When I first lost feeling in my feet, it was December 23rd and I woke up in the spare bedroom of my in-laws.  I thought maybe I slept badly, pinched a nerve. My feet felt floppy, as though they couldn’t hold shoes.  As though I had pins & needles … that never ended.

Even when I finally got on a therapy that helped with my walking and my balance and my energy … my feet stayed stubbornly numb.  I look at them and am thankful they are pretty feet.  In my dark moments, I wish fervently to feel them again and hot tears sting my eyes.  I smile at the tattoos that adorn my right foot — tattoos that I barely felt being inked.  A tear slips down my cheek and catches in the upward crease of my mouth.

I try not to be angry at the things I’ve lost.  I’ve gained as well, and mourning my losses won’t change their absence.  I reminded myself of this as I struggled and wobbled and dragged my feet through a yoga practice today.  Comparing today to five months ago is useless and honestly, both sad and pointless.  Time marches on, my disease marches on and I can only be in my body of today.

It doesn’t change the deep despondence that exists in the dark corners of my soul.  That is my truth, parts of the truth I carry behind my smile.

Xox, g