Have you ever heard of vein clutter? No, I don’t mean blockages, I mean too many veins, extra veins, more than is considered normal or reasonable, surplus to requirements – vein clutter, if you will.
Well, you’re in for a treat.
My foot currently looks like a purple balloon animal. Again. (I’ve left a photo at the end of the article so you can see it or avoid it as you wish)
I’ve just had another round of sclerotherapy — a procedure that sounds deceptively tame but feels like standing on razor-blade Lego soaked in vinegar. Technically, it’s non-invasive, but that’s not the same as painless.
Let me back up.
I was born with these dark, lumpy veins wrapped around my right foot and lower leg. Mum says when she first saw me — breech and blue-footed — she thought my heart had wrapped around my foot. (Spoiler: it hadn’t. But dramatic entrance? Nailed it.)
When I was in primary school, I had a few surgeries to remove what they could. The surgeon — a woman I still remember clearly — told us that should be it unless hormonal changes stirred things up later on. Around that time, someone asked if there was anything I wouldn’t be able to do, and she said, “Nothing you can’t do — unless you were planning on being a foot model.” Hahaha – laughs all around.
I hadn’t been. But there it was: a tiny door I didn’t even know existed, quietly closed. Not upsetting. Just… filed away under “not for me”
For most of my life, I understood I had varicose veins. Something we usually associate with old ladies. They’re ugly, sure. Inconvenient. But mostly harmless. I never thought about them much — except when people asked or when I wore shoes that made them throb. They were more “biological background noise” than a feature — like sorosis, I imagine: irritating, ever-present, but not urgent enough to cancel plans over.
But by 2019, they were starting to hurt. Especially on hot days. Especially after long walks — which, for me, are not just a pastime but a form of mental health maintenance. So I finally asked my GP if there was anything new. I expected to be told the professional, medical version of “Suck it up, princess” — or maybe handed The Pill and a script for antidepressants. And probably a gentle suggestion to lose weight, but that was a given — even though exercise hurt. Because, after all, I was a woman in a doctor’s office asking for help. IYKYK.
Instead, I got a referral. Scans. And a news-to-me diagnosis: extra veins.
Turns out I don’t have varicose veins. I have bonus veins. A handful of extras that showed up during development and decided to stick around — clustering, tangling, and wrapping themselves around the useful ones. Not something that could be cut out. Too risky. Too complicated. Like those vines that become so entwined with the tree that they become scaffolding.
So we try to shut them down from the inside. That’s where sclerotherapy comes in: a foam solution is injected into the offending veins under ultrasound or X-ray. It irritates them enough to collapse, and then the body slowly reabsorbs them.
It works. And it hurts. And I’m grateful. Full stop.
The first time I had it done, I misunderstood completely. I thought it’d be like getting a scan with contrast dye — walk in, quick jab, walk out. When the nurse asked who was with me, I gave her the number of a friend who was nearby. He doesn’t drive, but he was hanging out in the area and we’d planned to grab lunch after.
I hadn’t understood what I was signing up for — that was on me, I didn’t think beyond my experience.
And then I was admitted. Gown. Cannula. Procedure bed. The whole thing. The ‘quick jab’ impression I had in my head was way off — not because anyone misled me, but because I hadn’t asked enough questions.
I did not walk out.
I didn’t walk properly for three weeks. I hobbled like someone who’d been on the losing side of a sword fight.
The pain was surreal. During the procedure, I could feel the fluid winding through the veins like wildfire. I watched it happen on the screen, trying not to cry, and feeling overwhelmed by the intensity. I hadn’t fully grasped what I was in for — and now, here I was, smack in the middle of it.
Thankfully, Mitch came to the rescue. No hesitation, no fuss — just calm, capable support when I needed it most. He sorted the car, got me home, and I spent the next few days horizontal — balloon-footed and humbled.
We didn’t know how many sessions I’d need. One? Six? It turned out to be eight over 18 months. I say “we”, not just “me”, this time even the surgeon was kind of going in blind. I’m a one-of-a-kind special little snowflake. The results were never guaranteed — maybe I’d be pain-free for a year, maybe two. I got four.
When the pain came back earlier this year, I recognised it right away. So I called and booked in again. This time, I knew what I was walking into. Kind of.
These days, I come prepared.
I bring headphones with binaural beats and gentle meditations. I practise square breathing while I wait. I accept pain relief without feeling weak for needing it. I let the nurses know when I’m scared instead of pretending I’m fine. I repeat my mantras:
My body is strong and healthy. I take care of my body and my body takes care of me.
I accept help. I rest. Properly. Not hustle-from-the-couch pretending to rest. Real rest. Tea, toast, painkillers, and permission to do nothing.
I used to get up too soon. Twice I ended up leaking — literally — from injection sites that burst open. That earned me six weeks of wound care and a permanent reminder that “rest” is not optional in the form of crater-like scars. (The idea that this treatment is usually used for largely cosmetic vein reduction is so funny to me.)
I still feel a bit guilty watching someone else do the dishes while I binge-watch the Kardashians. But I remind myself: no one dies if the laundry is hung up “wrong.” (Except maybe my pride.)
And I try not to be bored. My grandfather used to say only boring people get bored. So I aim to be more interesting — even if all I’m doing is lying there, thinking about the holidays I’ll take or the hikes I’ll do once this foot deflates enough to fit into a shoe again.
After the first course of treatment, I noticed a new pain. A cold ache in the mornings. Turns out it wasn’t the veins this time — it was arthritis from decades of rolled ankles, twists, and sprains.
I’d never noticed before because the heat from the swollen veins kept my joints warm. Now, I use a heated blanket. A simple, luxurious fix. Totally worth it.
So why am I telling you all this?
Because this treatment isn’t about survival. It’s not lifesaving. But it is life-enhancing.
These extra veins weren’t going to kill me. But they were standing in the way of the life I wanted.
And that, for me, is the same as clutter.
Clutter isn’t always chaos. Sometimes it’s just the stuff you’ve had so long, you don’t question it anymore. It’s part of the scenery. Until it starts to hurt. Until it limits you. Until it’s pushing on the useful bits and busting open at the seams.
And when that happens, you get to ask:
What more is possible?
You don’t have to accept “Suck it up, princess” as your forever. You can question it. You can explore new options. You can choose again.
That’s not drama. That’s not selfish. That’s power.
And that’s the point.
Maybe your clutter isn’t physical pain pressing on a nerve. Maybe it’s the silent kind — the mental load you carry, the relationship that drains you, the job that doesn’t align with who you want to be. Maybe it’s a responsibility you never asked for, or a role that no longer fits. But if something — anything — is getting between you and the life you want, I’m here to remind you: you don’t have to just live with it. You get to question it. You get to choose. And most of all, you get to change.
If you’re facing the kind of clutter that feels too overwhelming to tackle alone, join my Side-by-Side Sessions. It’s virtual body doubling with a calm, supportive vibe — we’ll take it one small step at a time, together.
Not sure where to begin? Let’s chat. Book a free call and we’ll talk about what’s getting in the way — and how to clear a path forward.
