FOR the first few years of my life, I lived on a farm in rural Yorkshire, and it was a paradise for a curious young boy.
I simply loved it there. I mean, what child wouldn’t? But behind the scenes, my world was falling apart.
My mum was developing a which was spiralling out of control and pushing my dad out of the picture. Less than a year later, we were .
What followed was a brutal cycle of , moving from one run-down estate to another.
finally stepped in after my mum had a breakdown.
After years of mounting struggles, she was hallucinating and hearing voices, and it escalated to the point where the police, paramedics and health professionals had to intervene.
At just nine years old, I was taken from my mum and sent to live with my dad in the .
Around the same time, my mum passed away. And strangely, I felt nothing.
By then, I had already learned to shut off my emotions.
I had moved from to Chester and had already been a student in five different .
But the chaos didn’t stop there – the next move was to North – and over the following four years, I moved schools constantly, never settling, never belonging.
When I think about it though, signs of trouble started even before I left Yorkshire.
At first, it was just mischievous behaviour – typical “naughty boy”;; antics at school.
I wasn’t deliberately trying to cause trouble; I just lacked the instinct to stop myself from doing things I knew I shouldn’t.
Two years and another move later, which coincided with starting secondary school, my behaviour spiralled out of control.
I racked up suspension after suspension, spent time in a “behavioural unit”;;, and by the time they finally expelled me, I wasn’t just a troublemaker – I had a criminal record to prove it.
By 16, I was living in one of the most notorious in the region – Blacon, known as CH1.
I was selling Class A like , carrying a firearm, and constantly looking over my shoulder.
I was making around £1,600 every weekend. I was earning more money than I knew what to do with and I struggled to spend it.
Every so often, a voice inside nagged at me: “This isn’t the life you want; you need to get away.”;;
My body was shattered – I suffered horrific injuries, including more than two breaks in my neck and multiple vertebrae in my lower spine completely disintegrating
Greg Sumner
At nearly 17, I finally decided to escape the North West.
I moved to , hoping for a fresh start. But old habits die hard and I was still getting into trouble with the law.
Yet, something had shifted. I wanted change. And aged 18, I enrolled in college in Bridgwater, determined to build a future.
It wasn’t easy – I was juggling unstable living conditions, financial struggles, and brushes with the law.
During my two-year I had five different addresses, staying in a mix of rented places, friends’ houses and my girlfriend’s.
But I pushed through, earning a diploma in business studies, which taught me an indispensable lesson: “Persistence pays.”;;
I thought I had turned a corner. But life had other plans.
THE NIGHT THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING
I was already on my last chance with the criminal justice system.
My rap sheet was getting longer, and my were getting more serious.I was getting into fights, stealing cars, and carrying weapons.
Taunton Crown Court had convicted me on multiple charges, but I narrowly avoided – serving a suspended sentence instead.
I told myself I had to change. Then, out of nowhere, a lifeline appeared.
A mate mentioned a job opening, so I applied, smashed the interview, and got the role.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t just another troublemaker – I was someone.
A professional, wearing a shirt and tie, working for a globally recognised brand, earning respect for something good felt like an alien experience.
I felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. I was selling high-end health club memberships for , and it felt like the kind of job that could provide a real future for my .
But again, life had other plans.
Heartbreak hit and a breakup left me reeling. We’d been together just over two years, which may not sound significant, but it was the longest, most serious I’d ever had.
Looking back, she was amazing, but I was consistently inconsiderate, ungrateful, and repeatedly unfaithful.
Even though I was falling apart, I wasn’t the type to let anyone see me hurt.
I masked it the only way I knew how – nights out, heavy drinking, and bad decisions.
One of those nights, it all came crashing down. A drunken fight turned violent, and before I knew it, I was facing four years-plus behind bars.
With my deciding court date looming, I decided to have one final ‘knees-up’ on October 7, 2012. I never imagined it would nearly cost me my life.
On the way home, I was a passenger in a head-on collision.My friend and I were bladdered, and doing 91mph in a 40mph zone.
The two other men involved died on impact. I barely survived.
My body was shattered – I suffered horrific injuries, including breaks in my neck and multiple vertebrae in my lower spine completely disintegrating.
But the most severe injury was the blow to my head.
My brother was called to the hospital to identify me.
At first, he couldn’t recognise me – the only thing that confirmed my identity was a on my forearm. I was just 22.
FOUR MONTHS IN A COMA
For four months, I hovered between life and death.
My heart stopped four times. My liver and one lung failed. My limbs thrashed uncontrollably.
, , and ravaged my body. Death looked imminent.
Although incredibly delicate, around the midpoint of the coma I was deemed stable enough to be disconnected from life support.
Doctors warned my family, however, that even if I woke up, it was probable that I wouldn’t ever be the same again.
Twice, they tried to bring me out of the coma. Twice, my body reacted so violently that they had to sedate me again. The third time, it worked.
When my eyes finally opened, I was in a plain white room. Silence. Confusion. Fear.
My mind screamed questions, but my body wouldn’t respond.
My family were lined up from the top of the bed downward: my dad, my stepmum Jen, my aunt Barbara – or Babs – my brother James and a close family friend, Kathryn.
When I tried to speak to my dad, who was sitting by my bed, nothing came out. I had lost my voice.
Trying to be a father without picking my sons up for a little cuddle when I want will rip me to pieces as long as I breathe
Greg Sumner
The crash happened one month after my 22nd birthday.
For the rest of my 20s, I was passed between numerous hospitals, rehab centres, and even nursing homes for the elderly, where I went through both long and painful physical and neurological therapy.
are unpredictable. Mine was classified as severe.
The Court of Protection deemed me mentally incapable of making my own decisions.
Legally, my word meant nothing. But I refused to accept that.
In 2021, after years of relentless rehabilitation, I fought for a re-test.
I proved them wrong and regained full legal capacity.
I’m so ashamed of the life I once led, and for my part in the crash.
It took so much from me – but it also gave me something invaluable: perspective.
I think daily about the lives lost that night, the people I hurt, and the father I wish I could be for my boys, Alfie, born in 2011, and Dominic, born in 2017.
It would be easy to let these thoughts endlessly persist, and of course, ‘down days’ are plentiful, but I’ve learned to manage them over time.
Life now is full of daily obstacles that often feel impossible.
Being so physically limited has deeply affected how I interact with my sons.
Trying to be a father without picking them up for a little cuddle when I want will rip me to pieces as long as I breathe.
It could easily breed bitterness and emotional pain – and for a long time, it did. I hated myself and my condition.
But through years of painful experience and reflection, I’ve taught myself how to manage these moments.
I’m still parenting, still pushing forward, but it’s a constant process of learning how to live with what I can’t change.
I have my own home now, and a full-time carer. My life may be slow-paced – more suited to a charming retiree than a 34-year-old man – but I’m grateful. I survived. My glass is half full.
And I know my story has power. If I can use my experience to help others – to steer them away from the path I took – then maybe, just maybe, everything I went through will have meant something.
Greg Sumner is the author of the powerful memoir, Every Cloud: Perspective, which is out now (£9).
