BENEATH THE TRACKSUIT w/Robbie Gillett

Robbie Gillett didn’t plan on becoming a poet. But after an MS diagnosis turned his world upside down, he found himself reaching for something to hold onto—something beyond the fatigue, the depression, and the invisibility of it all. Encouraged by his wife, Robbie began writing. What started as a private thought diary became public poetry—raw and resonant. Under the name “Beneath the Tracksuit,” he gave voice to the quiet battles many face but few speak of.

ALLIÉ: Robbie, can you take us back to the day when everything changed? What do you remember about that moment when your body first signaled that something wasn’t right—when something was wrong?

ROBBIE: It was really scary. I was at work—I was a kitchen fitter—and I was in a block of empty flats, building a kitchen by myself. I knelt onto a unit to put the feet on, and I was stuck there. I couldn’t move. My arms wouldn’t move, my legs wouldn’t move. I had a drill in one hand and was holding myself onto the unit with the other—and I couldn’t move. It was the weirdest sensation I’ve ever felt in my life. I was just stuck there for five, six, seven, eight minutes. My brain was going, What’s going on? Am I dying? Am I having a stroke? What’s going to happen? No one’s here. No one can find me.

And then, just as quickly as it happened—which felt like a lifetime—things started to come back. Fingers, toes, head… I could move again. But before that, I couldn’t shout, couldn’t talk. I couldn’t do anything. I was just stuck there. And that was it. I stood back up, and I was absolutely fine. Nothing seemed wrong with me. It was the weirdest feeling ever.

ALLIÉ: You just became like a statue all of a sudden? Just—frozen?

ROBBIE: Yeah. It was really surreal. And when I started explaining this to doctors, they said it wasn’t a typical MS relapse. That’s why they couldn’t give me a diagnosis of MS at first. They said relapse symptoms happen over a month—they come and go. But mine was just like that. And all my symptoms that followed were really intermittent. Like, my hand would curl sharply and stay that way for half an hour, and then it would be fine again. But it wasn’t consistently stuck like that.

The headaches too… At first, the headaches were like being hit with something really hard. They’d last for hours and hours, and I’d curl up. They thought maybe it was migraines, but migraine tablets weren’t working. So, at first, it was all just weird. Nobody had the right answer.

They sent me off for scans—thought I’d had a stroke. Then an MRI showed one little lesion in the brain. Just one. And all that damage I’d felt—caused by one tiny lesion. One plaque. Nothing in the spinal cord, nothing else in the brain. So, they said it could be CIS—I think that’s what it’s called—where it’s just one episode. That might not be the right name. I’m terrible with the names. Something isolated anyway. That’s what they thought it might be.

But six months later, symptoms persisted. The claw stayed longer, the headaches got worse, and I was always fatigued—just battered. I felt battered. Like my body had been ripped apart.

Then they sent me back for another MRI. There were more lesions in the brain. And then came the lovely lumbar puncture, which I completely melted down during. The anxiety—I couldn’t do it. I had a panic attack. It was the most horrifying thing I’ve ever been through. It’s weird, because it’s just a needle—right? But I’m fine with anything, as long as you don’t tell me about it. But when they started saying, “I’m going to fold you in half slowly…” and they started going through all the steps—that’s when I panicked. Full anxiety attack.

But they added it all up and said, “Yeah, you’ve got MS.” It was a year to the day, pretty much.

ALLIÉ: “You’ve got MS.” These aren’t words that are easy to hear. Let’s talk more about other words—your words. You’ve described your early writing since diagnosis as a thought diary that evolved into poetry. My question for you now, Robbie, is: What did you discover about yourself in that process? Through this poetic exploration, what did you uncover about you?

ROBBIE: I started writing, I think it was six or seven years after my diagnosis, when I was mentally struggling. Symptoms had started getting really bad. I’m in a wheelchair quite a lot, I ride a scooter, I have to self-catheterise at night and things like that. So, things were getting really bad. And I needed a way to vent.

I really found myself, artistically, dealing with my pain. It was amazing. Because I was taking these negative thoughts from here (points to head) and turning them into something else over there (gestures)—and that changed everything. Suddenly it wasn’t a bad thought—it was a good poem. It still explained the same thought I was having, but now it wasn’t trapped in me—it was out there. It helped me communicate.

It’s brilliant, really, because the way I talk and the way I write are two completely different people. I talk slang, very casual—I’m just me. But when I write, I really try to be artistic with the words. I love that. I love it so much. I never did that in school. But now I’ve found this talent—this passion, if you like. I write a lot. And I don’t just write about mental health anymore—I write about everything.

ALLIÉ: I love that. I love how your words became your salve—a treatment of sorts. Let’s talk about more words though. Let’s talk about three words, specifically.Your name ‘Beneath the Tracksuit’ says so much without having to say much at all. What does it mean to you personally, Robbie? And why did you choose to share that part of yourself publicly? Let’s start with the name.

ROBBIE: So, at that point, my poetry wasn’t out there at all. But I wrote a poem about how people look at you. It was a thought process I was having. All the poems came from thought processes. And the final line of that poem was: “You can’t see what’s beneath the tracksuit.”

I wear tracksuits all the time. They’re comfy. Easy to get on and off. Ideal for me. They hide the FES wires, the foot splints, the hand splints, the wraps. They hide everything. They’re a gem. But the idea is: You can’t see what’s happening underneath. The mental health. The MS. The daily struggles. It’s all hidden beneath the tracksuit. It’s inside.

So, that’s where the name came from. It was the last line of a poem—before I ever started sharing. And the idea to share? It wasn’t mine. I didn’t want to put my emotions out there. I was stuck in the stigma. You know—men don’t talk. That kind of thing. It was personal. But my wife, Donna Marie, it was her idea. She said, “Share it. You could help people.” I said, “No. I don’t want anyone to read or hear what I’ve written in this book.” She said, “I think you should share it. You’re teaching people it’s okay to talk. You might help someone.” So eventually, I said okay. It took a while. But I did.

ALLIÉ: And it takes something, doesn’t it? A kind of bravery. What was it like the first time you put your poetry out into the world? What was the response? How were you feeling?

ROBBIE: I was scared. Really anxious. I didn’t want to share it worldwide. I didn’t want it going out to the masses. So, I thought, If I could just show the people I know—just show them what MS is like—maybe I could invite people in along the way.

I shared in MS support groups, and people responded, “Oh my gosh, this is telling my story. Straight away.” Then I joined more groups, and people said the same: “You’re saying what I’m feeling. This is my story. You could’ve written this for me. Thank you for saying what I can’t say.” That was amazing.

Within a month of sharing my first poem, MS Focus Magazine in America reached out. They wanted to publish my poem and do an interview. It was crazy. I remember thinking it would be nice to have as many followers as I had friends—like 200. Within a couple of months, I had 3,000. It was really good. But I was still really anxious. Still am. Every time I share a post or a poem, I spell check everything. I’m not the best at spelling, so spell check is my best friend.

But I like that I get anxious—it shows I care. It proves to me that I care. It’s not just fear of embarrassment—it’s about wanting to do it right.

ALLIÉ: And at the same time as that anxiety and fear, I imagine there’s a sense of freedom. That’s the win—for you and for the person who hears it. They feel seen. They feel connected.

So let’s talk about Donna Marie. You said she encouraged you to start writing. How has her support shaped your journey, both as a poet and as someone living with MS?

ROBBIE: She’s been behind me the whole way. At first, when I was diagnosed, I was very selfish with it. I thought, “This is happening to me. What’s happening to me?” I shut down and tried to deal with it by myself. But she was there—supporting me the whole way. And now, I’m more open. I talk to her when I’m struggling. She’s still right by my side.

And as a poet—people see me on stage, in photos or videos—but there’s always an army behind me. And leading that army is Donna. I have her in my corner. She brings my books, sets up my stands and props, helps calm my anxiety, does the bar runs to get me a cup of coffee. Because MS is draining. Fatigue wipes me out.

She listens to all of my work—even the painful pieces. To the ones about suicide or depression, she listens to them again and again while I refine the wording. That can’t be easy. Imagine hearing the person you love say they’re sad—over and over again. But she’s a gem. I wouldn’t have done this journey without her. I tell her that all the time.

ALLIÉ: Well said. She’s always in your corner. 

I’ve listened to a few of your pieces on Spotify and truly loved them. So, let me ask something a little more personal, Robbie. Is there a favorite piece or favorite line from something you’ve written? A one-liner that you say to yourself, “If there’s one thing I want people to hear—this is it.”

ROBBIE: Oh, that’s a hard one. There are a few…

“My Strength Must Survive”—that one sticks with me. The first letters are MSMS. That’s actually the title of one of my poems.

Another is: “I may be damaged, but I’m not broken.” I’ve got scars in my brain—but I’m still all right. I may be damaged, but I’m not completely broken. I can still… I still can.

But if I had to choose just one: “You can’t see what’s beneath the tracksuit.”

ALLIÉ: It’s brilliant. The moment I read it, the moment I heard it—I felt it. You're saying volumes with very few words.

ROBBIE: Yeah. Thank you.

ALLIÉ: Last question, my friend. If you could write a letter to yourself on the day you were diagnosed, what would you say?

ROBBIE: I’ve just got chills. I wouldn’t even know where to start… But I think I’d say: “No matter how hard it gets, you will be okay.”

It has gotten hard… really deep at times. I’ve dealt with a lot of negativity in my brain. But it’s always been all right. 

I’m here now. I had a good day today. I’ve been weak, I fell a few times, had a headache—but I had a good day. And I’ll take a good day.

Also, I think another reason I started writing is because I wish I had someone like me when I was diagnosed. I wish I’d had the words I needed back then. But I didn’t look for anyone. I kept myself hidden. 

ALLIÉ: Exactly… And you find when you open up, it’s not just for you—it’s for others too. Even if you didn’t know they needed you… they did. And I can tell you, Robbie, that your words—people need them.

ROBBIE: It’s a weird feeling, sharing.

People tell me all the time, “Thank you—you make me feel less alone.” But they do the same for me. Because when I share my words, and someone says, “I know exactly how you feel,” they actually do. They understand. That’s really important.
Even now, when I share a new poem and someone says, “You’ve got me there. That’s how it is for me today...” That’s amazing.

I’m not alone in this.

It makes me feel validated, not just crazy. This is real. It’s happening—and not just to me. ∎

MY STRENGTH MUST SURVIVE

Original Poem by Robbie Gillett@beneath_the_tracksuit

My struggle may seem managed,
Some might say my strength makes stresses minimal,
Simple.
My smile may seem magnificent,
Smiles mask so many signs.
My smile magically stores my struggle.
My sickness making scars,
My scrambled motor skills,
My shipwrecked mental state,
Masked.
So many struggles may shatter me,
Still my strength must survive,


Many stereotypicals make struggling mental states more severe.
My supporters make struggling minor,
Some make smiles memorable.
Support may secure my stability,
May save me.
Staying mentally strong must suffice.
My sanity may spiral,
Mental state may suffer,
My serenity may struggle,
My strength must survive.

Mistaken speech misaligns self motivation,
Shabby movements stupidly make standing more strenuous.
Menacing spasms make significantly more stresses,
My sleep misses so many stages.
Many symptoms may seem mighty strange,
Multiple Sclerosis might seem magnificently stranger,
Multiple Sclerosis makes simple measures severely monstrous,  
Still my strength must survive.