Letting Go of the Explanation: What Multiple Sclerosis Taught Me About Time and Truth

It has been roughly six years since I heard the words "multiple sclerosis," and in that time, my entire understanding of energy, time, and living in the present has been completely rewritten. Reaching this six-year mark has brought with it some hard-won, revelatory insights about my own capabilities, my strict limits, and the absolute necessity of valuing every single moment I have.

In the beginning, I was consumed by what was to come. Constantly worrying about outcomes created a heavy, suffocating anxiety inside me. But eventually, a quiet realization settled in: I cannot control what happens tomorrow.All I have, and all I can control, is the immediate present. I find my anchor in the conversations I choose to engage in,the stories I hear from others, the reading I dive into, and the things I learn today. Over these last six years, I’ve gained an extensive—sometimes agonizing—education in pain and fatigue management, constantly testing the boundaries of what my body can and cannot do.

One of the hardest parts of this journey hasn't just been the physical toll, but the invisible one. Communicating the reality of my symptoms has been exceptionally difficult. People often just don't believe the severity of the fatigue, mistaking it for the routine tiredness we all feel after a long day. They don't see the lesions on my spine and brain. They don't realize that everyday activities—talking, writing, just walking across a room—consume significantly more energy than they used to. For me, taking a single step can feel the equivalent of taking four.

For a long time, I fought against that misunderstanding. I exhausted myself trying to seek empathy from people who simply cannot comprehend an experience they haven't lived through. But eventually, I made a choice: I stopped trying to force comprehension. I let go of the struggle to make others understand. Now, my approach is simple and bounded by peace. I just clearly state what I can and cannot do, and I leave the acceptance of that up to the other person.

This surrender has opened up space for what truly matters: connection and purpose. My faith and my personal journey following Jesus look different from many others. It often involves a lot of deep questioning of universal mysteries—I find myself pondering planetary design, magnetic barriers, and the vast history of the cosmos. And while those ultimate cosmological answers remain unknown to me, I’ve found that tangible, grounding meaning comes from human interactions. It comes from sharing the lessons I’ve learned and recognizing that every single one of us is here for a specific purpose.

If there is one thing this disease has taught me, it is the undeniable brevity of life. But rather than fear, it has left me with a profound gratitude. I am deeply thankful for the people in my life whom I have the privilege to learn from, and the ones I am able to help along the way.