sense of purpose and belonging,’ both of which are crucial for mental wellbeing.

‘When we help others, we experience a natural boost in mood, often due to the release of feel-good hormones like oxytocin and dopamine,’ Dr Elena explains.

‘It can also reduce stress, combat loneliness and create a sense of achievement, all of which are protective factors against anxiety and depression.’

Along these lines, she notes that humans are ‘inherently social,’ and ‘feeling connected to a community gives us a sense of identity and support.’

‘It can make challenges feel more manageable, increase resilience and even improve physical health by lowering stress levels,’ she adds.

‘In a world where loneliness is on the rise, having a strong sense of community can be one of the most powerful buffers against mental health struggles.’

Dr Kathrine McAleese, 47, runs the soup club in her village in County Down, Northern Ireland, providing three homemade soups every Wednesday lunchtime – as well as bread rolls, coffee and tea – for free.

Where Kathrine lives, which is ‘far from civilisation in a village on the east coast of the Ards Peninsula,’ she’s found building connections to be a truly ‘special’ thing.

‘It’s definitely helped me feel more connected and more empowered to contribute to the community,’ she shares.

‘I get to welcome people in, make them feel valued, catch up with their lives and hang out with the helper team who also want to serve others and build community, so on both sides it’s comforting.

‘I also tend to be a bit of a hermit through the winter when the weather is awful, so this gets me out of my shell to look out for others and get a place ready for them that will give them warmth, sustenance and company.‘

Elsewhere, 56-year-old Susan Widlake volunteers at both the Bury St Edmunds and Radwinter Repair Cafes primarily repairing hats – and loves connecting with the local communities over the nostalgic belongings they bring in to be fixed.

‘The conversations which are had when you are repairing an object are wonderful, with folk reminiscing about the object and previous owners,’ Susan, who lives in Saffron Walden, reflects.

‘Personally, I’ve loved hearing about hats that have been up mountains in Nepal, or ones which had been a mum’s “gardening” hat.

‘I love having conversations with people and them saying “oh, you’re the hat lady” or hearing stories from people about “how some clever ladies repaired a worn out teddy bear” and knowing that I was part of the contribution behind it.’

For Susan, one of the best parts is the connections she’s built with other repairers – one of whom even gifted her two hat blocks, the wooden shape that’s used to help craft them.

‘I repaired an old school boater which had belonged to a lady’s son who had passed away far too young, and I’ve actually met some professional costumer designers and seamstresses. It’s amazing just to sit and chat with them,’ she says.

‘What drives me in volunteering is making people smile. I like to have a way to share my skills, and show the beauty of being able to sit, sew and repair something is a great way to escape from the business of everyday life.’

Do you have a story to share?

Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@Metro.co.uk.

The GP looked over his glasses, smirked, and then started to laugh.   

‘We may need to name a special little syndrome for you,’ he said. 

It was 2010 and I was once again trying to get someone to pay attention to my symptoms.

By this point, I’d spent years trying to convince myself that the feeling that no one believed me was paranoia. Yet I still went home, laughter ringing in my ears, and internalised it.

Obviously this was my fault. I was hysterical, a hypochondriac, a time waster. But I knew my symptoms were real.

It started in 2001. I was 30, freshly liberated from a relationship and had started a new job. Frankly, I was exhausted.

That’s no exaggeration, I felt hammered by fatigue and was living on caffeine and adrenaline, constantly collapsing on the sofa once home from work. And then the ghostly symptoms started.

Weird from the outset, even supernatural at times, it felt like someone was grabbing my left wrist and ankle. Sometimes I had numb patches, the feeling of a feather tickling my face, or ants on my skin. I limped sometimes but not others. 

I felt ridiculous saying it out loud. It was like I needed an exorcist rather than a doctor.

Still, I was dispatched to a neurologist who conducted a raft of tests, sending me for an MRI scan of my head. He then suggested that this could be multiple sclerosis (MS) – a chronic disease that affects the central nervous system – which sent my stomach lurching. 

As a hospital-based nurse, my experience of MS was seeing patients who had an advanced version of the disease. Normally they were confined to beds or wheelchairs – I didn’t understand then that the disease can present in many different ways. 

However, an MRI (which is typically used to see if there is damage to the nerves in your brain or spinal cord), came back clear and I was discharged with no suggestions about what might be happening. 

I self-diagnosed a stress reaction, which made sense. But the symptoms persisted on and off for months, in fact, years. 

For the next 19 years my health waxed and waned. I had a merry-go-round of seeing GPs, neurologists, being scanned repeatedly and always told that there was nothing wrong with me. 

Sometimes, if I saw someone new, doctors looked at me like I was being ridiculous when I told them my symptoms. Or, like on that one occasion in 2010, I was actually laughed out of the GP surgery.

One time, I went temporarily blind in my left eye and was told it was likely to be MS. But I was once again dismissed when the brain scan was clear.

Even after I received a clinic letter saying that the consultant was ‘utterly convinced’ that I had MS, a further brain scan led to the same punchline. 

I felt isolated and frustrated, as did my partner. 

While he was as patient and supportive as he could be, he didn’t understand why I was having these symptoms – always tired, always cancelling things – and neither did I.  

A family member once suggested that the obvious answer was that it was ‘all in my head’. Funnily enough, in a way, they were right.

In 2020 I had a relapse – where new symptoms arrive or old ones get worse –  that was so catastrophic it left me with a numb left side, limping, falling asleep in unexpected places and feeling constantly queasy until eventually I landed in casualty.

Another MRI scan (I’d lost count of the number I’d had by then) was ordered, only this time, it showed that my brain was peppered with scarring where MS had damaged my brain and spine. 

In all likelihood, I’d had MS this whole time but the scarring before this major attack had always been minor and therefore didn’t show up on tests. Now though, the damage was pronounced and dramatic making it impossible to miss. 

Finally I had the diagnosis I’d been searching for, for 19 years.

You’d think, after all that time I’d be ready for it. Yet, in spite of the multiple times I’d been told I might have MS, it came as a huge shock and left me feeling unmoored and afraid for the future.

Oddly, I also felt relieved and validated. Everything made sense.

I saw a psychologist to help me adjust, a specialist nurse to talk through treatments, and a dedicated MS consultant. They were all empathetic about the delay to diagnosis and offered me help to find ways to stay in work.

With their recognition and support, I carried on working as a palliative care specialist nurse for another three years – though I did eventually have to retire on health grounds due to severe fatigue (a common MS symptom).

Sadly, as I well knew, there is no cure for MS. But I’m now on monthly injections to try to stop it damaging my nervous system further. Even then though, I still have constant nerve pain, chronic fatigue, and areas of numbness.

My life has irrevocably changed since the diagnosis. Where I used to go to the theatre twice a week or spend hours walking my dog around London, I now spend much more time at home. Luckily, I’ve found pleasure in reading and watching films.

On the days when my symptoms are less, I embrace them wholeheartedly, making the most of that time to do things I otherwise can’t now. As a result, we are planning on swapping the hectic whirl of the capital for a slower pace of life on the South Coast.

Mainly, I wish there hadn’t been 19 years of the merry go round of ‘does he/doesn’t he’ have MS. 

Having a diagnosis wouldn’t have changed what medical treatment I had because the MS wasn’t bad enough then to need medication, but it would have helped me feel validated.

Maybe then I wouldn’t have spent almost two decades feeling like I was being dismissed and labelled as being hysterical or making it all up. Perhaps I wouldn’t have been left to cope alone each time the MRI scans were clear.

Whether the scans were or weren’t showing MS, I was struggling and deserved support and understanding.

I know my story is not the only one like this: many people frequently have neurological symptoms without a diagnosis and are often dismissed.  

But people with functional symptoms (symptoms with no obvious physical cause) need and deserve as much help as anyone else – we just don’t always get it. I’d like to see that change. 

In the meantime, I’ve channelled my anger and frustration into writing.  

I’ve always written and am a crime fiction fan so decided to write about a woman with neurological issues and the chaos that ensues when she’s drawn into a murder plot. This lead character is discredited, disrespected and coping alone. Sound familiar? 

Mainly, the catharsis from expressing my feeling of alienation, fear and rage on the page has been intense, but finally my ‘special little syndrome’ has found a home on paper and I feel seen. 

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

David Beckham, Wayne Rooney, Andrew Garfield, Matt Damon, Gordon Ramsay. What do they have in common? They’re among the long list of A-list men who’ve reportedly had hair transplants to combat a receding hairline or baldness.

Approximately 6.5million men in the UK are currently affected by hair loss, while the most common cause (androgenic alopecia aka male pattern baldness) affects 85% of men by the age of 50.

Consequently, men are forking out thousands — sometimes tens of thousands — on potential remedies, from surgical procedures to LED therapies and specialist shampoos.

In today’s climate, it’s typical for men to be mercilessly mocked for going bald, with neither Prince Harry nor boyband heartthrob Harry Styles safe from the wrath of social media once a photo surfaces of their scalp from an exposing angle.

But what about the men who are more than content just as they are?

Meet Schuggie, who refuses to allow online pressure to knock his confidence. While hair loss can and does cause very valid emotional distress for many, for Schuggie, it’s entirely the opposite.

A 51-year-old cèilidh caller (whose real name is Dougie MacInnes), he’s been bald for over two decades, having first noticed hair loss in his mid-twenties.

‘It didn’t really hit me until my early thirties,’ Schuggie explains. ‘Those were the days before caffeine shampoo, so the only way I found to fight it was medical shampoo at £40 a bottle. I couldn’t keep that up financially.’

Schuggie found it tough being bald, with terms like ‘slaphead’ thrown at him in a derogatory manner.

‘Years back, I went to a wedding, and during one of the dances, someone did actually slap my head,’ he recalls.

‘I remember at the time thinking, just smile, don’t lose the plot, keep going… but it really stuck with me.’

In time, Schuggie become more comfortable in his own skin. The name-calling has died down and he even finds himself laughing at old videos.

And Schuggie, from Inverness, says he has no desire to book himself into a hair loss clinic, despite the number of patients on the rise.

‘It’s not something I’ve ever considered, and I definitely still wouldn’t,’ he declares frankly. ‘From what I’ve seen on Instagram, the process looks rather painful, and there’s a lengthy recovery involved. It’s not for me.’

So while Schuggie’s hairstyling options are limited, and as he admits to being ‘jealous’ of his elderly friends who still boast impressively thick locks, he’s making the best of what he has, growing a beard and wearing funky hats to inject personality into his image.

But hair loss doesn’t just hit men in their forties and fifties, as 25-year-old Rupert Cole will attest to.

A PR professional from North Yorkshire, Rupert became aware he was losing hair at just 16.

Convinced he could stop his hair from disappearing, Rupert fought it with whatever he could get his hands on, with solutions including sprays and the medications minoxidil and finasteride.

‘I was prepared that it might happen at some point, because a lot of my family members are bald, but I didn’t expect it to happen while I was in school,’ he says. ‘It’s a tough thing for a teenager to go through.’

He eventually realised that seeking treatment in the form of cans and bottles was simply ‘delaying the inevitable’ and keeping him in the ‘awkward balding stage’. It was this that created momentum for Rupert to shave his head at 20.

‘For the first few days of being bald, I wasn’t a huge fan of it, but when I grew out my beard more, I quickly realised that I actually preferred the way I looked without hair.’

He adds that simply accepting how he looks makes him feel ‘more confident’, citing Jason Statham and Patrick Stewart as positive bald role models and declaring: ‘I wouldn’t go back, even if I could.’

‘I feel more attractive,’ he says proudly, desperate for society to catch up and stop deeming baldness as an inherently bad thing.

‘There’s a preconception that baldness is a failure of masculinity in young men because they don’t have a healthy head of hair, while bald men are often supportive towards one another.

‘I was the first of my friends to start balding, but I’m definitely not the only one now, and all of us wish we’d shaved it earlier and not been so worried.

‘At the end of the day, it’s going to go one way or another, and you’ll feel more confident if you embrace it, rather than letting it take over you slowly.’

Hair transplants are a big business. In Istanbul alone, baldness tourism is huge — up to 500 procedures are performed each week, and an estimated £1.5billion was spent on hair transplants in Turkey last year.

On why 400,000 men (making up 90% of these international patients) are undergoing the extensive treatment in the name of hair regrowth, aesthetician Ed Robinson weighs in.

The NHS doctor, who has his own Harley Street clinic, explains that a full head of hair is typically linked with success and confidence, with social media becoming a breeding ground for appearance-related insecurities.

‘Hair loss can affect people quite deeply,’ he begins. ‘My patients frequently admit to declining social invitations, avoiding having photos taken, and getting their hair wet out of fear of exposing its thinness or being ridiculed.’

Dr Ed has performed treatments for both high-profile patients and everyday folk but doesn’t believe a transplant is essential for rebuilding your self-esteem when balding.

‘Ultimately, self-acceptance of how you look is always the safest way in aesthetics. It doesn’t involve you having to have any medications, injections, or non-surgical or surgical procedures.’

Something that’s helped with this, no doubt, is high-profile figures embracing their own baldness and setting a positive example, whether it be Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson, Stanley Tucci, or Prince William, the latter of whom was crowned the world’s sexiest bald man.

Take Pitbull as another example, whose fans actually buy bald caps and don black shades to recreate his look while attending his concerts in their thousands.

However, it’s important to remember that hair loss is a personal experience, something stressed by Brian Gross, who states that ‘every person has to tackle it however is best for them’.

Brian began losing his hair right after his first year of college. Hair loss is ‘ridiculously common’ in his family, meaning it wasn’t a shock, so Brian has been on a self-acceptance train for a long time.

‘I actually had a mullet in high school, but we all knew I was going to lose it, and my friends and I always made fun of each other,’ shares the 49-year-old. ‘When it started to happen, it wasn’t such a big deal to me.’

Brian, a publicist from California, first reached for the clippers in his early twenties and has been shaving ever since: ‘I’m fortunate enough to have a nice, clean-shaped head!’

The thought of a hair transplant isn’t something he’d entertain, especially after visiting Istanbul and witnessing men across the Grand Bazaar market walk around post-surgery, bandaged up. ‘It’s totally the norm there.’

‘I just had to accept that it was going to be this way,’ Brian declares. ‘Being bald has zero effect on my personal life now, and I wouldn’t want anyone, including women I date, to have issues with it either.’

As far as romance is concerned, Brian makes it clear from the off what people are getting, as he ‘always shows up to dates with a shaven head’ and ‘rarely’ posts photos of himself wearing hats.

‘I try my best not to hide it, and I make sure the other person knows that. I hear horror stories of men arriving at dates looking nothing like their photos, which is wild to me. What you see is what you get.’

In fact, shaving his head has become a hobby for Brian, who says one of his favourite activities when travelling is visiting barbershops around the world.

‘I love getting my beard trimmed, I use a Pitbull razor a couple of times a week, which feels great on my scalp… If people want to say mean things, I would question them, not myself.

‘Honestly, my life is amazing.’

Do you have a story to share?

Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@Metro.co.uk.

A woman’s newlywed bliss came crashing down when her husband called her by the worst name she could possibly imagine while they were getting intimate. Now her curiosity has got the better of her

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I was at university when I had my first seizure.

One day, I went clothes shopping on my own. I was trying on a pair of jeans in the changing rooms at Topman when I collapsed. 

Somebody saw my legs go from underneath the curtain. When I came round, there were around four faces staring at me; I remember thinking one of them was my school PE teacher.

This obviously didn’t make any sense, but things don’t tend to make sense in those first few minutes after a seizure. It’s total confusion.

Somebody asked me if I knew what day it was. I was still completely disoriented, so I just said: ‘Can’t you ask someone else?’.

Gradually, I started to come around properly, and I realised what had happened. I knew it was probably epilepsy – and I was right.

My sister had always had epilepsy, so I’d grown up around it; I knew the signs.

I had no idea, though, that I’d also grown up experiencing the early warning signs – known as an aura – of a seizure myself.

When I was younger, I’d sometimes be lying in bed late at night, and I’d notice that my bedroom door would either suddenly seem huge and very close to me; or it would seem very far away.

I later learned this is known as ‘Alice in Wonderland syndrome’, or AIWS – a brain-related condition that can disrupt how you perceive the world around you – and that, for me, it could have been an early sign of epilepsy.

I wasn’t diagnosed with epilepsy immediately – I had to have MRI scans. While I was waiting for my diagnosis, I had more seizures.

It was always the same – beforehand, I’d feel confused; afterwards, I’d feel confused. After one seizure in public, people were crowding around me and everyone sounded like my best friend from primary school. I hadn’t seen him since then, but that was all I could think about.

After a few weeks, I was diagnosed with Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy.

People tend to assume that epileptic seizures are triggered by flashing lights, but that’s not the case for me. Mine are brought on from tiredness, fatigue and stress.

My diagnosis wasn’t a huge, scary thing for me, because I knew all about it from my sister’s experience. But it was still an adjustment. I was no longer able to drive, in case I had a seizure; and I had to start taking medication. Thankfully, this started working immediately.

For Sarah

Last year, on March 10, we lost our beloved colleague Sarah Whiteley. Sarah was a fantastic journalist; she was Metro’s parenting columnist and a valued member of our first-person and opinion desk.

Sarah died aged 39 from SUDEP – sudden unexpected death in epilepsy. It is thought that every year around 1,000 people die from causes related to epilepsy.

With support from Sarah’s family, Metro is fundraising for two very important charities: SUDEP Action and Epilepsy Action.

From March 10 to March 26, which marks Purple Day (epilepsy awareness day), we will be running a series of features and first-person pieces, raising awareness of epilepsy and SUDEP.

Sarah was so incredible at helping other people share their experiences; she was a born storyteller and we hope to do her proud with this series, while raising money in her memory.

I’ve been very lucky. I was on medication for around six years, and I’m now medication-free. I’m seizure-free, too, currently – I haven’t had a tonic-clonic seizure since university.

But I still have to be very, very careful.

I’m a comedian now – and, while I love what I do, it takes meticulous planning for me to make the most of my career while managing my condition.

I tour a lot, which means an action-packed schedule. And, because my seizures can be triggered by tiredness, I need to make sure I get enough rest. It’s just not worth the risk if I don’t.

Last year, especially, was very intense and busy. I was supporting Michael McIntyre all round the world, and I was on my own tour.

There was one day when I was doing my tour in Scotland. After my show in Glasgow, I got on the sleeper train to London; got in a car, went straight to the airport and flew to Gibraltar to do three shows out there. Then, after the third show, I flew straight home that night.

For the next couple of days, I noticed this feeling creeping in: My body was jerking a little, like when you’re fast asleep and your leg suddenly twitches. I knew I needed to take some downtime, urgently – because this feeling was a warning. Like a tremor before an earthquake.

When I was on tour with Michael, I’d always have to go straight home after shows, or after a flight, and go to sleep.

If I have an early start, I need to make sure I have nothing on the day before. It’s just imperative that I get enough rest.

At first, I didn’t talk about epilepsy in my shows. It never occurred to me that people might want to hear about it.

But after Covid, I just decided to give it a go – and it really resonated with people. After my first show talking about epilepsy, a woman came up to me and said: ‘My son’s got epilepsy; I can’t wait to tell him about you!’.

So many people since then have told me how much it’s meant to them to hear me speaking about my condition.

I’ll tell stories about me – for example, I’ll tell audiences how I had my first seizure during National Epileptic Week, which was fitting! – and stories about my sister. For example, when we were growing up, my two sisters shared a room.

One had epilepsy, and one had a form of OCD that meant she had to flick the lights on and off several times before entering or leaving a room. This resulted in flashing lights, which wasn’t ideal for my other sister’s epilepsy!

I really notice a shift in the audience when I start talking about epilepsy. It’s like the audience is thinking: ‘OK, he’s being honest with us now. We’ve earned his trust.’

These days, I just want to raise awareness. I’ve tried to get documentaries made about it, but I’ve never had any luck.

And we need to raise awareness, because people don’t know enough about it. The assumption from people who don’t have epilepsy is always: ‘You can’t stand flashing lights and you’re going to fall to the floor’. But actually, there are so many ways that epilepsy – and seizures – can manifest.

My nephew has epilepsy, too – last year, he was having seizure after seizure but he couldn’t get any medication because his pharmacy had run out. But no one seemed to be talking about this medication shortage.

I feel like I’m going mad, sometimes, trying to get the word out to people who don’t seem to be interested in what epilepsy actually is and why we need to take it seriously.

But I’m doing my best. I’m working with the charity Young Epilepsy, running a stand-up course to help young people with epilepsy to get into comedy; and I’m working with Epilepsy Action, too, trying to raise awareness.

And I’ll continue talking about epilepsy – in my shows, and to anyone who’ll listen. When I did Live At The Apollo in 2023, the promoter asked if I could do my ‘epilepsy stuff’ in the show.

‘Of course,’ I said – because that’s what I want. I want to help people, as best I can.

As told to Izzie Price

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.