I don’t have to be an Olympic medalist to achieve remarkable things

Growing up, athleticism was part of my identity. To a degree, I measured myself by what I was physically capable of doing. I was constantly driven to test my limits, always aiming for higher, stronger, and more daring. I’m still in awe at what the human body is capable of.

This February, I watched the Winter Olympics, captivated by athletes — especially snowboarders — who seemed to negotiate with gravity itself. They launched into the air as if the laws of physics were mere suggestions, spinning, flipping, and landing backward without ever seeing the ground beneath them. Somehow, they made it all look effortless. Their abilities are, without question, superhuman.

I used to chase that feeling, not on snow, but in the gym, on a balance beam, a soccer field, or a volleyball court. There’s a unique thrill in asking your body to attempt the improbable and discovering it will let you push the boundaries.

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But life with relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis taught me that bodies change, sometimes slowly with age, sometimes overnight. Mine changed at the age of 16. Sensation, strength, sight, balance, and energy all became negotiable. Multiple sclerosis (MS) forced itself into my identity by emphasizing what I could no longer do.

Now, when I watch Olympic athletes perform, I feel both awe and perspective. I’ve realized that superhuman capability is contextual. For some, it’s triple corks and gold medals; for others, it’s resistance bands in a living room or celebrating when a knee tracks straight and doesn’t give way. Recently, for me, it meant ice skates.

Redefining what’s important

During my last relapse, I lost nearly all sensation in my legs. The change wasn’t subtle, as walking suddenly demanded immense concentration. My brain knew where my feet should be, but the signals were garbled, distorted, and delayed. In the hospital, I was labeled a fall risk.

With time, positive life changes, and rituximab, sensation gradually returned to my legs. To celebrate, I tried something new: ice skating. I kept my plan private, and it wasn’t a casual decision. I wanted to quietly test my courage and see if my body could rise to the challenge once again.

The first few seconds on the ice were humbling. I felt oddly vulnerable standing on blades, knowing the damage my nervous system had recently caused. The ice didn’t care about my backstory, and I knew it wouldn’t provide a soft landing if I fell. I wobbled, corrected, wobbled again, and then my body adjusted, and I skated around the rink. There were no jumps, turns, or dramatic speed, but I did move forward and recover my balance any time I tipped a bit too far.

There was no medal ceremony, no slow-motion replay for anyone to marvel at. Yet my chest expanded with pride. Just months earlier, I couldn’t feel my legs, and now I was balancing atop sharpened steel.

I once imagined resilience as grit — clenched fists and dramatic comebacks against all odds. I thought it meant proving yourself through spectacle. Now I know resilience is quieter, subtler, and far more common. For me, it’s found in the return of sensation, trust, and movement.

Accomplishments look different to me now, too. I no longer measure them in terms of being faster and pushing harder, but rather by asking, “Did my foot clear the step without dragging?” “Can I finish a set of resistance band exercises with good form?” “Did I recover instead of collapsing in fear?” These are the victories I treasure today.

Living with MS forces you to recalibrate what matters. You learn that your body isn’t a fixed asset but a dynamic system — sometimes cooperative, sometimes unpredictable. When it cooperates, even in small ways, you notice. You celebrate.

Watching the Olympics, I don’t feel diminished; rather, I’m reminded of how extraordinary human capacity can be. Sometimes, it looks like defying gravity in front of millions. Other times, it’s simply standing upright after your nervous system went offline, and then daring to step onto the ice anyway.

Superhuman isn’t a singular category; it’s relative to the terrain each of us navigates. For the snowboarder, the mountain is the challenge. For me, on some days, it’s my own body.

When I can lace up my skates, glide forward, wobble, recover, and remain upright, that is my gold medal moment. It was never guaranteed. When I asked, my body replied, “We can try.” Resilience doesn’t always look like flying; sometimes, it’s simply staying on your feet.

Note: Multiple Sclerosis News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Multiple Sclerosis News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to multiple sclerosis.