Let me start with a little disclaimer before we dive into this fun post: I’ve never had an actual roommate in my life. I do, however, jokingly refer to my two kids as our “roommates.” Because let’s be honest—they eat all your food, never wash dishes, and leave a mess everywhere. Yep, those are my kids. And I bet you’ve got a pair like them living in your house, too. They’ve gotten better, but there’s still room for improvement. These days, the chaos at home isn’t quite as disorganized as it once was—thanks to them getting older—but they still manage to make the house look like a ghetto version of HomeGoods from time to time. Organized, but wildly out of place. You know what I’m saying?
My wife and I kind of chose these two to share space with, and that’s one of the joys of parenting. Some roommates you pick. Others? They just show up—with a suitcase, a spare key, and no intention of ever leaving. That’s how Multiple Sclerosis moved into my life. No knock on the door. No warning. Just—boom—guess who stepped in the room? And no, it’s not paying rent either. What’s the Wi-Fi password? It’s that kind of vibe I’m talking about.
Here’s the twist: I believe G.U.S. (God, Universe, Spirit) doesn’t make house calls without a reason. So, I began to see this unwanted tenant not just as a chronic condition, but as a spiritual coach—annoying, inconvenient, yet strangely enlightening. MS has slowed me down. It’s humbled me. It’s forced me to ask deeper questions. And in that stillness, I hear something sacred whispering back. Sometimes it says, “Get up—move in whatever way you can.”
But my favorite whisper?
“You are greater than this.”
This blog isn’t about suffering. It’s about how suffering cracked me open—and allowed me to see the divine in everything. In the broken places, the light keeps finding its way in. My path doesn’t follow a straight direction—it’s already been completed, preordained by my soul’s purpose. There’s no point trying to fight what’s destined. My role is to let go and simply observe how this gift of life will bloom. Play along, avoid the plastic, and be authentic every day. Because honestly? My life is okay. Yes, I am sick, but this doesn’t stop me from existing.
Living with MS has transformed daily routines into sacred rituals. Getting out of bed isn’t just about brushing my teeth and chasing the day. It’s an act of gratitude. Some mornings, just sitting up feels like a ceremony. My legs may not cooperate, my balance might be off, but the awareness I’ve gained? That’s divine.
Before MS, I chased life like most people do. I chased work. I cornered the gym. I held my errands hostage until they surrendered. I ran to my family. I ran to take my kids to their events. Looking back, I realize I was living almost robotically—caught in a marathon toward things that “defined” me. Now? My relationship with life has changed. I listen to it. I’ve been forced to stay still. I’ve come to believe my body is a map, and MS is the red ink showing me exactly where to slow down and tune in.
G.U.S. and I talk often—not always with words. Sometimes it’s through anxiety. Sometimes through breath. Frustration. Or a 4 a.m. laugh when I drop something for the fourth time and just say, “Really? This again?” And even in that moment—there’s a lesson. Or at least a cosmic smirk. Spirituality, for me, isn’t incense, Zen music, or transcendence. It’s raw. It’s real. It’s present—in my wheelchair. It’s sleepless nights, discomfort, falling to the floor and getting back up. It’s waking up and sensing what kind of day I’m going to have. It’s in the way my wife looks at me when I’m struggling—and doesn’t flinch. It’s in the surrender to what is—without giving up who I am.
MS didn’t just change my body. It rearranged my soul’s furniture. And here’s the part no one tells you: sometimes, the hardest roommates are the ones who teach you how to live. Speaking of roommates, I’ve learned from my kids that change comes slow—and it slips through your fingers sometimes. So yeah… MS still lives here. We bump into each other in the hallway, argue over space, and it definitely eats more than its share of my energy snacks. But we’ve reached an understanding. I stopped trying to evict it. It stopped trying to ruin every room in my body.
Now, we coexist. Some mornings it’s quiet and respectful. Other days, it blasts music at 6 a.m. and clogs up the bathroom tub. But even then, I remind myself—this isn’t just about disease. It’s about discovery. MS didn’t break me. It broke me open. And through those cracks, G.U.S. moved in—with all the love, lessons, and mystery I didn’t know I needed. So now it’s a crowded apartment: me, MS, and G.U.S.—doing this weird, wonderful dance called life. Some days I lead. Some days I lean. And some days, I just laugh. Because honestly…
Who knew enlightenment came with mobility aids and a roommate who doesn’t do chores?
Me Myself, and MS 
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