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.
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.
Roomate #1 & #2
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?
Last week gave me a bitter sample of what life could look like if I had to do this MS thing with no safety net. No wife reminding me to take my medication. No kids helping with small things that feel like mountains. No one checking in just to say, “You good?” It was quiet. Too quiet. And that silence? It wasn’t peace—it was a preview.
This month, my wife went on a well-deserved solo vacation to Africa (Morocco) to be with our daughter, who’s studying abroad. At first, when it was just talk, I was genuinely happy for her. As the days drew closer, I stayed excited for her. I knew this trip could be a much-needed reset. Caring for someone with a chronic illness like Multiple Sclerosis isn’t easy, and I’ve always known that. But I had one lingering question: “Could my wife do this trip without me?”
I’m leaving on a jet plane, I don’t know when I’ll be back again.
You see, back when I was healthier, I was the team leader on all vacations. I carried all the passports, held the mobile tickets in my “murse” (that’s a man’s version of a purse), and played the role of chauffeur, butler, and part-time barista as well. I would make sure my wife had her happy juice by 10 a.m. because, hey—it’s 5 o’clock somewhere in the world.
While I was focused on how she’d manage without me, I didn’t give a second thought to how I’d manage without her for a week. Who was going to cook? Take my plate to the kitchen? Get me water or pick up the remote I dropped? Work was out of the question—there was no one to get me out the door or receive me when I came back. My manager wasn’t thrilled to hear I’d be off for nine days. I offered to work from home. No response. Silence. Corporate America doing what it does best…..ghosting.
There was not a moment I could’ve given my wife a proper sendoff before she left. The living room was filled with two suitcases and an oversized carry-on that could’ve fit a week’s worth of Trader Joe’s groceries. I had therapy that afternoon, so I didn’t walk her out. When my session ended, I came back to a quiet, empty apartment, and loneliness hit like a sucker punch. “Well… here we go. You got this, Jon.” That night, I wasn’t too bothered. I had the bed all to myself, and I made it into a fortress. Best pillows for snuggling, one for my head, two for my calves. I floated through the night like a king. Great sleep. Great dreams.
Yes I am a cat dad.
But the next morning was different.
My son was home, getting ready for school, so I wasn’t technically alone yet. But once he left, the silence moved in. No sound—except the occasional door creaking downstairs, a car zooming by with bass on blast, or my cats doing what cats do. One of them purred so loud it sounded like I was living inside a Dolby Surround Sound commercial. The other? Snored so hard, I thought the lights might flicker off. And my heartbeat? It was giving shamanic healing drum circle energy. So I meditated from time to time alone at home.
Am I alone?
But the silence didn’t stay silent for long. It morphed into that other kind of noise; the one in your head. The voice that kicks your mental door down like, “BOOM, guess who’s stepped into the room?!” And just like that, the intrusive thoughts took over:
“What if I fall? Who’s here to call 911?”
“Would anyone find me in time?”
“Could I bleed out alone in my apartment while emergency services try to get into the apartment?”
I felt trapped. My building has stairs, and my wheelchair can’t make it down the last part. If I had an elevator, I could at least roll to the park, grab some lunch, feel the sun on my face. But nah I’m here, grounded by concrete and circumstance. That inner voice? It didn’t let up.
“You could be doing better for yourself.”
And to be fair, it wasn’t wrong.
My MS workouts leave me depleted. I barely do them anymore. They feel pointless because the results don’t show. But I know deep down they’re not about short-term wins. They’re about preserving what little strength I’ve got left. They help with mood, too. Still, I’ve gained a lot of weight since 2022. I swore in 2007 I’d never be “Fat Jon” again. But here I am. Can’t hide it. Can’t suck it in. But… f**k it.
So while my wife was away, I tried a few new things. Chair yoga. An online aerobics class. Both had me so wiped, I couldn’t walk after. I was out of breath, out of shape, and definitely out of alignment. I even skipped the last ten minutes of the class. No shame. After moving my body, I nourished it. Made breakfast. Then I listened to a history book on Spotify, America for Americans by Erika Lee. This book here was upsetting for me. Whew. Let’s just say it’ll make you lose your appetite and your faith in flags. “Make America Great Again?” When exactly was that? Asking for every immigrant family ever. Spoiler alert: This country has a mean streak. But I digress…
Back to being alone.
With no distractions, I got a lot done. Wrote a few blogs. Reflected. Got honest. When you’re left with just yourself, things get real clear, real quick. Why am I still fighting for mobility, for a life that flipped on me? Why am I still pushing? Because somewhere deep inside, under the layers of grief and grit, I still believe in what’s possible. I miss paintball with the fam. Boxing with my BFF. Basketball with my son. I miss beach walks with my wife while on vacation.
Truth is, this disease humbled me. It cooled me down. Mentally. Before MS, I was wild. Loud. Selfish. Rude. Now? I listen more. I pause. I see people better. I feel things deeper. And in that silent stillness, between my cats doing purr sound checks and my own thoughts pacing the room, something shifted. Loneliness started speaking a different language. Not fear. Not grief. But truth. And strength. And reflection. I started seeing my alone time not just as isolation, but as revelation. A kind of spiritual download, like the new age spirituality folks say. Because when you’re forced to be with only yourself, the mirror isn’t glass, it’s internal.
With this new realization I knew I wasn’t going to stay still.
I realized this:I don’t want to do this alone. But for a moment, I think I could.
I cooked when I could.
Rested when I needed.
Cried without shame.
Laughed mid-struggle.
Stretched.
Typed.
Journaled.
I listened.
I survived.
And sometimes… surviving is the flex.
I don’t ever want to do life, or MS….without the love I’m blessed with. My wife. My kids. My furry roommates. My tribe. But now I see that even when I’m alone, I’m not powerless. This disease has taken a lot from me, but it handed me back this truth:
Even by myself, I’m still here.
Still listening.
Still fighting.
Still me.
And if I had it my way? I’d still prefer someone in the next room yelling, “Babe, did you take your meds?!” Because connection? That’s part of the medicine. Support is spiritual. Love is adaptive equipment. And my people? They’re my ramp back to sanity, purpose, and joy. I’ll never take them for granted again, not the voices that check in, the hands that help, or the presence that makes the silence less loud. I survived, but it wasn’t cute. I was out here dropping remotes, burning toast, and giving myself motivational speeches like I was Gary V . I proved I can do it alone….but why would I want to. While I held it together, while I pulled strength from places, I didn’t even know were still alive in me. I say all this to say this one last point, and let me be crystal clear: I am capable of being alone, but I wasn’t made to thrive alone. This Journey with Multiple Sclerosis isn’t just about resilience; like I said earlier, it’s about relationships, Love, Connection. The folks who help me laugh when I want to cry (which is always), who bring warmth to the coldest days, who remind me I’m more than this diagnosis. Doing it alone taught me I’m strong. But being seen, being held, makes me whole.
Because surviving is one thing but thriving? That takes people.
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.
Verily, lift up thine eyes unto the heavens, and behold: I walk with thee.—- BUT are you though, i can’t feel it.
There have been many moments when I’ve felt like one of God’s forsaken children. Lately, the distance between us feels like that of a 47-year-old son living 350 miles away from his dad—close enough for a human connection, yet we only communicate by phone, and half the time, nobody picks up.
Feeling Disconnected
I have an unconventional way of looking at life. I don’t expect everyone to understand, but perhaps the reason I feel lost and stuck is that I haven’t yet leveled up my avatar. This isn’t a moment of questioning faith or sulking because things aren’t going as expected this is my quest for patience, love, discovery, understanding, and inspiration. As if I need anyone to hand me the things that will make my life more manageable. (You can ask my wife; she’ll testify to how often I insist I don’t need anyone to do things for me.) I honestly HATE asking for help.
Searching for Happiness
Which way is Happy Town
While I said I don’t feel alone, I do feel isolated in my search for happiness. Maybe my idea of happiness and joy is too cliché or too specific. Yet, this seems paradoxical because I invite and find joy in many things—my gratitude practically radiates from my face. Instead of begging or praying, I now approach life differently. I have given up the illusion of a fixed “me,” hoping that my higher self will lean in and bring more peace and happiness. I believe it will be easier to let go and watch life unfold.
I cannot stress, wish for, or demand a savior to rescue me from my wheelchair. Then again, I’m not one for surprises—but it’s been so long since I’ve been impressed that I’d welcome a positive shake-up. Please send me a rescue team; today is my day. I remind myself daily that the more gratitude I show, the further my needs seem to run away. It’s almost as if God themself is telling me to wait. After all, there are others who need to eat, who are starving and sick there are literally fires to put out and people in power who need to be checked. But aside from all that, I believe I deserve a conversation to guide me, and I’ll take it from there.
On Anxiety, Identity, and the Realities of MS
Waiting for my Ride in the cold.
Before anything is misconstrued, I don’t want anyone reading this to think I suffer from a mental disorder. If anything, I might greet you with anxiety and then introduce you to a bit of winter blue depression. Listen, if you live in a big city and don’t show some signs of anxiety, then are you even real? You might as well be an NPC at least here in New York, where we grumble about bacon, egg, and cheese prices and congestion fees.
Back to my disoriented self: yes, I am confused by this reality. On one hand, I’m fighting for my spiritual freedom; on the other, I’m battling physical limitations. I’ve been a hostage to this disease (Multiple Sclerosis) for some time now, and I must deal with its impact on every part of me. I won’t lie it weighs heavily on me because I have lost so much. There are no days off for me, not even on weekends. The biggest stressors are my living situation, my work, and other daily annoyances that hinder an optimal life.
The losses I have experienced because of MS are real, deeply personal, and sometimes impossible to articulate. The losses in certain physical abilities have not been fully mourned. It’s hard to stomach the fact that I sometimes lose my sense of independence. This disease has affected my career and the effortless daily life I once knew. These losses aren’t just about mobility or energy they touch on my identity, my relationships, and the way I move through the world.
Transformation Through Adversity
It may just be my day.
Yet, I also know that loss doesn’t define me. I hope that through everything I’ve shared, you can see how I’ve found humor, leaned on love, and moved forward despite the hand I’ve been dealt. To say I lost a part of me would be a lie; instead, I have transformed. I hope that through my writing you can witness my resilience and my ability to connect and reflect on what Multiple Sclerosis has taken.
I am literally crying as I type these final words. I want to say that I am still here, still thinking, and still spreading love the “Brooklyn Way.” I knew this disease wasn’t going to be easy. There are moments when the weight of it feels unfair and exhausting. But I also believe that in the spaces left by what’s been taken, I’ve made room for something else, perspective, wisdom, and a sharpened sense of what truly matters. And that… that’s something MS can’t touch.
Me Myself, and MS 