Guest Voice: The VIP of my MS support team? A wall to lean on.
When my balance wobbles, my hand reaches out and it's always on duty
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Before multiple sclerosis (MS) entered my life, I never gave ordinary objects a second thought. Walls, for example, were just there, holding up pictures, catching the occasional flying shoe thrown by Mom, or marking where furniture should stop.
I didn’t greet the walls or thank them. I certainly didn’t depend on them. Like many things in life, walls were invisible — until they weren’t.
MS has a funny way of turning ordinary objects into VIPs. Suddenly, things that never mattered before — railings, chairs, shopping carts, countertops — become essential members of your support team. And near the top of that list? Walls.
MS teaches you to see the world differently, often with a mix of humility and dark humor. It forces you to redefine what strength looks like. It’s no longer about multitasking while speed-walking or carrying all the groceries in one trip. Strength becomes staying upright. It becomes making it from the bedroom to the kitchen without an unplanned floor meeting, which, yes, I’ve attended a few times. And for that, I’ve learned, a good wall is priceless.
Something there is that does love a wall
I never thought I’d rely so deeply on something so ordinary. But now, when my balance wobbles, when my legs hesitate like they’re buffering, or when my brain sends a message that never quite arrives, my hand automatically reaches out. And there it is. Steady. Reliable. Always on duty.
The wall doesn’t judge. It doesn’t ask why today is harder than yesterday. It doesn’t say, “But you looked fine last week.” It doesn’t rush me or sigh dramatically. It just stands there, quietly doing its job, letting me borrow its strength when mine is temporarily offline.
Over time, the wall became more than part of the house. It became an anchor. A silent walking aid. A partner in what I like to call “extreme indoor navigation.” Room-to-room travel may not look impressive, but when you live with MS, it can feel like an Olympic event. The wall is there for every step, every pause, every recalculation of balance.
There are moments when my legs shake, when my nerves misfire, when my body feels like it missed the memo about what it’s supposed to do. In those moments, the wall feels like reassurance. Almost like it’s saying, “Relax. I’ve got you. We’ve done this before.” And the truth is, of course, we have.
Living with MS comes with a lot of invisible effort. People see me standing and assume everything is fine. They don’t see the concentration it takes to stay that way. They don’t feel the fatigue hiding behind a short walk or the frustration of needing support for something that used to be automatic. The wall sees it all. It witnesses the quiet battles and never asks for an explanation.
There is also grief that comes with MS — the grief of the old me. The version of myself that moved without thinking, balanced without effort, walked without planning. That grief didn’t disappear just because I learned to adapt. But in the middle of it, the wall helps me keep going. It allows me to move forward without announcing my struggle to the world.
Sometimes I laugh when I catch myself thinking, “This wall really understands me.” Not everyone can say they’ve developed such a close relationship with drywall. But MS reshapes your priorities. You start to appreciate what works. You celebrate small victories. You find humor where you can because laughter is also a form of balance.
Leaning isn’t giving up
MS has taught me that support doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it’s quiet and unglamorous. Sometimes it’s painted beige and hasn’t been updated since 2003. But it’s there. And that matters.
And somewhere along the way, I learned something important: there is no shame in leaning. Not on a wall, not on a person, not on help. Leaning doesn’t mean weakness; it means wisdom. It means listening to my body instead of fighting it. It means choosing safety, dignity, and self-respect over pride.
MS may require more leaning, but it doesn’t take away my independence; it simply changes how I claim it. Leaning is not giving up; it’s how I keep going.
In those moments with my hand on the wall, breath steadying, I remind myself that although my body is changing, my spirit hasn’t given up. I may lean more these days, but I’m still standing. Still adapting. Still finding my way. And honestly? I’m incredibly grateful for good walls.
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