A quiet truce after an MS relapse is like letting go, not fighting harder

November feels like an inhale that hasn’t yet decided whether to sigh or sing. The mornings are quieter now, the air cooler, and for the first time in months, I also feel more peaceful.

On the other side of a recent relapse with relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis, facing trauma head-on, a change of address, and a second dose of rituximab, my body has finally stopped sounding alarms. There have been no more falls, no dragging of drop foot, no struggles with spasticity, and no food making a quick exit before it can provide nourishment. There’s a strength returning to my legs and my life — a steadiness that had been absent for years.

What surprises me most isn’t the improvement itself; it’s how calm everything feels. No fireworks, no dramatic turning point, just a gradual unclenching of a white-knuckled fist and the laying down of grit. I’m not waiting for the next symptom or setback. I’m not forcing myself to fix, prove, or outrun anything. It’s as though my body and I have called a quiet truce.

Recommended Reading

November 14, 2025 Columns by Benjamin Hofmeister

My caregiver speaks the language of MS as a resident, not a tourist

The resilience in letting go

Multiple sclerosis (MS), in its strange way, has always been the teacher of tempo. It taught me that the body doesn’t move on a calendar and certainly not on your desired schedule. It moves in rhythms, cycles, and sometimes pauses. There were years I mistook that slowness for failure. I pushed harder, thinking forward momentum was the only proof of living.

But lately, I’m tuning into what my nervous system has been whispering all along: Maybe healing isn’t always a sprint toward normal. Perhaps it’s a slow, steady return to belonging in the present moment and within your own skin. For once, I’m not measuring progress by what I can do, but by what I no longer need to fight.

For most of my life, I believed strength meant holding on for dear life. Holding my body upright when it faltered. Holding relationships together when they were slipping. Holding plans in place as if sheer willpower could rewrite biology or circumstance. Letting go felt like failure and a kind of giving up that I swore I’d never do.

But somewhere in what has been the most trying year of my life thus far, between losing what I thought I couldn’t live without, and regaining a semblance of peace I feared I’d never feel again, I’ve started to see it differently. There’s a unique grace in release. It isn’t about indifference; it’s about trusting that not everything I set down will shatter and that some things are meant to find their own shape without my grip trying to fight the mold.

Living with MS has made me a reluctant expert in surrender. Each relapse, each recovery, each new adaptation is a small rehearsal in relinquishing control. I used to brace against every shift, tightening around what I couldn’t keep. Now I’m learning to meet change with softer hands.

Maybe resilience isn’t about how tightly we can hold things together, but how gently we can let them go. Because when I stop resisting the rhythm of the endings, the pauses, the slow re-beginnings, I’m realizing I’m making space for something steadier to grow into my life.

Trust feels quite a bit different these days. To me, it used to mean confidence in a plan, the right medication, and the correct sequence of steps to keep everything from unraveling. Now, it’s something quieter, and less about control and more about communion. I am trusting that my body knows when to fight and when to rest. I am trusting that slowing down isn’t the same as falling behind. I can trust that peace can coexist with uncertainty; that even when the future feels unmarked, everything can still turn out good.

Every evening, I step outside and watch the light change. The trees let their leaves go without panic, the sky takes its time shifting from vibrant colors to gray, and the air smells like something closing and something beginning at the same time. I think of how much of my life has been spent rushing to the next phase, the next scan, the next milestone, and the next sense of safety. Lately, I’m learning to let go, to linger, and to savor the time I have in the now.

Maybe this is what healing looks like in the quiet between seasons; not a finish line, but a gentler rhythm, a deep breath that says you don’t have to fight to be alive.

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.