I have done a really terrible job blogging lately. I have been posting in depth about Z’s senior year every Sunday on Facebook, so I have been sharing a lot… just not on Messy Mom.

Tomorrow he walks across the stage and gets that diploma.

I am really excited and ready to celebrate this accomplishment. Z is the reason I started Messy Mom. He is the one who gave me the title of “mom” in the first place, so after 18 years of blogging about his life, I knew I would regret it if I didn’t sneak in one last blog post before graduation tomorrow.

And actually, I’m resharing an old post.

It’s something I wrote when he turned 13, but I’ve modified it for age 18.

In August of 2008 I wrote this little blog post called “Then this happened”. I’ll repost it here-

I griped a lot in last night’s blog  because I did have a rough week and I don’t think there is anything wrong with keepin’ it real when things aren’t so bright and cheery. However, in the midst of it all there was this…

What is that? You may ask. That is something my 11 month old son made. He stacked that piece on top of the train and was building for the first time. I was so proud that I had to get my camera because I wanted to remember this moment forever. He did it several times and with blocks too!

It is such a joy to see him learning how things go together. I am honored to be a mom. Even in the midst of chaotic times I never ever want to overlook those little moments that make it all worthwhile.

And that’s it.

I wrote a whole blog post about how he stacked blocks and freaked out as if he had built the Taj Mahal. I shared how proud I was on the internet for the world to see.

And get ready for a major brag here, because 18 years later, I am just as proud.

This kid is taking his 10th and final AP exam today. So far he has earned a perfect score on all of them.

He always wanted to get a school yearbook, and I always said no. “They’re too expensive and take up too much space,” I would tell him. “I’ll get you one your senior year.”

We made good on that promise.

He got his very first yearbook this year, and he loved getting it signed by teachers and classmates. We also put a special shoutout in there for this milestone.

He also had a feature in the yearbook that really paints a picture of who he is and the legacy he is leaving behind as he graduates. It says “When it comes to how he hopes to be remembered, Zion’s answer is deeply personal. He wants his legacy to reflect the way his faith has shaped his life and how he treated others with unconditional love. While many describe him as smart or kind, Zion credits anything good in his life to God’s grace.”

I get emotional thinking about how many blocks he has stacked to get from that moment at 11 months old… to a kindergartener walking into a new school in a new state… to a teenager learning to ride a bike and drive a car…

to a young man leading worship and sharing the gospel.

Each of those little moments are connections our kids make as they develop into adulthood, and every one of those proverbial wooden blocks matters.

I’m so glad I took time to recognize that tiny moment with the blocks all those years ago, because it prompts me to pause and see the beauty and growth happening right before my eyes

“And then this happened.”

I am so thankful that Z has officially picked a college (I’ll get to that reveal in a bit). This has been a long and grueling journey. Don’t get me wrong, I have so much to be thankful for, but I am very happy to be getting off this roller coaster.

First of all, Z has always been “gifted.” I’m going to skip the part where I make a self-deprecating apology about saying that. He has a 4.8 weighted GPA and a 4.0 unweighted. He has taken eight AP classes and scored 5s (the highest score) on every one of them. His school doesn’t name a valedictorian, but Ohio awards a merit scholarship to the top 5%, so we know he is in that category. He is in National Honor Society, has done missions work, volunteer hours, and held multiple leadership roles.

He can play more instruments than I can count on one hand. And lastly, he scored a 35 on the ACT, putting him in the top 1% of test takers.

We were told he would surely get a full-ride scholarship. Not only did people tell us that, but I personally know several adults who were on similar paths and did receive full rides.

I did all the research, and Z did all the hard work. We went to college fairs and talked to representatives in person. We made him comb through every flyer that came in the mail and if you’ve ever had a senior, you know you could build a small village with all that mail. It felt like everyone wanted Z. He received small gifts, posters, and all kinds of creative promotional material.

I knew better than to be lured in by places like Harvard and Yale. They want him to apply so they can reject him and keep their acceptance rates low. But it was still fun to get stuff from the Ivies with his name on it. The possibilities felt endless. I started a spreadsheet, and we listed all the schools with potential.

He did college visits during his junior year and attended an essay bootcamp over the summer. When the Common App opened on August 1, he was ready. He applied early admission to a whopping 13 colleges. He cast a wide net, applying to target schools, reach schools, and safeties.  I truly felt like he did everything right.

Then we waited.

The offers started trickling in at around $25,000 a year. That might sound like a lot, but when it still leaves $35,000 a year to pay, it’s just not enough. He kept checking his email for scholarships, and I kept watching the mailbox for acceptance letters. He was receiving the highest levels of merit aid, and we carefully entered everything into the spreadsheet, but nothing made college even remotely affordable. I knew a full ride was unlikely, but I had hoped for at least full tuition.

Once we heard from everyone, my heart sank. This was not the outcome I had prayed for or believed would happen. I felt like I had failed Z. I was the mom who hounded him (lovingly) on essays and deadlines, assuring him it would all be worth it. And yet, even though he was offered over a million dollars in scholarships, it was spread across 13 schools and four years. The bottom line at every school was still out of reach.

Then a small private school increased his scholarship, so we attended their admitted students day and had a very positive experience. Z wasn’t completely sold, but the school encouraged him to submit an appeal, so he did. Then another school’s offer was so good it took the lead as the least expensive option. We toured that one as well, and Z fell in love. It quickly moved to the top of his list. He was encouraged to appeal there too.

At that point, he had his original top public school and three private schools offering generous merit aid. He submitted appeals to two of them and waited. When the responses came back, each school only increased their offer by $1,000 per year. And while I would happily dance all the way to the bank for $1,000 in most situations, for college, it barely moved the needle.

So last weekend, I told Z he needed to make his final decision. I gave him a firm deadline.

On that day, we went to Five Guys and even ordered milkshakes. This was supposed to be a celebration. Instead, it felt grueling. He eliminated two schools, but that still left two strong options with no clear winner. He described it as choosing between a chocolate milkshake and a strawberry milkshake. Both are good, but this decision was too important to just do eeny, meeny, miny, moe.

We went back and forth until we got home, and Z said he needed some time alone in his room. When he came out, we prayed together. Then he said it:

“I choose UC.”

I jumped up and gave him the biggest hug. I would have done that no matter what he chose. I truly was happy either way. But now I could fully embrace UC and celebrate this milestone.

I can also officially go all in on black and red grad party decorations.

Go Bearcats

Two months have flown by and I haven’t given an update on my health. It’s actually good news, and that’s the problem. My blessed life is so full that I end up having very little time to sit down and write.

So here are the updates from the last two months.

I had a rheumatology appointment in February which couldn’t have gone better. Back in October there were some numbers that were slightly concerning on my lab work. They didn’t treat it urgently like they did with everything else because it wasn’t serious, but it did warrant a closer look once the urgent matters were handled. The rheumatologist I saw was so thorough and informative. She told me what to watch for, but said she didn’t see any issues for me at all.

During the exam and while reviewing my charts, she said,

“Yeah, I really like what I am seeing. You look great. You are so healthy. Your weight is great. You are strong. Your eyes look great. Your skin looks terrific.”

She was describing someone who is not ill, but I took it as a compliment. I almost said, “Thank you. What about my hair and my outfit?” Being baseline healthy is something I used to take for granted, but not anymore.

My MRI was in March. It was my third one, but my first time doing the brain and spine together, so it took twice as long. The whole experience was daunting. After changing into a gown, they placed an IV for the contrast. I told the tech, “I may flinch, but that’s okay,” meaning don’t worry about my comfort, just keep going. He replied, “I would prefer you not to flinch.” I had to bite my tongue because I wanted to say, “I would prefer you not to stab me with a needle, but here we are.”

He got me all tucked in and was about to send me back until I asked about music. This has always been offered to people I know who have had MRIs. He said he could, but I would have to wear headphones. I told him that was fine. They already put noise-canceling headphones on you, so I wasn’t sure why that was any different. I requested peaceful worship music (which was provided at my other MRIs). CCM was the best he could do, but I took it.

As he sent me back into the machine, I still couldn’t hear anything but the noise, which sounded like a 1990s dial-up modem mixed with a warehouse forklift. After what felt like forever, I finally came out for a short break where he still preferred I not move. We got the music working, and then I went back in.

At that point, I started to get discouraged. I don’t remember exactly what he said over the microphone, but it sounded like I was only halfway done. I was over it. Lying perfectly still without any visuals for that long feels like a form of torture. I didn’t think I could do it much longer.

When the machine slid me out again, I started crying. He asked if I was okay, and I said no. I considered quitting, asking to come back another day, or even having J bring me something for anxiety from the waiting room.

“Are you claustrophobic?” he asked.

I said no. Inwardly, I thought, “In the sense that I immediately panic in confined spaces? No. I’ve never been claustrophobic. But in the sense that my body doesn’t like being confined to a metal chamber with no movement for 90 minutes? Yes, I guess I am that kind of claustrophobic.”

I told him I didn’t think I could finish if I was only halfway done. He assured me I was much further along and only had about 30 minutes left. So I went back in and finished.

The good news is they got great images, and the results showed no disease progression, no active lesions, and no new concerns!!!

That was confirmed at my neurology appointment earlier this week. She did a full cerebral function exam. She noted everything has improved/back to normal, and I am rejoicing over that.

Lastly, I had a neuro-ophthalmology appointment yesterday. Last November, I started seeing double and having significant vision issues. It was debilitating in some ways. They sent me to a specialist right away, but I didn’t have optic neuritis, which is the most common vision issue MS patients typically deal with.

At that first appointment, I was in tears because the doctor couldn’t find anything wrong and was ready to send me on my way. I refused to accept that and scheduled a follow-up. I also asked to see a different doctor, no matter how long I had to wait or how far I had to drive.

Thankfully, my vision improved a lot after treatment, but I wanted to keep my appointment just in case there were any concerns.

This most recent doctor visit was much better. After thorough testing and a careful exam, she diagnosed me with monocular diplopia. She could see from previous scans that there is minor damage to my optic nerves, leading to severe dry eye syndrome, which causes the type of double vision I have.

My brain has adjusted, and it is so faint that it doesn’t bother me. I don’t notice it unless I think about it, but it is still good to have answers. I can also use over-the-counter gel tears if needed.

I don’t have any more checkups until I see my neurologist again in the summer. I am so thankful for all the prayers and the good reports. Most of all, I feel like myself again.

Thank you, Jesus.

One of the things I was looking forward to for Z’s senior year was his senior photos. I have had people ask if I would take them, and I always answered YES—absolutely. I have been photographing senior portraits since before Z was born. I recently stumbled across this session I did when Z was a baby. It touched my heart thinking that 18 years later I’d be photographing my senior with his guitar.

I lost track of how many senior sessions I have done, but I’m guessing at least 100. They are my favorite because, first of all, teenagers follow instructions and are easy to work with, and also because I get to be a little more creative and artistic, showcasing the individual style and interests of each client. So I was super pumped for the day to come that I photographed my own child’s senior pictures.

He didn’t have much inspiration for the session; he mostly let me lead. We both agreed fall would be the best time, and I sort of settled on the Cincinnati Nature Center for the location because it’s gorgeous and we have so many memories there as a family, so it’s significant. Here is cute little Cub Scout Z when I photographed him in the Nature Center years ago.

The kicker is, when fall came, it was also when I was diagnosed with MS. I was not in a great place to do photography. However, this particular November weekend the weather was beautiful, and we weren’t sure if the fall foliage would last much longer. Thanks to J helping with driving and carrying equipment, we went for it and I am so thankful that we did!

What I’ve found over the last 20 years is that most guys do not love getting their picture taken. They may tolerate it, but Mom is usually the one behind the scenes with all the energy and ideas. Z was a typical dude who really did not care at all, except for one part. He wanted to make sure his instruments were included.

He wanted pictures with the bass he got for his birthday.

He wanted pictures with the ukulele he got last Christmas.

The drumsticks (he would have had a whole set out there if it were realistic).

His electric guitar, which he also got last Christmas.

Lastly, but my personal favorite, his dad’s guitar.

Here is baby Z playing that same guitar on his dad’s lap.

It’s also the guitar J played at our wedding. It was a really special full-circle moment to hear Z strum the guitar near the pond as the sun went down. Especially given my health lately, I am so grateful for that moment and will always cherish it. Always.

I already submitted a photo to the yearbook; now I just need to pick out the announcements. Only 131 days till graduation. I can’t believe it’s almost here!

I have been blogging for 17 years, and I have always loved writing down my New Year’s goals. I LOVE New Year’s! I love lists, dreams, goals, the whole shebang!

This year is different, though. I am approaching 2026 with my eyes sealed shut, like someone reluctantly talked into an amusement park thrill ride. I don’t want to sound too dreary, because I am the hope girl—I literally wrote a book about it—and I still have lots of HOPE in Him! However, this is my first year living with RRMS (relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis) as I know it now. I guess technically I had it before, but it was mostly brewing below the surface. Because of that, I can’t even make any plans for 2026. I just have to get my head above water, but I’m getting there.

I hated having the whole firestorm diagnosis during my favorite time of the year (fall and Christmas), but on the other hand, I am glad that I squeezed it in at the end of 2025 because even though I still have a lot to learn, I have a full dose of infusion treatment in me! Praise God! So now I feel like 2026 is a fresh start. The hard part is behind me, and I am ready to start finding my new normal!

I keep comparing my diagnosis to SJ because there are so many things I can relate back to that. For example, when SJ was diagnosed, I made this graphic and did a blog post about finding the new normal.

This is my own personal observation of what it’s like processing a diagnosis. I am not a psychiatrist or anything. From October until now, I was in shock! Next up, I am going to transition (or adapt/adjust) to life with MS.

I plan to gradually start implementing things I stopped doing when I was diagnosed and having debilitating flare-ups. For example, driving, taking walks, cooking, cleaning, and working full time. I know I can’t just do everything all at once, but I have a schedule and will reevaluate at the end of this month. If I had to guess, I would say at least the next six months will be a transitional period, which leads me to my latest prayer requests.

I am beyond blessed to have an army of prayer warriors in my corner interceding on my behalf. Thank you to all of you! Here are the next appointments I have:

January – ENT for my ears. My hearing loss is genetic and unrelated to MS, but then again, there is nerve damage that is ear-related, so there may be some overlap there. We’ll see.

February – I have my first and last appointment with Rheumatology. There was a red flag in my blood work, but please pray that it is just a fluke.

March – Head and spine MRIs. PLEASE PRAY for  NO ACTIVITY! This will show that the disease hasn’t progressed and the treatment is working.

April – I see my neurologist again, and hopefully it’s just to verify that I am doing well and that I am on the right track.

May – My next infusion!

That’s all that is scheduled, but I am still having some mild vision issues. If that doesn’t improve, I will need  to see a neuro-ophthalmologist again soon.

So those are my big 2026 plans for now, but don’t think I’ve forgotten about Z’s graduation. I am still all over that, and we will CELEBRATE!

Time for an MS update. Last Friday I had my first Briumvi infusion. In my mind, I would get it and start feeling better immediately. I was wrong. I met with my neurologist today and learned that what I received was only 1/3 of the first round.

The first infusion is the smallest portion, allowing them to take it slow and see how my body responds. The next one, in a couple of weeks, will be a higher dose. That does make me nervous, but I can do it. In a strange way, I feel like natural birth prepared me for this season. When I was pregnant with Z, I devoured pregnancy books. I wanted to learn everything there was to know about having a natural birth. It became a passion. I learned how to prepare, relax, and push through (no pun intended). While infusion treatment for MS isn’t the same at all, many of the tools I gained 18 years ago still apply. I’ve been doing my best to research and prepare. I know how to breathe, how to calm my body, and most importantly, I know I can do hard things. This is temporary suffering, and I believe it will be worth it in the long run.

The first infusion itself went smoothly. I knew I had people praying and fasting around the clock for me, and I truly felt the presence of the Holy Spirit in the room. I also had an incredible medical team caring for me, and J was right by my side. I did experience the flu-like symptoms they warn about, but overall it was calm and uneventful.

Saturday was different. I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a train. This was me after getting out of bed.

It felt just like the flu except just a warmth and no fever. I was managing okay until that evening, when the vertigo returned. I took a children’s chewable Dramamine, something I’ve taken before, but this time it immediately started burning my tongue. Panic set in as I double-checked the packaging and realized my tongue was swelling and becoming numb. I called the after-hours UC Health line, chugged water, and spoke with several nurses and a doctor who monitored me over the phone. Slowly, the irritation went down.

There’s no clear explanation for why I reacted that way to a mild medication I’ve used in the past. Because Briumvi is an anti-CD20 monoclonal antibody that depletes B cells, it shifts immune balance. This can potentially disrupt regulation and cause exaggerated hypersensitivity reactions to emerge. My med team will keep a close on it as I receive the next infusion. Thankfully it’s just a mild reaction and not an allergic one.

I tried to rally the next day and celebrate Christmas with my side of the family, but it wasn’t easy. I was juggling a variety of symptoms and slept in the guest room some of the time. I did love seeing my family, watching kids play, and even the snowfall helped lift my spirits.

By Sunday, I stayed home from church but was grateful I could watch the message, baptisms, and Z playing keys on the livestream. Later, we decided to watch a Christmas movie while wrapping presents.

I felt guilty that I couldn’t help wrap so J handed me the gift tags and asked if I could write the names. It was a small job, but I was just happy to contribute something.

As the movie played, I noticed the closed captions were suddenly hard to read. A blurry spot appeared. I glanced around, trying to decide if it was the TV or my eyes. It was my eyes. I tried to ignore it, but the blur turned into something that looked like pixelated TV static.

We paused the movie, and I tried to explain what I was seeing. Z was convinced I was escaping the Matrix, which honestly sounded pretty cool, but I decided it was time to call the after-hours doctor again.

While I waited for the call back, the “blind spot” grew larger. It was in both eyes. I was terrified and in tears. What I saw looked like a kaleidoscope in a crescent shape filled with bright, unnatural zigzag lights—taking up almost half of my vision.

When I finally spoke with the doctor, I struggled to describe it, but she immediately knew what was happening. I wasn’t having a reaction to the infusion, and I wasn’t going blind. I was experiencing a migraine aura. I told her I didn’t even have a headache, but she explained that an aura can occur with or without pain.

After about 40 minutes, it passed. Relief washed over me. I had to break the news to Z that it wasn’t, in fact, the Matrix. Still, the kids were excited to learn I had an “aura”—which, believe it or not, is the actual medical term. A visual aura is a temporary sensory disturbance that can include flashing lights, blind spots, or zigzag lines that move across your vision. It’s caused by a wave of electrical activity in the brain’s visual cortex and typically lasts less than an hour. It can anoccur without a headache, known as an acephalgic migraine. Wow, I am learning so many new medical terms and phenomena. I think I’m good now. No more please.

My next infusion is in ten days. I have more to share, but right now, I need a nap. I love you all. Thank you for walking with me through this, and please keep those prayers coming.

Today is the day of my first infusion. I am learning a lot about DMTs (disease modifying treatment) options, and I still have so much to learn. I may look back at this post and laugh at my description of the treatment plan and how little I knew. That’s okay! You have to start somewhere.

I’ll never forget the appointment where the neurologist showed me the image of my spine and walked me through the game plan. It was hard to hear because if you know me, you know I am a little bit crunchy (note the article in the sidebar).

I still eat processed, non-organic foods, but I lean towards hippie on the spectrum. So I’ve always had a very good relationship with my immune system. I took care of it and trusted it. I am the type to go outside barefoot, give birth in my own bathtub (or wherever, naturally, but that’s another story). I got chicken pox the old-fashioned way, and according to my recent bloodwork the antibodies from that are still doing their thing. I got Covid naturally in 2020 and haven’t had it since. Yes, I do believe in vaccines, medicine, good hygiene, and the reality of bad bacteria. But I’ve never really been afraid of germs. For 43 years I’ve trusted my immune system and nourished it.

Now I’m going to go into a sports analogy, which is comical because I am not, nor have I ever been, an athlete! Still, the way I see it is I’ve been playing basketball with my immune system on my team. I am confident that we could do a pickup game on the street at any moment and my immune system and I will crush it. Whatever I throw at my healthy immune system, it slam dunks. I’m so proud.

So then when I go to the neurologist and she tells me my immune system is turning on me and actually playing for the opposing team, it hurts my feelings. We’ve worked so well together! I trusted them! My neurologist has a game plan though. She says we need to bench my B-cells. We watched the tapes (looked at the imaging of my brain and spine) and she’s right. We’ve been on a losing streak. But then she showed me the roster (the bloodwork), and the team looks healthy, but they just don’t have a great strategy. It’s not teamwork—it’s a catastrophe. So she says we are going to bench the B-cells. The rest of my immune system will still be in the game and can win, but we just have to get the B-cells to stop scoring points for the other team (attacking my central nervous system) . At first I felt uneasy about letting go of this teammate, but in it made sense. So I agreed, and I’m ready to start winning again.

Now back to non-sports terms, the treatment I start today is called Briumvi. It’s an immune-suppressing drug with the highest efficacy. It’s powerful. So powerful that we have to be super careful so that I don’t get hurt. We will start slowly and monitor everything. I will have regular bloodwork and MRIs to make sure that things are going the direction we want. I know I have a mighty army of prayer warriors in my corner, and I am so thankful for that. It means everything to me because this is scary. But God is on my side.

My neurologist showed me my B-cell lab work, and it looks great! My numbers look strong and healthy. She pointed to the CD19/CD20 rows (I think) and then told me we are going to take all those specific b-cells down to zero. ZERO!

Ugh. It’s a very targeted strategy that will still allow me to function but prevent future flare-ups from wreaking havoc on my central nervous system. I will not get into all the science of it, but it’s actually pretty fascinating.

I did get a second opinion from a friend’s husband who is a neurologist that I completely trust. He looked at my chart and agreed with the treatment choice. He was very optimistic. I am also diving into natural remedies and fighting this with a healthy lifestyle.

So that’s the game plan for now. Thank you so much for being the world’s best cheerleaders. Honestly, I could not in a million years dream of a better support system. I picture all of you hoisting me in the air in victory as we beat this thing (metaphorically, of course).

I have a friend whom I haven’t known for very long, but she is so friendly, so loving, and so full of the joy of the Lord that she will make you think she is your long-lost aunt. When I hear her voice shout “Natalie!” from across the church lobby, I know it’s her before I even see her. She has a distinct, very Italian accent—it’s beautiful, and so is she. She regularly lets me know she is praying for me and my family, blessing me with scriptures and encouragement she sends through text.

Yesterday, while at a church Christmas party, I heard “Nat-a-lee,” and there was Maria’s smiling face coming over to greet me. She said, “I had a dream. I’m not usually one to have dreams, but I had this dream about you.” As she stepped closer, I could tell this wasn’t just any old dream, she had something significant to share.

She said, “I saw you in my dream. You were wearing a BEAUTIFUL dress.” She stretched the word beautiful out, like the dress itself was twirling and floating in the air. She couldn’t fully describe it, but she began using her hands to show how stunning the dress was.

Then she said, “And you were…”
She paused. I waited.

“You,” she said, and her hands fell to her sides.

I started to tear up as she repeated the simplicity of the dream. “I saw you in my dream wearing a beautiful dress, and you were you. That’s all I can say.”

My eyes immediately filled with tears, and I felt the love of the Father embrace me. I can’t even express how much this meant to me. As simple as it was, it was the most meaningful and impactful prophetic word I have ever received, and my friend didn’t even claim it was prophetic, but it was.

You see, I never knew either of my grandmothers. They both passed away before I was born, but I had a family friend, Heidi Lewiston, whom I referred to as Granny.

She was a warm, encouraging, wise presence in my life. She passed away in 2017.  

Shortly before that I interviewed her for my Inspiring Mom series and shared her testimony online. Another time I featured Granny on my blog was in a 2015 essay titled “Pretty Dresses,” where I shared about the significance of a pretty dress for a little girl. I adore this photo my brother took of my niece.

Elle in her baby dedication dress and my wedding dress in the background.

I wrote:
“One day, a lady from my Texas church whom I lovingly refer to as Granny told me, ‘When I see a pretty dress, I think of you.’ That was years ago, before I had children, and I can’t think of a compliment that has topped it since.”

So when my Italian Auntie Maria told me she had a dream that I was wearing a beautiful dress, it meant something. I hardly ever wear dresses. She has probably seen me in a dress maybe once. Maybe. Her retelling of the dream reminded me of Granny, and it was deeply comforting.

Then, when Maria said, “You were… YOU,” I knew that was from the Lord too.

I’ve shared journal entries from this dark season of my life, when MS flare-ups robbed me of so much—including feeling like myself. I longed to feel like me again and celebrated every small glimpse of myself that returned. Here are a few excerpts:

May 11, 2023
The morning was hard after shaking last night, but around 10:00 I started feeling like myself again. PTL.

May 24, 2023
Today was a good day. I took a 30-minute walk. I felt more like myself.

May 29, 2023
I pray that I will be one hundred percent back to myself in God’s timing.

June 14, 2023
Almost the whole day (99%) I felt like myself. just me thinking about regular stuff and feeling normal. Even if I’m stressed, sad, or mad, I don’t care as long as I’m not feeling shaky and out of it. I just want to feel like myself again. I know one good day means nothing in terms of what I’m dealing with, but I’ll take it.

July 5, 2023
It’s been 24 hours of feeling like myself!

July 10, 2023
Today was really, really great. I feel like myself.

When I have had MS flare-ups before I knew that’s what they were including now that I do, I just emphatically know this isn’t me. I want to feel like me again.

I shared this story on Facebook, but I’ll post it here too.

I received some discouraging MRI results on November 9th. It was a Sunday morning. I called my mom, who was in Sunday school. The teacher, my friend Audrey Jett, put me on speakerphone, and all the ladies prayed for me just minutes after I received the report.

The photo that showed up on her phone while they were praying was one of me wide-eyed and gleeful.

I told the ladies this is the joy and energy I pray I will have again.

I asked ChatGPT to describe the emotion in that photo. It said “the emotion is pure, unfiltered joy. It feels playful with a sense of excitement and delight—almost childlike wonder—paired with confidence and warmth. The expression feels joyful, welcoming, and infectious.”

Well, hallelujah!
That is my prayer.

When Maria said, “You were you,” that’s all I needed to confirm that God is doing it. You will be YOU. I will feel like myself again.

What a wonderful dream.