Advertisement
Ad revenue keeps our community free for you

How I Stopped Running — Because of MS and From MS

Real Talk

August 30, 2022

Content created for the Bezzy community and sponsored by our partners. Learn More

Aliaksandr Barysenka/EyeEm/Getty Images

Aliaksandr Barysenka/EyeEm/Getty Images

by Lisa Kemppainen, MA, LMFT

•••••

Medically Reviewed by:

Tiffany Taft, PsyD

•••••

•••••

by Lisa Kemppainen, MA, LMFT

•••••

Medically Reviewed by:

Tiffany Taft, PsyD

•••••

•••••

My mobility is severely limited, but I’ve learned to appreciate who I still am and what I can still do.

I was the chubby red-faced kid who was always picked last for a team sport in junior high.

Athleticism did not come naturally to me. At 20, I decided to try running and going to the gym. By 21, I was in the gym 6 days a week at 5 a.m. and usually followed that up with a few miles of running.

I was hooked. My body, for the first time in my life, was strong. Lean. Defined. I dated a triathlete. We would drive into the Southern California desert seeking hills to run. At the gym, people often asked if I was a trainer. I remember one day when I was wearing shorts, and a lady stopped in her tracks and exclaimed, “My God! Look at your legs!” I understood. I, too, was enamored with the long, muscley legs I had sculpted.

When I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS), I was prescribed Copaxone — a daily shot. I had a choice of five places where I could inject it, including my legs. I proudly told the doctor I would never put a needle in my legs and would instead double up shots in my hips and stomach. For 17 years, my legs avoided a daily injection. My motto was “Perfection, not injection.” Ha! If I only knew then what I know now.

Join the free MS community!
Connect with thousands of members and find support through daily live chats, curated resources, and one-to-one messaging.

Picture perfect

I am now 58 years old and have lived with MS for 24 years. For most of my life, I loved having my photo taken. Photos record moments, establish memories, and provide a backward glance to see how we created the person we have become.

Now, though, when I see an old photo of myself, my breath sometimes catches in my throat as I begin to navigate a complicated, intensely painful emotional experience of grief.

I look at the photo, thinking about what I did and how I did it. And the big one: Will I ever be able to do that thing again? Did I know it would be my last time? Did I run that day?

The mind maze goes on and on.

And then I see them. My legs. The legs I used to have. The legs that I worked so hard to build. The legs that ran with my dog, pushed the baby carriage, and moved with strappy high heels or heavy cowboy boots. The legs that chose to run to the grocery store with a backpack rather than drive.

I will never forget the first day MS took them. My 5-year-old son and I were at the park and he, maybe 25 feet in front of me, turned around and said, “Mom, chase me!” But the legs that used to run the desert terrain would not move. I could not play chase with my little boy that day, and I never did again.

Advertisement
Ad revenue keeps our community free for you

Moving toward acceptance

MS loves to take, and the loss list is long. Photos are on the list. My beautiful, strong, sculpted legs are on the list.

I have sobbed more times than I could count over the loss of my old legs. I have cussed at my current legs. Screamed at them. Out of sheer frustration, I have tried forcing them to move, pushing them too far, pinching and even slapping them in anger. And I have pleaded with my legs.

And then, one day, after weeks or maybe months of working on self-compassion, I noticed how mean I was being to my legs — almost like I was being mean to a friend, which is something I would never do.

I had kind of an “aha!” moment then and realized it is not their fault. They are doing their best right now — even if that means they sit idle 95 percent of the day, losing mass and strength by the week. They try. With a few steps here and there, with more effort than they probably ever used on those desert hills, they still try.

These losses were among the most difficult of all because they challenged my identity and sense of worthiness. And that was terrifying.

So, I decided to appreciate my legs. They have been so loyal and kind to me, never letting me down through all those years of “one more mile” or “one more squat.”

I find that compassion toward my legs feels better and uses less energy than hating them. And we all know, that extra energy is not a thing with MS.

Instead of saying “I used to be a runner,” now I say “that was a time in my life when I used my legs for running. Now I use my legs differently.” That is an incredibly powerful shift, which allows me to honor all the parts of my life, the past and the present, rather than just focusing on all that I have lost.

Shifting my focus

With every loss comes the opportunity to find a new gain. No doubt, had my legs kept working, I would be adding many more moments of running, hiking, and other such things to my photo album. However, that’s not my reality right now. And my reality right now has allowed me to notice all the joys in stillness.

I recognize now so many things that I never paid attention to before because I was literally and figuratively just running through my life. I now notice the beauty of quiet, the way the trees shimmer, the beauty of quiet, the pleasure of becoming absorbed in an audiobook, of birdwatching from my couch.

I’ve shifted my focus in another, perhaps more profound way, as well. I now have a more complete appreciation for who I am, for all the aspects of my self. When I was growing up in Southern California, I learned that others placed a high value on both my appearance and what I could physically accomplish.

As my disability progressed, my physical accomplishments, of course, became limited. So too did looking good. After all, skirts and dresses get tangled in wheelchair wheels. Boots, sandals, and heels are either too unstable or too hazardous or too heavy. Most often I am too fatigued to put on jewelry, hold a hair dryer or apply makeup. Sexy underwear does not provide enough material to hold a Poise pad.

These losses were among the most difficult of all because they challenged my identity and sense of worthiness. And that was terrifying.

Advertisement
Ad revenue keeps our community free for you

Navigating my grief

And yet, with these losses came a powerful new understanding: that while those things brought me positive attention from others, they were never the reasons my friends and family love me.

Instead, I learned they love me — and I love me — because I am open and honest. Because I am thoughtful. A good listener. I care deeply. I am insightful, creative, dependable, loyal, opinionated, and funny. Those are qualities MS cannot mess with, and they say much more about who I am than my looks or physical abilities do.

Reminding myself of all the things that I can still do — and all the ways that I still am — is a necessary part of navigating MS grief.

Self-compassion, gratitude for the past and the present, and understanding that who I am is more important than what I can do — all of these have helped to shift my perspective, so perhaps I can look at those pictures with a few less tears and a little more joy. After all, it is still my life.

Medically reviewed on August 30, 2022


Join the free MS community!
Connect with thousands of members and find support through daily live chats, curated resources, and one-to-one messaging.

Like the story? React below:


Have thoughts or suggestions about this article? Email us at article-feedback@bezzy.com.

About the author

Lisa Kemppainen, MA, LMFT

Lisa Kemppainen, MA, is a licensed marriage and family therapist who has been in private practice for 16 years. She works with individuals and couples seeking to optimize their relationships with themselves, their life partners, their families, and their communities.

Her past work includes TESSA (a domestic violence shelter) and work in Compton, California with people experiencing addiction and domestic violence. Diagnosed with MS 24 years ago, Lisa brings to her practice firsthand experience of overcoming obstacles to achieve authentic connection and wholeness in herself and in relationships.

Lisa has been married to the love of her life, Shawna, for nine years Their blended family includes two adult sons and a loving golden retriever named Romeo.

Related stories

Advertisement
Ad revenue keeps our community free for you