My Rock and My Shadow

It's funny to think now that I wasn't a cat person. I say 'wasn't' in the past tense, and honestly, I'm still not sure I'm a 'cat person' as much as a tiny black cat has chosen me as her person. Oh, Charlie. Our story began, unknowingly, on a first date with a man I liked, who mentioned he had a cat. My allergic, cat-averse self quickly decided to keep that information to myself, fearing it would derail what felt like an instant, electric connection.

Life, as it always does, had other plans. My diagnosis with MS turned my world upside down, bringing with it double vision and a host of other challenges. In the early days of recovery, when my body struggled and fatigue kept me on the couch, Charlie became my furry black shadow. She moved in silence, a constant presence, sensing my struggle with an empathy that transcended words.

She wasn't like the cats I'd known – distant or demanding. Charlie was instantly sweet, endlessly soft, and her purr resonated through me, soothing symptoms of numbness and tingling. She's on a mission to convert everyone into a cat person, gently but relentlessly loving them until she wins them over.

This is the beauty of finding comfort in unexpected places. Charlie, the cat I never wanted, became a silent, unwavering jewel in a life suddenly filled with ash. She's a reminder that even when things feel impossible, connection and solace can emerge from the most unlikely of shadows.

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The Cracks We Carry: Finding Strength in Our Broken Pieces

For years, my body whispered strange secrets – fleeting pains, odd difficulties that baffled doctors as quickly as they vanished. I learned to live with the unpredictable, like a 'giraffe' navigating a world expecting horses or zebras. Then, the diagnosis came: Multiple Sclerosis. My life, and my perception of it, fundamentally shifted.

In the bewildering days following my diagnosis, my family surrounded me with love and gifts. One particular memory stands out: a small yellow giraffe, a gift from my sister. This wasn't just any toy; it mirrored a quiet understanding between my mom and me, a symbol of my unique way of being in the world.

Then, it broke. Not once, but twice. Dropped to the hospital floor, fracturing into pieces. A small tragedy in the grand scheme of things, yet it held profound meaning. My husband, ever the 'fixer,' promised to glue 'me' back together.

And he did. The giraffe now bears a faint, almost invisible crack, a subtle reminder. Just like me. Those closest to me see the struggles, the invisible battles. But from a distance? Maybe I just look like a little yellow giraffe perched innocently on a mantle, my secrets and stories safely hidden within. This is the truth of the cracks we carry, and the strength we find in our broken pieces.

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Adjusting Sails: Heaviness and Sharing Grief 

Of course, there’s a physical heaviness; since my MS diagnosis in July 2024, there are times my body simply doesn’t cooperate with my goals. But there’s another meaning, perhaps even bigger, when I say things are 'too heavy.' Right now, life feels too heavy.

My sister, Robin, turns 31 today. She recently shared a dream, a replaying of the intense grief she’s carried over the past twelve months. What really struck me was her feeling that there’s no real space for her to share those feelings, that even those closest to her don’t truly know, understand, or have the capacity to help. And honestly, she’s right. And I feel terrible about that.

I remember a childhood memory, when Robin, just five or six, took a bad tumble down the stairs. The sight of her bleeding foot and her frantic cries filled me with a desperate need to fix it, to make the pain disappear. I tried, as a scared older sister might, to clean her foot and hold her. But logic and emotion didn’t speak the same language then, as they often don't now. There was nothing I, a little girl, could do to truly stop the bleeding.

This feeling of wanting to fix, of feeling utterly helpless, has echoed throughout my life. It’s a familiar ache. It’s why I’ve found solace recently in the podcast 'MeSsy,' and why yesterday, a card they pulled felt so aligned: 'We can’t change the wind. All we can do is adjust our sails to get to our destination.'

As much as I want to take Robin’s pain away for her—to stop her grief, rewrite her story—I know now that ultimately it wouldn’t even help her. My hope is that we can all learn from this realization in our personal lives. Although we will have a desire to take challenges and pain away from our loved ones, they (and ultimately we) may be better served sitting in the ash together.

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The Silent Sentinel: The Unexpected Jewel In a Month of Ash

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. It's a testament to the unexpected kindness of strangers, the enduring love of family, and the brutal honesty of my own fears. This is the 'ash' of my deepest anxieties, but in sharing it, I hope to find a 'jewel' of understanding, connection, and courage.

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