Multiple sclerosis is...
waking up one day walking with ease,
and the next, your legs refuse to follow.
It’s going to bed in pain
after waking with hope.
It’s living in a body
that no longer always listens
and learning to love it anyway.
It’s a battle the mirror doesn’t show,
but your body feels it,
and your soul carries it.
It’s wearing your best smile,
even when you feel shattered inside.
It’s hearing:
“But you look fine,”
and you smile, tired,
because they don’t know that pain
doesn’t always show.
Because your fight is silent,
but constant.
It’s being asked:
“Isn’t that something with your bones?”
as if your illness had a simple shape
or could be explained in a sentence.
And still, patiently,
you explain it again
even when it hurts,
even when you’re tired
because ignorance weighs heavy too.
It’s a fatigue that sleep can’t fix,
a balance that wobbles even at rest.
It’s words slipping away,
a body that feels foreign,
a life that becomes a new map
you must learn to navigate.
It’s feeling like an experiment
trials, treatments, promises
like your body is a lab
and you’re just waiting for the next try.
But it’s also…
becoming strong without meaning to,
learning to see the day in new light,
finding joy in the smallest moments,
and celebrating what others overlook.
It’s crying quietly,
but laughing deeply when you can.
It’s asking for help
and learning that vulnerability
is its own kind of courage.
And then, one day, you realize:
this illness is your greatest enemy
but also your teacher.
It’s like dancing
with a difficult partner,
one who steps out of rhythm,
cuts in without warning.
But you learn to move with awareness,
to stay on your toes
because not getting stepped on
is no small thing.
And with time,
that attention becomes wisdom.
It teaches you to see differently,
to live slower,
deeper,
more awake,
with a stronger heart. Erika Camacho