Today marks eleven years since my diagnosis with multiple sclerosis. That number carries weight in the MS community. More than a decade of lessons, struggles, and unexpected blessings.
The diagnosis itself revealed something profound about my wife Courtney that I had always known but never fully appreciated. She ordered the MRI that would change our lives: full brain and spine, with and without contrast. She knew what was coming before I did. Before anyone else did, except the radiologist.
Consider that burden for a moment. The person you love most has to carry knowledge that will alter everything, then find the words to share it. Courtney had to call me and tell me I would be diagnosed with a disease that, if I am blessed to live long enough, will take my ability to walk. Her grace in that moment taught me more about empathy and strength than any other experience in our relationship. Maybe in life.
A close friend offered perspective almost immediately after my diagnosis: “Congratulations. Your life is not what you thought it would be. You are one of the lucky ones who now knows this. You better go figure out what you want it to be.”
That statement has guided me ever since. It crystallized something I had always believed but never fully embodied: very few things in life are purely good or bad. I often return to the Chinese Farmer parable that Alan Watts loved to tell. You know the one. The farmer whose horse runs away, and to every declaration from his neighbors about his fortune or misfortune, he responds simply: “Maybe.”
The horse returns with seven wild horses. “How fortunate!” they say. “Maybe,” he replies.
His son breaks his leg trying to tame one. “How terrible!” they cry. “Maybe.”
The broken leg saves his son from conscription. “What luck!” they exclaim. “Maybe.”
Life unfolds with such immense complexity that we cannot truly know whether any single event is good or bad. We never know what will come from misfortune, just as we never know what consequences good fortune might bring.
This understanding has transformed how I approach time. I hoard it now, spending it deliberately on those closest to me. My priorities are clear and ordered: health, family, community. Without health, I cannot serve the others. This is not selfishness; it is pragmatism. You cannot pour from an empty cup. You put on your mask before helping others.
The word “priorities” in its plural form has only existed for about a century. For most of history, you could have only a priority. MS taught me to honor that older wisdom while acknowledging the complexity of modern life. Everything filters through those three lenses, in that specific order.
Over these eleven years, I have met hundreds of people facing MS. Sometimes they reach out directly. Too often, it is a parent who has just learned their child has been diagnosed. These conversations are difficult, yet I feel privileged to have them. They create unexpected bonds. One parent of a newly diagnosed teenager, connected through a mutual acquaintance, led to that acquaintance becoming one of my closest friends. MS has a way of revealing who will stand with you in uncertainty.
People often ask about a cure. We have raised significant funds toward that goal, and I am proud of that work. Yet I believe I will never receive such a cure myself. History does not repeat, but human behavior does. We will likely prevent new cases and stop the progression in those diagnosed, but we will probably never repair damage already done. This mirrors the trajectory of diseases like polio. I have written more extensively about this in “The Future of MS: What Does a Cure Mean? Unintended Consequences.”
This perspective aligns with our family mission statement: we have a debt to those before us and an obligation to those after us. My obligation is not to wait for a cure but to maximize what I have now.
Statistics would suggest I should already need a mobility device. More than half of those with MS do after ten years. But probability is not destiny. A statistics professor once told me, “Statistics are like prisoners. Beat them long enough, and they will tell you what you want to hear.” I prefer to focus on showing my children that we can do hard things, regardless of what life presents. It may not look like what we expected, but our expectations were probably irrelevant anyway.
There is a crucial distinction between undesirable and unacceptable. Having MS is undesirable. Letting it define me or dictate my life would be unacceptable.
The diagnosis has also taught me about how people respond to illness. Discomfort manifests in strange ways. I have been asked whether I am “still as smart as I once was,” whether I can “still provide for my family,” and whether I am “sure it is MS, since that is a woman’s disease.” These questions reveal more about the questioner than about me or my condition. (For more on being male and having MS, check out this Reddit thread I started earlier this year. Men with MS – What Do You Wish You Knew at Diagnosis?)
Eleven years is both a lifetime and a moment. I would not have chosen this diagnosis, yet I am not entirely certain I would undo it if given the chance. It has sharpened our family’s commitment to maximize life and potential through heart, intelligence, and grit. We call it Mostest.
MS may take things from me over time. It will never take that commitment. If anything, the disease has made it stronger, clearer, more urgent.
Life remains beautifully uncertain. “Maybe” is often the only honest answer we have. But within that uncertainty, we can choose our response. We can choose our priorities. We can choose to see blessing within burden.
That is what eleven years has taught me.
Love you, mate
Feel the same, brother.