Me Myself, and MS

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  • I am not feeling it today.

    I promise to keep this post short.

    Getting dressed used to take me three to five minutes. Now it takes twenty. What once felt automatic has become a slow ritual of stretching, balancing, and negotiating with my own body. Every morning feels like a long yoga session I never signed up for. I stretch for three minutes just to pull on one sock. Reaching for a shirt feels like holding a peaceful warrior pose that never quite ends.

    It is only 7 days into the new year, and already I feel like quitting. Even writing that feels frightening. Am I serious about that thought. Maybe. But I am not ready to give up. I cannot. The cost would be too high for the people who depend on me. I have a beautiful wife, amazing two kids, and three cats who rely on me every day. Our life is not filled with glitz or glamour, but we make it work. Love is our currency, and we trade it for peace and small blessings wherever we can find them.

     woke up feeling different today, though I cannot say better. Nothing has been easy for a long time. I am trying to find an apartment with an elevator or a first floor place where access is simple. Stairs are one of my greatest enemies. Climbing and descending to the second floor is one of the hardest parts of my day.

    There are three things that stop me in my tracks every single day.

    • Stairs

    • Showers

    • Getting dressed

    Getting into a car is just as hard. Getting into bed is its own challenge. And if something falls to the floor, it is gone. There is no kneeling down to retrieve it. No heroic effort. I just hope someone else will find it and place it in a lost and found, because that is the only way it comes back to me.

    This is not a story about giving up. It is a plea to be seen. I am tired. I am scared. And I am doing everything I can to keep going, one slow painful movement at a time

    I’ll end with saying I love you and I hope you love me too.

  • 2025 End of Year Reflection.

    I love you, and I hope you love me too.

    You know what it is if you’re here about to read and peek inside my mental and physical health.

    I leave this window open.

    Here we are at the end of 2025. Some of us are wondering what 2026 will unlock, what challenges might be waiting just around the corner. Maybe I’m not the only one who feels that quiet tension, the uncertainty. Maybe I am. That’s how anxiety works: it sneaks in and tries to get one last word before the year closes out. One last jab to remind me that in this ride called life, we’re both still here, my mind in the driver’s seat, my fears riding shotgun.

    There are days I wake up and tell myself, “I can live without you, MS.” And for a moment, I believe it. I start to feel like I’ve got a handle on it. That I’m winning. But then, like a car out of nowhere, it sideswipes me. MS doesn’t knock. It crashes in.

    I didn’t invite this disease.

    I didn’t neglect my health.

    I didn’t do anything to deserve this.

    But here it is.

    And here I am.

    I had big plans. I was standing on the edge of the next chapter of my life, pen in hand, ready to write the story I’d been waiting for. But someone switched the book on me. The plot changed. And no one asked me if I was ready for this version.

    I didn’t get to teach my son the way basketball once taught me, how to love a game so deeply it becomes part of your breath. I didn’t get to suit up for paintball with him, both of us a chaotic, deadly duo, the kind that would’ve given our opponents hell. That memory never got to happen.

    I probably won’t get to have that father daughter dance when she gets married, the one you always imagine from the moment you first hold her.

    Jet skis used to be part of my escape. Now, just the thought of the heat wears me down before I even leave the house. Vacations used to be adventure. Now they feel like recovery missions.

    And yet…

    I still crave newness.

    I still want to level up, even if the level looks different now.

    I still chase perspective, even if the view is from a different angle.

    Yes, I can still do some of the things I love. But not in the same way. Life now is slower, quieter, and lower to the ground. The altitude has changed, but I haven’t stopped climbing.

    That’s what this year has taught me.

    MS interferes. It disrupts. It steals.

    But it hasn’t stopped me.

    I’m still trying.

    I’m still pushing.

    I’m still smiling, even when I’m running on empty.

    If you’re reading this, maybe because you’re fighting your own battle, or maybe because you care enough to witness mine, I just want to say thank you. Thank you for standing beside me, for seeing me, for not looking away.

    And to MS…

    You may have rewritten parts of my story, but you’ll never own my voice.

    You’ll never take my spirit.

    I didn’t ask for you, but I’m still here.

    And I’m still me.

    Bring it on 2026!!!

    Xmas 2011.

  • The Day I Became an Accidental Explorer

    Which way to Brooklyn?

    Yesterday pulled me into a story I didn’t expect. A story that felt heroic and stupid at the same time. A story about bravery, bladder management, and surviving the New York holiday season with MS in a wheelchair.

    I had my holiday Christmas party at work. Good people. Good food. Drinks flowing like they were trying to get us all fired. We even played white elephant. I don’t love the name. The whole thing screams “someone’s HR department approved this without thinking.” But whatever, not the point.

    I planned ahead. I asked Access-A-Ride to pick me up early so I wouldn’t embarrass myself after a few social drinks. MS plus alcohol is a risky mix. My bladder reacts like it’s in a hostage situation. And I’ve seen enough movies to know company holiday parties end careers.

    My ride came.

    But I never got a call.

    No two-minute warning.

    Nothing. Radio silence.

    So there I was, stranded in Rockefeller Center during peak tourist season. Streets closed. Police everywhere. Tourists swarming like pigeons with iPhones. The whole place felt like a blitz invasion. And I missed my damn ride.

    Where is the train located at again?

    I knew if I called Access-A-Ride for a rescue van, I’d be standing outside until 2037. So I opened Uber. It showed 135 dollars to get home to Brooklyn. My jaw tried to quit my face. I blinked, closed the app out of pure shock, reopened it, typed my address again… and the price jumped to 150.

    I called my wife and said the words no wheelchair user says lightly:

    “I think I’m going to take the train.”

    My anxiety slapped me across the chest. My muscles locked. My leg refused to bend. But I rolled toward the subway anyway. I took the elevator down to the platform. The station still looked like it hasn’t been cleaned since the 70s. People stared like they were expecting me to perform a miracle.

    The train pulled in.

    And my wheelchair refused to get on.

    Three tries.

    Once back. Twice forward.

    Total humiliation. Total stress. Total body lock.

    Then I made it. I was on. On the damn train. My first time back since becoming a full-time wheelchair commuter. I didn’t care if I was blocking the doors. People could walk around. Consider it their holiday cardio.

    What the actual F**k!

    My mind fixated on one fear:

    “What if the elevator at my stop is broken?”

    But the train kept moving. So did I.

    When I rolled out at my station, everything felt unfamiliar. I felt like a visitor in my own neighborhood. I had no clue how to exit the station, even though it was accessible. I figured it out eventually, because survival is a skill MS forces you to learn.

    Then came the finale.

    I had to wheel myself almost a mile home.

    In freezing rain.

    Through Brooklyn.

    With an MS body that already clocked out.

    Dam, ain’t too many people out here.

    By the time I made it to my front door, I felt scared, vulnerable, exhausted, and proud all at once. I haven’t felt that mix in years. My body was humming with aches. My mind was done with humanity.

    I got home around 6:30. Ate dinner. Showered. Stretched. Threw ice on my back. Grabbed my cat. Knocked out.

    What a day.

    Will I do it again?

    Not anytime soon.

    Maybe in a true emergency.

    Or if Uber raises the price to 300 and I lose all sense of self-worth.

    Yesterday showed me something. I can still push into uncertainty. Even when it sucks. Even when I’m scared. Even when my body fights me.

    I survived the New York City holiday transit apocalypse.

    With MS.

    In a wheelchair.

    In freezing rain.

    That’s enough adventure for a while.

  • Staying Strong When You Don’t Evan Have It In You

    I’m not well. I am not just talking about today.

    It’s hard being in this body. I move slow. Slower than anyone my age should.

    My knees hurt. Every step sounds like bubble wrap under my feet.

    I fight sleep all day, but if I gave in, I’d be out for the rest of my day.

    I wake up weak. My body needs an hour before it works the way it should.

    Using the bathroom is a race I lose too often.

    Not making it on time crushes me.

    I never expected this at 47.

    My body does what it wants. Farts slip-out. My butt muscles can’t keep it in and together.

    I hope it doesn’t smell. I’m usually in public when it happens. I have to walk away like I didn’t do it.

    My weight got out of hand. I am close to diabetes.

    I’m also one more lazy night away from gaming and probably getting a heart attack.

    The physical stuff hits my mind.

    I lost my drive to work out.

    I don’t feel the point right now.

    I forget things.

    I leave the kitchen without what I came for.

    I leave water behind even when I need it.

    I go through this checklist:

    Do you need water

    Do you need medication

    Are you looking for the cat

    Were you hungry

    MS spins me into confusion, doubt, and frustration.

    You might expect an answer about how I rise above all of this.

    I don’t have one. It hurts. It feels unfair.

    I never pictured myself like this.

    I used to be active. I used to chase things.

    Now I sit more than I move.

    I feel my world shrinking.

    If you’re reading this, I’m okay. But not every day is easy.

    I feel everything.

    I deal with everything.

    Some days hit harder than others.

    Giving up sounds simple.

    But I work for my kids.

    I keep going for them.

    Only when they’re set would quitting even cross my mind.

    I don’t know what the future holds.

    I don’t want to live off disability checks.

    I don’t want to add more stress to my family.

    I want better.

    So I tell myself this:

    I will heal.

    I will get better.

    I will see a different day.

    Even when it feels far away, I still say it.

  • Not Today MS. I’m Still Here, And Not Tomorrow Either

    New day for a new attitude.

    This one’s for everyone who’s done being polite to MS.

    I write most of my thoughts between commutes and reality checks.

    These aren’t quotes …..they’re survival notes.

    You’re not your thoughts. You’re the one noticing them.

    If you’re tired, angry, or numb, you’re not alone.

    I love you for still showing up, and if you love me back, keep reading.

    October 15th…

    On my way to a job I like… that doesn’t always like me back.

    When you’re dealing with a chronic disease it’s easy to give up.

    My body’s running a comedy show my nerves didn’t approve.

    I’m exhausted before I even move.

    So yeah some days I say “F it.”

    I hide under my cooling blanket and act like time doesn’t exist.

    And that’s okay… until it’s not.

    Because crawling out of that hole feels like trying to escape quicksand while holding bricks with your soul.

    And guess what? You have to do it again tomorrow. Every morning, every day off, it’s just the same shit.

    Yeah right back at you b#%ch!

    Positivity is a workout.

    Smile. Breathe. Be grateful.

    Meanwhile, your bladder’s planning a surprise attack and your legs are ghosting you.

    When’s the right time to scream “F you, MS”?

    Any damn time you want.

    But don’t live there too long  you’ll catch a bad vibe.

    And negativity spreads faster than my spasticity on a humid day.

    Erghh!! I want you away from me.

    I try to manifest healing.  Each and every single day. 

    When I catch my breath, I remind myself:

    “My spirit keeps showing up. And That’s enough.”

    Stillness doesn’t mean stuckness, it means I’m tuning in.

    Maybe it works. Maybe it doesn’t.

    But it’s something to hold onto when faith feels like a rumor.

    I picture a future where I’m better. Not cured. Just better.

    Where my biggest complaint is arthritis and my weight.

    Where I joke, “Remember when I had MS?”

    Brooo!! I was falling all over the place.

    If you’re living with a chronic illness, I see you.

    You’ll want to give up, and that’s human.

    But MS doesn’t get to write the ending unless you hand it the pen.

    So no, I’m not done.

    Not today.

    Not tomorrow.

    Even on the days hope feels like a scam, I still show up.

    Because at the end of it all…..MS, do you. I’m still doing me.

  • Life’s Not Forever — So Move Like It Matters

    This life isn’t meant forever.

    Once that sinks in, you move different.

    Every step counts. Every choice becomes a pulse.

    The struggle? That’s the lesson.

    The heartbreaks, the burnout, the mornings your body says, “nah, not today.”

    We chase comfort, success, a better version of the dream. And still, it’s never enough.

    Some people find peace….I respect that.

    But most of us are sprinting toward something we can’t even name. Sometimes doesn’t even love us back.

    No matter how strong you are,

    how fast you run,

    how much you lift,

    life will still slow you down.

    But that doesn’t mean stop.

    You take the hit, keep your grip on the wheel,

    eyes forward,

    hold on until it’s safe to breathe again.

    There’s not a week I don’t want to quit.

    Life has punched me in the chest so hard

    I’ve lost the wind,

    the will,

    and the why.

    But then I rise,

    and I whisper gratitude.

    I tell myself two things every morning:

    I am a medical miracle.

    I am leaving this apartment to find the cure for my disease.

    That’s my mission briefing before I go 1-on-1

    with the final boss….the staircase.

    And when the sun sets,

    I run the same level again

    on hard mode.

    See, life is a game.

    A serious one.

    You show up every day,

    and it throws its worst at you

    glitches, traps, side quests you never asked for.

    You still play.

    You still choose.

    Your choices light your path,

    or they leave you walking in shadow.

    Either way, the journey’s yours.

    You don’t lose by falling.

    You lose by refusing to get back up.

    My disease might never be cured.

    I’ve made peace with that.

    If I fall one day and don’t rise again,

    so be itI know I played full-hearted,

    no shortcuts, no cheats.

    G.U.S.—God, Universe, Spirit—

    isn’t somewhere out there.

    It’s in here.

    In me.

    I don’t want to lose you.

    But if you’ve got faith,

    you already know—

    God hands us what we can outlast,

    outfight,

    out-endure.

    And that’s what this is.

    Not a tragedy.

    Not a trial.

    A test of endurance.

    And I’m still in the game.

    I love you, and I hope you love me too.

  • Stuck But Still Standing (Mostly)

    Stuck But Still Standing (Mostly)

    I love this city

    The climb before the coffee.

    Feet don’t fail me now

    Every day starts the same. I stare at that flight of stairs like it’s plotting my demise. Going down feels like danger. Going up feels like punishment. My building wasn’t designed for a person with MS it’s an obstacle course with rent.

    I keep telling myself, “You need a new place.” Something accessible. Something safe. But until that happens, I keep showing up for battle, one shaky step at a time.

    ————————————

    Family, Fatigue, and Frustration

    I forgot!!

    My family’s been patient. Mostly. I can’t blame them when that patience wears thin. Living with someone who forgets mid-sentence, mumbles, and moves like an old laptop trying to open too many tabs….. it’s a lot.

    I’m not easy to deal with lately. I’m tired before the day even begins. Every task takes extra time. Every plan depends on whether my body decides to cooperate. It’s hard for them. It’s harder for me.

    Still, I find reasons to laugh. Sometimes at my own expense. Humor doesn’t fix MS, but it keeps the heaviness from swallowing me whole.

    ———————————-

    The Medicine Cabinet of Hope

    Every appointment feels like a new adventure one more magic pill, one more promise.

    So far, the real therapy is a mix of THC and Prozac. And no, I don’t use THC to “escape.” I use it to trick my brain into believing my body’s fine.

    It works. Sometimes too well.

    The other night, I walked to the kitchen, made myself a drink, and froze.

    “Where’s my cane?”

    I left it in the living room. I walked here without it. For a second, I forgot I had MS. That small victory was worth every weird look I’ll get at the next neurologist visit

    How did I get here?

    ——————————————

    The Commute of What-Ifs

    I do t think I’m gonna make it

    Leaving the house turns every trip into a checklist of fears.

    What if I fall and hit my head?

    What if I lose control of my bladder at work?

    What if my body decides it’s done halfway through the day?

    Every “normal” routine feels like tightrope walking above chaos. But still ….I go. Because staying home forever isn’t living either.

    ————————————-

    The Silent Work of Surviving

    The day is over, how’d I do?

    People who don’t live with chronic illness think “getting through the day” sounds easy.

    It’s not.

    It’s work.

    Every step, every errand, every smile is powered by willpower and meds.

    We don’t wake up brave. We wake up tired and keep going anyway.

    —————————————-

    Still Showing Up!

    I am Absolute.

    I show up limping, laughing, medicated, overthinking, and alive.

    MS can knock me down, but it can’t shut me up.

    Surviving chronic illness isn’t heroic. It’s a daily negotiation with your body, your patience, and your hope.

    But even stuck, I’m still standing.

    Well, most of the time.

    —————————————-

    Eternal Reflection

    I am very HAPPY TO BE HERE!

    Living with MS means learning to laugh in between the cracks. To celebrate the tiny moments—like walking without realizing it, or making it through the day without collapsing. The truth is, you don’t need to “beat” MS to live. You just need to keep showing up with whatever strength you’ve got left.

    Some days that means climbing stairs like a gladiator. Other days it means sitting Instil and calling that progress. Either way, I’m here. Breathing, fighting, and yes I’m still laughing. Because until the cure shows up, humor will do just for fine. I love you and I hope you love me too!

  • Caffeine and MS: My Risky Love Affair with Iced Coffee

    I have to start my mornings like this.

    Coffee and I have a complicated relationship.

    It’s not casual. It’s not polite. It’s emotional. I love it like a fool who knows better. My favorite is iced coffee with oat milk, a little honey, and just a tiny bit of creamer. That’s it. Cold, sweet, and smooth. Every sip makes me happy, even while my body plots against me.

    Living with multiple sclerosis means almost every choice comes with conditions. Coffee is one of them. It helps me focus, gives me energy, and makes mornings less miserable. But the trade-off? It sends my bladder into panic mode. Some days, it feels like I’m going to piss on myself. And sometimes, I do. That’s the truth no one puts on inspirational posters.

    Still, I drink it.

    Every morning. Without fail.

    Oh GOD please NO! I’m almost there.

    It’s part of my routine, my mental ignition switch. Once I take that first sip, the fog that MS brings starts to lift. I put on my headphones, hit play on my endless playlist of over 250 hours of music, and I can finally think. My brain starts connecting again. I feel sharper, more capable, more me.

    That’s the magic part of caffeine. Studies show it can boost alertness, concentration, and short-term memory. It gives your central nervous system a small jolt, helping you stay awake and focused. For many people with MS, that little spark can make a big difference when fatigue feels like a full-time job.

    But there’s the other side. The one nobody romanticizes.

    Caffeine is a diuretic. It makes you pee more. For people with MS, that can be a problem, especially if you already deal with bladder urgency or incontinence. It can also upset your stomach or make anxiety worse if you have a lot of it. And if you drink it too late in the day, it can wreck your sleep.

    It’s a beautiful morning!!

    So why do I still do it? Because it helps me start the day. Because it’s one of the few pleasures that still feels like mine. Because the smell of coffee in the morning makes me feel human before the rest of the world starts demanding things.

    I know what the experts say. Keep it under 400 milligrams a day. Avoid it if it triggers symptoms. Listen to your body. And I do. But my relationship with caffeine isn’t about perfection. It’s about balance. Some days I win. Some days I lose. But most days, I get through the morning feeling awake and present, and that’s worth it.

    Oh look a Dunkin Donuts on the corner!

    Yes, my bladder might betray me. And yes, I can practically hear myself getting fat from the oat milk and honey. But that first sip is peace. It’s clarity. It’s control in a body that doesn’t always cooperate.

    So no, caffeine and MS don’t make the healthiest couple. But like every messy relationship worth having, we make it work.

    Me not being able to sleep at night.

    Author’s Note:

    Living with MS means choosing your battles. Some days, it’s walking. Some days, it’s bladder control. And some days, it’s deciding whether coffee is worth the risk. For me, it usually is. Because life with MS isn’t about perfection. It’s about finding small joys in the middle of the mess. This story is one of mine.

    — Me, Myself and MS

  • The MS Breakthrough That Probably Isn’t For Me

    Living with multiple sclerosis teaches you to recognize certain buzzwords. You start to hear them so often they become background noise: “New treatment option!” “Promising trial results!” “Exciting breakthrough just around the corner!”

    If you’re in the relapse-remitting stage, those words sound like a lifeline. A new infusion, a fresh pill, something to shove the beast back into its cage, at least for a while.

    But the moment that diagnosis shifts to secondary progressive MS, the soundtrack changes. The anthem of resilience fades out, and what’s left feels like elevator music on endless repeat. That’s when the words you never forget come crashing in:

    “There’s less we can do now.”

    Translation? Good luck out there

    Welcome to Treatment Limbo

    With SPMS, the treatment menu shrinks. Some drugs you once relied on get crossed off. Others aren’t even recommended anymore. Clinical trials? Suddenly, you don’t fit the criteria.

    And it makes you wonder: who does fit the criteria? Olympic athletes with a touch of MS that clears up after a nap? Because it sure doesn’t seem like they’re looking for people like me.

    Meanwhile, the news cycle parades shiny headlines: “Scientists discover potential MS breakthrough!” You want to cheer. You want to believe. And then comes the fine print: “Results apply only to early relapse-remitting patients under age 25 who have never sneezed on a Tuesday.”

    So, once again, it’s another party I’m not invited to.

    The Weight of Waiting

    Hope doesn’t die with SPMS, but it turns into a scarce resource. You learn not to get too excited about bold announcements, because nine times out of ten, SPMS patients aren’t even mentioned.

    It’s like standing outside a candy shop, watching everyone else sample treats, while the shopkeeper tells you: “Maybe next decade for you.” Eventually, you stop pressing your face to the glass, not because you’ve stopped craving it, but because the cold feels humiliating.

    But still, you don’t stop hoping. You just fold it up and keep it in your pocket, careful not to let it break.

    Everyday Decisions in Limbo

    Treatment limbo isn’t just about medication. It creeps into everyday choices:

    • Should I spend money and energy on home modifications now, or keep waiting for the miracle cure the headlines keep promising?

    • Do I risk enrolling in a dangerous trial, or protect what little stability I have left? “Possible side effects” sounds scarier when your baseline already feels like a car crash.

    • Is it even worth planning five years into the future, or am I just daring fate to laugh in my face?

    Living in limbo means constant mental gymnastics. And honestly, I couldn’t land a cartwheel even in middle school.

    What Rarely Gets Said

    Yes, science is advancing. But here’s the part you rarely see in print: behind every glossy “breakthrough” headline are people like me, waiting and wondering if this one will finally count, or if we’ll be left out again.

    That’s the silence of SPMS. Not hopelessness. Not despair. Just hope left hanging in the air, suspended and untethered.

    My Closing Thoughts

    The hardest part of SPMS isn’t the absence of a cure. It’s the gap between what gets reported and what we actually live.

    So if you’re here in this waiting room with me, welcome. There are snacks (mostly sarcasm). If you’re not, remember this: every headline about “hope for MS” doesn’t mean hope for everyone with MS.

    Until then, I’ll keep rationing my hope, cracking my bad jokes, and shaking my fist at the medical fine print. Because really, if you can’t laugh at the absurdity of being excluded from the cure for the disease you actually have, then what else is left?

  • The People Who Hold Up Our Mirror

    The path is always lit up for you. You just have to open your eyes.

    Had a conversation with a friend today. Funny thing is, I was in the middle of writing a completely different blog post than the one I have for you today. But once we talked, I couldn’t shake the weight of our exchange. It felt like one of those moments you don’t want to lose to memory alone.

    The truth is, I never really pictured myself writing for others to read. Putting words on paper is one thing, but letting the world peek through the window? That feels like standing exposed, naked in my truths and afraid of what people will think when they see me this way.

    New phone who dis?

    But here’s the part that keeps me writing anyway: I believe God places people in our path for reasons we don’t always understand. Sometimes they’re not here to teach you a lesson in the obvious sense, they’re here to remind you of who you are, and that He’s walking alongside you. I’m not the most traditional believer. Organized religion never fully spoke to me. Still, I can’t deny that certain connections run deeper than surface, brushing up against the soul in ways words barely capture.

    My journey began long before multiple sclerosis came storming into my life and flipped everything upside down. Struggle, trauma, loss, self-destruction, I’ve sat with all of it. But when I sit with my friend, we don’t dwell on pain. We end up talking about gratitude, about how God moves through us and blesses us even when life feels heavy.

    We are all one.

    And maybe that’s the point. Maybe these people who enter our lives aren’t random at all. They’re living reminders that we’re never really walking alone.

    What stayed with me after that conversation wasn’t just the words, it was the reminder that people themselves can be messages from God. We look for signs in the sky, answers in books, or some booming voice to show us the way. But more often than not, it’s the person sitting across from you, laughing with you, or even challenging you, who carries the reminder that He hasn’t gone anywhere.

    My friend didn’t try to fix me or give me some profound sermon. Instead, the simplicity of their gratitude, the way they saw God moving in the everyday, reminded me that blessings don’t always wear grand clothes. Sometimes they show up in the form of a listening ear, a shared story, or a quiet moment that re-centers you.

    I am Absolute.

    When I think about the hardships I’ve carried struggle, illness, loss, it would be easy to let them define me. But gratitude changes the lens. It doesn’t erase the pain, but it shifts the focus. It says: yes, this happened, but look at what else happened too. Look at who walked in when you thought you were alone. Look at the way love still found you.

    That’s what these connections do. They peel back the noise of life and point you straight to the truth: God is present, not just in church or holy texts, but in the people who remind you of your worth, who hold up a mirror so you can see yourself more clearly. And every time I encounter that, I feel less afraid to share my story because my story isn’t just mine. It’s a collection of all the people God has placed along the way.  

    A special sincere thank you to those who read my blogs, and are moved by my words. I do this not only for you but for me to leave something behind to remember me by. I love you and I hope you love me too.