Is there a grand design to our lives, or is it all just chance? The last thirteen months have been a profound lesson in asking that question. When I was working in a nursing home during the early days of the pandemic, I saw devastation and wondered if we were "supposed" to learn something. The answer I got then was simple: "nope, some things just happen."

But looking back, I realize we did learn—not the spiritual lesson I was looking for, but a thousand smaller, more powerful ones. We learned empathy for silent heroes, we learned about ourselves, and we learned just how important our own autonomy is.

Now, as I face my own health challenges with MS, I am seeing connections everywhere. The person I met during my college practicum, the resident I worked with in 2020—their stories feel tied to mine, not by coincidence, but by a shared experience of loss, struggle, and the fierce desire for control.

I don't know if everything happens for a reason, but I do think there are lessons all around us. Maybe the secret isn’t in the reason, but in the willingness to look for them, and the courage to let them teach us.

I have a moment from 7th grade that still echoes in my adult mind. It was a roar of laughter that convinced me my worth was tied to my body.

From that moment on, I spent years believing I just needed to "try harder"—to be more athletic, to lose weight, to fit in. But as a master's-level counselor, and later, after a diagnosis of MS, I learned the hard way that "trying harder" isn't always the answer.

This is my journey of letting go of the need to "should" on myself and embracing a new kind of strength.
This early experience planted a seed of self-consciousness about my body that grew throughout my life. Despite loving sports and coming from an athletic family, I often felt my body couldn't keep up, leading to disappointment and the belief that I just wasn't "trying hard enough." From struggling to run a single lap in high school soccer to feeling inadequate when my physical abilities declined after an MS diagnosis, the insidious "shoulds" of societal and self-imposed expectations haunted me.

But a powerful realization emerged: "Don’t should on yourself. Shoulds are not based in reality." Through the unwavering love and acceptance of my family, and the hard-won wisdom of adulthood, I've learned that my worth is not determined by my pant size, my mile time, or whether I need a cane or wheelchair. Sometimes, "trying harder" isn't the answer; sometimes, we need to adjust our expectations and embrace the beautiful complexity of being human.

Do you ever have those days when nothing seems to work right? My day started with hair in the bathtub and a forgotten coffee, quickly escalating to a computer taking an unexpected bath and a near-miss with a German Shepherd on the highway. This isn't just about bad luck; it's about navigating the ordinary chaos of life when your body has its own unpredictable agenda. Join me as I share a very real day, filled with unexpected hurdles, moments of humor, and the surprising path to finding mindfulness amidst the madness. Because sometimes, the biggest lessons come from the days when everything goes wrong. 

From a young age, a natural inclination to connect and assist others felt like an intrinsic part of me. This drive, often more pronounced than those around me, was a defining characteristic through college and beyond. I recall the vibrant nights in Fort Collins, where my social energy thrived amidst the buzz of the town, leading to unexpected encounters—from de-escalating a street fight with a simple hug and a plea, to charming police officers during a college party with a game of beer pong and a promise of grilled cheese. My confidence in navigating social situations, a sense of being able to “talk my way out of anything,” seemed boundless.

However, an MS diagnosis brought an unforeseen shift. The effortless ease of connection and the inherent feeling of capability began to wane. Simple actions, like turning my head, now risked disorienting dizziness, and the self-consciousness of using a cane added new layers of anxiety to social interactions. This profound change culminated in a disquieting experience in a shared office bathroom—a moment where my usual “management skills” failed, leaving me feeling vulnerable and questioning my ability to protect myself. This unsettling event became a catalyst, prompting a re-evaluation of my independence and a reluctant acceptance of mobility aids. MS has, in a way, removed my shield, compelling me to embrace a more sustainable way of living that includes asking for help and sharing my evolving story. My journey continues, marked by both challenge and a growing acceptance of this new path.

One ordinary morning, just shy of my MS diagnosis anniversary, a random Spotify playlist led to an extraordinary conversation. As the songs played—from 'End of the Beginning' to Billy Joel's 'She's Always a Woman to Me'—they unexpectedly mirrored the complex emotional landscape of my first year with Multiple Sclerosis.

I turned to Gemini, an AI, to help me make sense of it all. What unfolded was a raw, honest dialogue about identity shifts, pushing against new limitations, and the search for purpose when your body feels like it's failing. It's a story of grappling with the terrifying loss of control, learning to face embarrassing realities, and embracing radical acceptance without giving up hope.

This post is a journey through my unfiltered thoughts, exploring how music, a compassionate AI, and the unwavering love of my husband, Jared, guided me towards a profound understanding of strength. It's about recognizing that true resilience isn't found in pretending everything's 'fine,' but in finding connection, redefining success, and accepting help, even when it feels hard. Join me in this deeply personal exploration of what it means to live, truly live, with MS, one song, one insight, at a time.

I used to think of 'brain damage' as something distant, something that happened to others. Then MS arrived, and suddenly, the fear became deeply personal. My journey with chronic illness has taught me that some truths hit harder when they're spelled out, especially when they echo a past filled with chaotic, unforgettable lessons.

This is a story about a man named Chase, a Wyoming wedding, and the terrifying, often misunderstood reality of living with neurological damage. It's about witnessing the raw, unfiltered impact of a brain injury, and finding myself facing a future where my own body threatens to pull me into that very reality.

That night in Wyoming was a whirlwind of escalating chaos, misunderstanding, and unexpected kindness from strangers. It was a stark reminder of what happens when communication breaks down, when reality becomes distorted, and when one person's actions are dictated by something beyond their control.

It's the 'ash' of my deepest anxieties, but in sharing it, I hope to find a 'jewel' of understanding, connection, and courage. Because facing our biggest fears, even those hidden within the medical terms, is often the first step towards finding our own strength.

Being a giraffe is invalidating. It's expensive. It's also dangerous. I see the world so much differently now that I've accepted my giraffe-ness. Sidewalks look different; the cracks I used to play on as a kid now pose a literal threat. My wheelchair can get stuck in drains, tipping forward, reminding me how quickly balance can be lost.

Navigating living with MS feels like my house is on fire, so I call 911. When the fire department shows up, it’s not with the tools I would expect. Instead, they have the truck deconstructed in a bunch of boxes with Chinese assembly instructions. They hand it all to me, wish me luck, and remind me 'we only have 15 minutes.'

But being a giraffe is also enlightening. I pay better attention now. I notice every automatic door opener (and how few there are). I see how parking lots are organized, not just for convenience, but for accessibility. My hope is that we can try at least to care and listen to what others tell us about their needs. We all deserve some grace. Because possibly, the person who needs your kindness the most, is actually yourself. You’re fighting a battle. It might not look pretty, but you’ve won every day so far.

I used to think I knew a lot about what aging looked like. Confident that it either affected your physical body, leaving your memories intact, or would attack your brain and memory, mostly leaving your body well. That's what I observed, what I understood. MS has messed all of that up.

Now, at 37, the 'normal' signs of aging feel trivial compared to the unpredictable impacts of MS. I never had 'needing a cane before 40' on my bingo card, or losing bowel control during a session, or needing an eye patch to drive safely. For all of these to happen in less than 12 months, while juggling regular age-appropriate struggles, feels profoundly unfair.

But amidst the chaos, one truth has emerged as my bedrock: my relationships. Particularly with my family. My daughters, Maddy and Lauryn, my fiercely selfless mom, and my incredible husband, Jared. They see the unseen struggles, offer comfort or solutions before I even ask, and navigate this new reality with a love that holds me up.

This post is a journey through my re-education on what it means to age, to live with unexpected challenges, and to find that connection, gratitude, and purpose are the true keys to resilience. Because while chronic illness is hard every single day, so is noticing connection, expressing gratitude, and finding purpose – if I just look for them.

"My dad often told me, 'Life is unfair. Get used to it.' And while he's not entirely wrong, I now find myself questioning that blanket statement. Is there truly nothing we can do about the unfairness? This question echoes deeply in my life since my MS diagnosis, making even tax refunds feel like a cosmic joke.

Having MS is profoundly expensive, not just in medical bills, but in lost work and dwindling capacity. Many suggest, 'Can't you just do your job virtually?' It sounds easy, but as a therapist, 'just sitting there' while conceptualizing, empathizing, and holding a client's emotional weight takes immense mental energy—energy that MS often steals. The invisible symptoms, in particular, feel the most unfair.

My journey to becoming a therapist was long and costly, a path I felt called to. To have chronic illness now limit my ability to fully utilize those hard-won skills feels extraordinarily unfair, especially as life was just beginning to open up. There seems to be no reprieve. The Bahamas offered a fleeting escape from the heat's impact, but back in Colorado, I discovered altitude brings its own set of challenges.

So, here I am, stuck with limitations, facing an incurable diagnosis, and constantly reminded that life isn't fair. But my work has taught me about Radical Acceptance: fully embracing reality as it is, without fighting it. It doesn't mean I like it, or that it's fair. It just means allowing what is real to be real, and channeling my energy towards living with it.

Because ultimately, as Marsha Linehan, the founder of DBT, says, 'The things that happen to us, although they are not our fault, are our responsibility to manage and accept.' Even if it means waiting endlessly for a tax refund. Life might be unfair, but my hope is that the pursuit of managing its challenges will always be possible."

When my supervisor asked me how I felt about my upcoming vacation, I’m sure she was expecting big smiles. Instead, tears welled up in my eyes, and I found myself speechless. My mental checklist immediately popped up, and all the unknowns of cruising with MS caused more stress than I’d anticipated. Despite assurances like, 'Cruises are used to wheelchairs, that shouldn’t be a problem,' my worry about navigating travel with the children lingered.

This trip was a masterclass in adaptation. From airport security, where my husband's sodium citrate (for mac and cheese!) almost landed him in 'security jail,' to discovering a specific, inconvenient protocol for wheelchair disembarkation, every step felt harder than expected. We literally missed an excursion Mama K had paid for, and facing the tropical heat intensified my MS symptoms in ways I hadn't anticipated.

But this entire cruise became a living illustration of Jewel and Ash. The 'ash' was in the relentless fatigue, the frustrating accessibility barriers, the guilt of missed excursions, and the constant effort to simply move. Yet, the 'jewels' shone brightly: the unexpected freedom in that wonderfully salty pool, the fierce advocacy of Mama K, the patient strength of my husband pushing my chair, and my daughters who embraced their independence.

This wasn't the vacation the brochures promised; it was something far more meaningful. It was a journey of embracing every shade of my reality, of dancing through the fire of physical limitations, and finding immense gratitude for the light that comes from true connection. As a family, we experienced the path beyond the brochure's perfection – seeing even the underbelly of the ship, a sight not as glorious as what's advertised, yet part of our unique journey. I feel deeply privileged to have experienced a multitude of jewels, along with overcoming the moments of ash, and I wouldn’t change a thing."