Category: Uncategorized

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.

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!!!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?”

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.

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.

This post is messy. It’s scattered. I wrote most of it in the back of an Access-A-Ride van , and then sometimes late on a Friday night. These notes are just random thoughts I sit down with when I am alone. These are raw notes from my “F-U Personal Journal.” I cry when I write like this. Not once or twice. Every time. Because when I tell the truth to myself, it hits hard.

My body misfires.

Muscles feel weird, they tingle and twitch without warning.

Feet drag.

Hands get stiff and cramped. 

Sometimes I pee before I’m ready.

Sometimes I can’t pee at all.

Sometimes I pee on myself. 

This is MS.

It attacks the protective layer around your nerves.

Messages get scrambled.

The connection breaks down.

When your body starts lying to you, trust becomes a problem.

You second-guess the recliner.

You second-guess the walk to the bathroom.

You second-guess your own timing.

You second guess walking down the stairs.

The trust issues aren’t mental.

They’re neurological.

They show up in your gait, your joints, your breath.

They change how you move.

They change how you plan.

You stop trusting mornings.

You stop trusting heat.

You stop trusting your body to act right in public.

You start looking for patterns that don’t exist.

You overthink.

You brace for the next fall.

You assume collapse is close.

Then the spiritual trust starts to fade.

You question your path.

You question God.

You question purpose.

You stop praying.

You stop meditating. 

You stop expecting.

This happens fast.

One bad week.

One small fall.

One public accident.

Then your beliefs start slipping too.

I show up by writing.

I show up by resting.

I show up by talking to my wife without pretending.

I show up by asking for help when I need it.

None of this feels natural.

But it’s necessary.  My up bringing taught me to be self reliant. It is hard for me to ask for help. 

I don’t trust every step.

I don’t trust everyone.

I trust breath.

I trust timing.

I trust Spirit, quietly.

MS broke my nervous system.

But it didn’t break my will.

I’m still here.

Not searching for answers.

Learning to sit with questions.

One breath at a time.

If you’d asked 16-year-old me what being a man looked like—well, growing up in the Lower East Side during the ‘80s, I probably would’ve tossed out something ridiculous like:

“Don’t cry. Lift heavy. Protect your people. And hey, maybe throw in a six-pack while you’re at it.”

That was pretty much the unofficial “man-up” starter pack.

And for a long time, I stuck to it. I hauled all the groceries upstairs in one go—arms burning, pride intact. Didn’t ask for help. Didn’t admit when something hurt. I just push-through. Or poured a drink and shoved the pain somewhere quiet. Independence was everything. My body was proof I had it all together.

Then MS barged in, uninvited.

No warning. No knock. Just kicked the damn door off the hinges and said, “We’re flipping the script” get on the floor!!!! Give me all your energy! 

Suddenly, my legs had their own agenda. My Energy? Came and went like a moody roommate. I went from being the one who moved the furniture to the one sitting in it, needing help just to get up. And let me tell you—there’s no section in any manhood guidebook that covers asking your wife, grown as you are, to help you out of bed just so you can pee.

At first, I panicked. Thought maybe I was losing who I was.

Because we’re taught that strength is about action. Pushing. Lifting. Enduring. Never letting anyone see the cracks. But MS? It forced me to sit with something uncomfortable:

Real strength sometimes means stopping.

Not because you gave up—but because you finally decided to stop pretending.

It’s letting your wife see you “Ugly Cry” without laughing them off.

It’s telling your kids, “I can’t today,” and trusting they’ll love you anyway.

It’s asking for help without feeling like you just checked your man card at the door.

And here’s the crazy thing: I didn’t lose manhood. I just had to redefine it.  Not really by choice, a decision to mentally survive the long game ahead. 

Turns out, I’m still strong—just in ways that don’t always show up in muscle. I protect my family with more than my back. I protect them with presence. With showing up, even when my legs don’t. With listening when I’ve got nothing else to give. With humor. With stubborn love.

Fatherhood feels different now. My kids don’t just remember the guy who walked them to school or made sure they had the freshest gear. They see the guy who rolls in a wheelchair and still manages to show up—who laughs, who stays soft, who still loves their mom like it’s day one. They’ve learned that being tough doesn’t mean being hard. It means staying kind when life’s been anything but.

That last sentence hit me hard as I wrote it, not gonna lie. I got a little misty eye.  

Partnership, too—it’s on a whole new level. My wife? She didn’t stick around because I can carry heavy things. She’s here because we carry each other. We’ve had the kinds of conversations that peel your ego back like old paint—where you admit you’re scared, worn out, or just need to be held. That’s not weakness. That’s trust. That’s real intimacy. That’s grown-man strength.

So yeah, I’m off the “man-up” train for good.

If manhood means bottling it all up, pretending nothing phases you, and dying with your pain locked in your chest—I’m not interested. I’ll take the version where you speak honestly about what hurts. Where you cry if you need to. Where you’re still the rock, just not made of stone.

MS stripped away parts of my independence, sure. But it gave me something better:

A masculinity built on honesty. Connection. Grace. And yeah, vulnerability too.

Funny thing? That kind of strength—the kind rooted deep in who you are—it doesn’t go anywhere. Not even when your legs do.

Because strength isn’t just what you carry.

It’s what you’re willing to share.

I have not said this in a while but, “I love you and I hope you love me too”.