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Living with multiple sclerosis requires a certain kind of honesty.

This is about more than the honesty to acknowledge what’s hard (because there is plenty of that) but the honesty to recognize what still remains. As in: what’s still possible and what’s still worth pursuing? And maybe the harder question: what do we choose to focus on most?

Over the years, I’ve come to believe that optimism isn’t the opposite of reality when it comes to MS. Optimism truly is part of it.

Not because life with this disease is easy or predictable. It’s not. But because the way we choose to think about our experiences — what we emphasize, what we hold onto, what we say out loud — has a direct effect on how we live them.

Reflection and direction 

I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I created my own handwritten newspaper for my family and convinced myself I was publishing something the world needed to read. Looking back, maybe I wasn’t wrong. Just early.

That instinct took on a deeper meaning when life became more complicated. When my family walked through the progression of Alzheimer’s disease with my grandmother, writing helped me process what I didn’t yet have the words to say. Years later, when I was diagnosed with MS at 27, I turned to writing again not just to cope, but to move forward.

At some point, I realized something that has stayed with me: The way I talk about my experience with MS isn’t just reflection. It’s direction. It quietly shapes the path I’m willing to take next.

And if that’s true for me, I can’t help but wonder what direction are my words setting on the days when MS feels the heaviest?

That doesn’t mean I ignore the hard parts. There are days when symptoms interrupt plans, energy disappears without warning, and frustration feels easier than hope. Anyone living with MS understands those moments, and there is value in being honest about that reality.

Keep moving forward 

I’ve learned there is a difference between acknowledging what is difficult and allowing it to define the entire experience. That space in between is where optimism lives. 

Not as blind positivity, not as denial, but as a deliberate, practiced way of continuing to look for what still is possible even when MS would prefer I focus on what isn’t.

For me, that perspective developed over time. It became a way to keep moving forward. But that doesn’t just happen on its own. It happens through the choices I make every day, including the way I frame and express my experiences with MS.

Truth and hope existing together 

In recent years, I’ve noticed more conversations around what it really means to live with MS. More people are speaking openly about their struggles and frustrations.

That honesty matters.

At the same time, I believe there also is value in offering a perspective that allows for both truth and hope to exist together.

Because someone reading this may be at the very beginning of their journey, and the words they encounter early on can shape what they believe is possible for their own life.

I think back to something my mom once told me after reading a piece I had written during a difficult time.

She said, “People are in pain. They need to read something like this to find comfort.”

That has stayed with me. It’s part of why I continue to write. Part of why I believe the way we hold and express our experience with MS matters. Because while we can’t control this disease, we can influence how we live with it, and how we invite others to see it.

I’ve seen firsthand how much that matters.

Something worth holding onto

Optimism, as I’ve come to understand it, isn’t about pretending things are better than they are.

It’s about recognizing that even within the uncertainty — within the setbacks, the frustration, the days that don’t go as planned — there is still something worth holding onto. Not always something big. Not always something easy. But something.

Maybe you’ve felt that too.

Over time, I’ve learned that choosing to look for that “something” doesn’t ignore the reality of MS. It changes how I live within it. And sometimes, that shift doesn’t begin with a breakthrough or a major decision.

It begins quietly with the words I choose and the direction they set from there.