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."

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.

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.