Finding myself in the pages.

The Unwanted Life Coach

I have to admit, when I first thought about writing a blog, I was nervous. I was basically sending out an open invitation for criticism and opinions from others—like setting up a dunk tank at a clown convention. And let’s be honest, this planet is filled with a whole lot of colorful characters—some ugly, some warm, loving, and genuine, and some who seem like they were put here just to test your patience. But in the end, I hope to connect with people who are just like me, people who can relate in some way to my journey.

Now, I love to talk (to the right people—because let’s face it, most people just drain your soul). But I never liked typing or writing essays in school. Yet, here I am, doing exactly that. Writing has become a tool for self-discovery, healing, and making sense of my journey with Multiple Sclerosis. Who knew that my iPhone’s Notes app would turn into my personal therapist? And let me tell you, it’s way cheaper than an actual therapist, though it occasionally crashes just to keep me humble. Through this practice, I’ve started uncovering the person I’ve always been. I gather pictures to stamp moments in time, realizing that the best of my todays will eventually be the worst of my tomorrows. It’s like watching old videos of yourself dancing—you thought you were killing it at the time, but hindsight is a cruel, cruel judge. When I look back at these posts, I see a guy who is pushing through life the best way he knows how. The suffering transforms into self-discovery—or at least a really solid excuse to stay in bed longer.

I often spend hours wondering what my life would be like if I weren’t sick with MS. Would I be a better dad, husband, or friend? Would I be a more loyal employee? What new injury would I have gotten from the gym? (Because let’s be real, I was never built for CrossFit-level heroics.) These thoughts cycle through my mind now and then like a bad infomercial—”But wait, there’s more existential dread!” Over time, my perspective on life has shifted. I sometimes see my illness as a bizarre kind of blessing—a test from the universe, or God if you believe. It sounds crazy, right? To just drop your hands and let MS throw haymakers at you, each punch taking a little bit more of yourself. And while MS isn’t a “death sentence,” I still treat it as if, at any moment, my vision, limbs, bladder, or lungs could give out for good—like a used car that keeps making that “I’m about to die” noise but somehow still gets you to work.

But I call this a blessing because it has given me a perspective I never would have had otherwise. I’ve become infinitely patient, understanding that the day will come when my health reaches critical mass. I don’t want it to happen, but I know it’s inevitable—it’s part of the MS journey. They say, “The best is yet to come,” but for me, it sometimes feels like “the worst is yet to come.” And hey, I like a good plot twist, just not when I’m the main character.

The first time I mentioned my feelings about MS was probably on a social media platform. I can’t remember exactly, but I do remember how I felt after writing about my diagnosis. I felt lighter, calmer—but not quite accepting of it yet. I was upset and sad, but I figured if people read my words, maybe they wouldn’t ask me about it when they saw me—because, let’s be real, small talk about chronic illness is a social landmine. “Hey, how are you?” Do you want the real answer or the ‘I’m fine’ package? That’s one main reason I don’t like to talk about it.

I started publicly journaling my journey so I could leave something behind in this world. I even have a few podcast recordings my family can listen to when I eventually retire this meat suit. Looking back at my posts, I see a completely different person from who I used to be. I’m a warrior—not with a spear, but with resilience as my weapon, a shield of positivity, and a grenade brought to you by humor. Its radius spreads distortion and love in equal measure. And if that’s not a way to fight back, I don’t know what is.

So here I am, documenting my life, cracking jokes, dodging metaphorical punches, and hoping that one day, all this nonsense will make perfect sense. Or at least get a few laughs.

Rethinking

The first time I mentioned my feelings about MS was probably on a social media platform. I can’t remember exactly, but I do remember how I felt after writing about my diagnosis. I felt lighter, calmer—but not quite accepting of it yet. I was upset and sad, but I figured if people read my words, maybe they wouldn’t ask me about it when they saw me—because, let’s be real, small talk about chronic illness is a social landmine. “Hey, how are you?” Do you want the real answer or the ‘I’m fine’ package? That’s one main reason I don’t like to talk about it.

I started publicly journaling my journey so I could leave something behind in this world. I even have a few podcast recordings my family can listen to when I eventually retire this meat suit. Through these posts, I see a completely different guy from who I used to be. I’m a warrior—not with a spear, but with resilience as my weapon, a shield of positivity, and a grenade brought to you by humor. Its radius spreads distortion and love in equal measure. Sometimes it’s just enough to make people uncomfortable, which, let’s be honest, is half the fun.

I never expected to find strength in writing, but here I am, documenting my life, cracking jokes, dodging metaphorical punches, and hoping that one day, all this nonsense will make perfect sense. Or at the very least, confuse and entertain people in equal measure. And if that’s not a legacy, I don’t know what is.

If I’ve said it twice, I must be proud—writing has helped soften the suffering. When I re-read some of these posts, I notice how much has changed—not just in my disease but in my outlook. And you know what? My perspective on myself hasn’t really changed. I love myself. Sh*t, I’ve got the biggest crush on myself. I just wish I loved myself enough to get stronger. Which leaves me with questions—if I worked out every day, would I have a fighting chance? Would I walk again? Probably not. Besides the serotonin rush and that feel-good medicine, why am I still exercising? Maybe just to see if it makes a difference, even by a little bit.

The Role of Writing my Journey

Writing has helped me rediscover pieces of myself that I thought were lost—like old receipts in a winter coat. I never thought I’d have a disease that would challenge not just my body but my mind. Honestly, I didn’t think I could handle MS. But here’s the thing—I’ve learned that there’s nothing it can take from me that will break me. Not yet, anyway. As new symptoms arise, and the old ones get worse, I’ll always stay aware, always stay thankful, and always make the most of every day. I never imagined that putting words together for a blog would sound so much better than the chaos bouncing around in my ADHD-powered, 4K in 3D surround-sound brain.

For those who matter to me they just need a nod that I’m doing okay, or maybe they need to have a talk and leave with a little inspiration. I’m no scholar, but I have life experience. That’s why I write—hoping that maybe, just maybe, something I say will spark a change in someone, whether in themselves or in this world, and with the latter this world needs a healing.

The Power of My Words in Healing

Writing is therapy for me, plain and simple. When I look back at my public blogs versus my private journaling that I do, there’s a big difference. My private writings are raw—full of the unfiltered rage and frustration that come with a relentless, incurable disease. In private, I yell, I cry, I let it all out. What are those feelings toward MS in my journal? Let’s just say if MS were a person, I’d be the stepkid and MS would be my mom’s angry, abusive, unemployed boyfriend. It’s unapologetic. I hate MS. I hate that I’m in my 40s stuck sitting down, watching life’s biggest moments from the sidelines, wishing for a cure that would put me back in the game for my fourth quarter.

This here is therapeutic. It’s either this or video games, and let’s be real, video games bring the calm way faster than sitting in a lotus position for 30 minutes. Well I can’t sit in the lotus position but you get what I mean. But through all this writing—whether for myself or for those who care—I gain perspective. I get insight into who the hell Jonathan really is. Because, honestly, who the hell is this guy? I hadn’t even met him until MS came barging through the door like an unwelcome houseguest. But here we are. Writing. Reflecting. Figuring it all out one page at a time.

The Intersection of Writing and Spirituality

Growing up in Manhattan’s Lower East Side, and later in Brooklyn, it was nearly impossible not to get into some kind of trouble. Yet, for reasons beyond my understanding, I always managed to dodge the kind of consequences that could have landed me in jail. My best friend and I were like two amateur magicians— always slipping away just in time. Looking back, I realize that some unseen force was watching over me, nudging me, keeping me from stepping too far into the abyss.

I never talked much about spirituality growing up, but my best friend’s mom recently told me I had always been a spiritual boy. Maybe that’s why I can accept my illness with a little more ease—because I believe this is what G.U.S. (God, Universe, Spirit) wants me to experience in this lifetime. Maybe, before I even got here, before I was Jonathan, I chose this path. Heavy stuff, I know—but that’s a conversation for another time, maybe a podcast where I can really go deep.

Writing isn’t just about MS for me. It’s about grounding myself, about documenting not just my struggles, but the thing that keeps me centered. If I’m going to put it all out there, I want you to know who I really am. And who am I? Just that…. absolute I AM. Nothing more, nothing less.

I like to think these words aren’t just mine, but something bigger flowing through me. The act of writing, to me, is like stepping into a stream—I don’t create the current, I just wade into it. Maybe, just maybe, the messenger is the message. Inspiration comes when you listen, and words become a bridge between the seen and unseen. Writing, for me, is meditation—it’s my way of having a conversation with the universe, of tuning into the whisper behind the noise, the quiet guidance beneath the chaos.

Some people pray, some people chant, some people sit in silence. I write. And in that process, I discover that I am not just the storyteller but also the story. I am both the question and the answer. And maybe, when I let go of the need to define or control it all, I realize that everything—every struggle, every moment of grace, every laugh, every tear—is exactly as it should be. I write to remind myself of that. I write to remember who I really am.

I love you and I hope you love me too!