Today I had an appointment with my neurologist for my multiple sclerosis.
And technically… it was a good one.
My recent brain MRI showed no active lesions. No new damage. My doctor believes the DMT I’m on is doing its job—slowing progression.
This is the kind of news you’re supposed to celebrate.
But I walked in with questions written in my notebook—questions that have been sitting heavy on my heart.
“Things look good on my blood work and MRI,” I asked her, “but can symptoms from past relapses get worse over time?”
She explained that increases in body temperature can play a significant role in bringing back or intensifying old symptoms.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” I told her. “If I’m stable… if I’m not progressing… why do my old symptoms feel like they’re getting worse?”
And then it hit me.
The lump in my throat.
The tears I couldn’t hold back.
The weight of something I’m still learning how to carry.
“I’m sorry,” I managed to say through shaky breaths. “I think I’m still grieving this disease.”
She handed me a tissue.
And my husband—steady as always—reminded me of something I needed to hear:
That I am doing a good job.
That I am taking care of my body.
That today is a good day… because the report was good.
But here’s the honest part no one really talks about—
Sometimes a “good report” still comes with grief.
Because deep down, I still hope for a different ending.
I want to hear:
It’s gone. It’s getting better. You don’t have to fight this anymore.
But that’s not the reality I’m living in.
So sometimes I get angry.
Sometimes I cry.
And sometimes these appointments feel like a twice-a-year reminder that I’m battling something invisible.
Today, I’m choosing to sit with it.
To rest.
To reflect.
To feel—without suppressing, without bargaining, without giving up.
I will keep the faith.
And I will keep fighting.
Fighting to reduce inflammation in my body through how I eat and move.
Fighting to stay consistent with the treatments that are protecting my future.
Fighting to hold onto hope—that maybe I’ve already seen the worst of this.
And learning how to listen to my body…
so I can navigate, and maybe even avoid, what tries to come next.
If you’re living with a chronic illness, I want you to hear this:
You are not alone in the highs and lows.
You are not weak for grieving something that hasn’t left your body.
You are not failing because it’s hard.
Feel it.
Release it.
But don’t let it steal your ability to see the good that still exists in your life.
Because even here… in the middle of it all—
There is still life to be lived.
Leigh Leigh
Leigh Leigh Speaks 