Six months. That’s how long this MS relapse has been creeping in like an unwanted houseguest that refuses to leave. At first, it was small things, my brain cutting the signal to my legs for a split second, just long enough for me to collapse in public like a puppet with cut strings. One day, my skull nearly met a brick step. My vision blurred, brain fog thickened, pain wrapped itself around me like barbed wire, and fatigue pinned me down harder and harder. My hands stiffened until even the simplest tasks became impossible.
Eventually, I couldn’t get out of bed.
That’s when despair started to set in.
I lay there watching other people live their lives through Facebook, friends travelling, working, raising families. Meanwhile, I wasn’t living anymore. I was just an observer. The depression sank deep: I window shopped for a wheelchair, I made plans for Bugsy’s future in case I gave up, I worried about the clutter I’d leave behind, and who would have to sort through my life’s mess. I began handing out my things in my head, like a ghost-in-waiting.
It felt like the end of me.
Joy vs. Happiness
Somewhere in that heaviness, I realised something important: happiness and joy are not the same thing.
Happiness is the big picture. It’s a state of being, often tied to how your life is going overall: your health, relationships, work, and finances. When those collapse, happiness often does too.
Joy is smaller, wilder, and more resilient. It doesn’t wait for life to be perfect. It slips in uninvited, a spark of light in the middle of the dark. Joy is the squirrel running across the garden wall, the sound of a bird you can’t quite name, the way coffee smells first thing in the morning.
Happiness may feel far away, but joy can still sneak into the cracks. And sometimes a single spark of joy is enough to keep you going.
But then… Spring came.
The colours outside shifted. Bees returned to flowers. Squirrels ran mad little races. I saw a gecko on the wall and found myself wondering about its tiny life, the improbable miracle of it even existing. I noticed clouds again, leaves tumbling in the wind. And it hit me: these small flashes of beauty weren’t just distractions, they were lifelines.
I’d always loved “stopping to smell the roses,” but now it became survival. A friend suggested embroidery, since crochet was no longer possible for my hands. I tried, and to my surprise, I could manage it. I started stitching bright, clumsy shapes onto my clothes. My bag of rainbow embroidery floss became a treasure chest; all those colours sparked something physical inside me, like they were rewiring my brain in the best way.
I realised I wasn’t just noticing joy anymore, I was creating it.
There was a TED Talk I stumbled across that spoke about the science of joy, how colour, shape, and playfulness trigger a response in us. And I thought: This is it. This is what’s keeping me alive. Every time I added colour, playfulness, whimsy around me, on my jeans, on my walls, in little objects scattered around my bed, it pulled me back from despair.
Why joy matters when everything feels impossible
Psychologists call these “micro-moments of joy.” Research shows that even the smallest burst, a pop of colour, a laugh, a birdsong, can reduce stress hormones, boost dopamine, and give our brains a break from the relentless loop of pain and fear. They don’t fix everything, but they tilt the scale enough to matter.
When you’re in survival mode, that tilt is everything.
Joy doesn’t have to be fireworks. Sometimes it’s embroidery thread. Sometimes it’s a squirrel. Sometimes it’s just coffee in your favourite mug, warm against your hands, proof that life still has something gentle to offer.
Your turn:
Think about one tiny thing that gave you joy this week. Not happiness, not pleasure… joy.
Maybe it was a flash of colour.
Maybe it was a sound.
Maybe it was an object that made you smile.
Write it down. Notice how it feels in your body when you recall it. That’s your lifeline. Keep it close.
No matter how difficult or dark life gets, if we want to survive, if we want to stand even the smallest chance, we have got to find joy. You can either sink or swim, and joy is the kick that keeps your head above water.
For me, joy is Bugsy. It’s a gecko. It’s a bag of bright embroidery floss. It’s the stubborn belief that even here, even now, while my body is under attack, life is still offering me something worth holding onto.
Recent moments of joy
EmbroideryFeeling Bugsy close to meBright colours in my saladBurst of colours in the flowersGoing feral on my jeansA coffee given to me while in hospital
Somewhere out there, there must be women who glide through life in silk blouses without a single coffee stain, who never trip on their own shoelaces, and who somehow manage to eat spaghetti without looking like a toddler with finger paint.
I am not one of them. I am, proudly, a clumsy woman.
Food constantly finds its way down my cleavage. Honestly, my boobs are like a man’s beard: a net for falling snacks. I trip over invisible objects, drop things daily, and my clothes seem to rebel against me with regular wardrobe malfunctions. And don’t get me started on my hair. The minute I have both hands full, it drops over my face like a theatre curtain mid-performance.
Case in point: this week I was juggling armfuls of stuff, hair blinding me, when some man decided to launch into a conversation. Did he offer to help? Sweep the hair out of my eyes? Carry something? Of course not. He just stood there yammering, waiting for an answer while I struggled on. Honestly, if I’d had a free hand to scoop out any food from the boob-trap, I would’ve lobbed it straight at him.
Graceful? Please. Being a clumsy woman isn’t a flaw; it’s a lifestyle. And survival is my art form.
So here’s to the myth of the graceful woman. May we never meet her. May we keep tripping, spilling, wobbling, flashing a bit too much, and still showing up anyway. Because perfect is boring, but clumsy is unforgettable.
Plus: What Gaslighting Really Means, and Why It’s So Damn Hard to Spot
Gaslighting isn’t just lying. It’s psychological warfare dressed in charm and fake concern. It’s the friend who tells you you’re overreacting when you’re reacting exactly right. The partner who says you imagined the thing they absolutely said. The doctor who calls your symptoms imaginary while your body screams otherwise.
It starts small. A twisted comment here, a rewritten memory there. And suddenly, you’re doubting your gut, your grief, your own damn mind.
Let’s call it out.
What is gaslighting, really?
Gaslighting is a form of psychological manipulation in which someone causes you to doubt your perception, memory, or sanity, often to maintain control, avoid accountability, or protect their ego. The term comes from the 1938 play Gas Light, where a man dims the lights and convinces his wife she’s imagining it.
It can happen in romantic relationships, friendships, families, workplaces, doctors’ offices, anywhere power is abused and truth is twisted.
11 Signs You’re Being Gaslit
You feel like a shell of who you used to be Dull. Confused. Exhausted. A little lost. And quietly wondering if you’re the problem.
You constantly second-guess yourself You used to trust your gut. Now you rehearse your words before you speak and apologise even when you’re not sure why.
They rewrite the past You remember what happened. They insist it didn’t. Or it happened differently. Or you’re misremembering. Or too sensitive.
They dismiss your feelings “You’re being dramatic.” “Stop overreacting.” “You’re too emotional.” Translation: they don’t want to deal with what you feel.
They weaponise your insecurities You opened up to them. Now they use it against you — subtly or not. In arguments. In jokes. In gasps and eyerolls and “I was just kidding.”
You feel like you’re walking on eggshells You shrink before you speak. You manage their moods. You try to keep the peace by disappearing yourself.
They blame you for everything If they’re angry, it’s because you provoked them. If they lied, it’s because you were too difficult. Nothing is ever their fault.
You’ve started to believe you’re “too much” Too emotional. Too sensitive. Too needy. Too exhausting. That’s not an accident. It’s a strategy.
They isolate you from others Sometimes subtly, sowing doubt about your friends or implying you’re better off alone. Sometimes, overtly punishing you for having support.
They flip the script during conflict You bring up something that hurt you, and suddenly you’re defending your tone, your timing, your memory. The original issue vanishes.
You find yourself making excuses for them To your friends. To your therapist. To yourself. “They’re just under a lot of stress.” “They had a rough childhood.” “They don’t mean it.”
“It’s Not Always Screaming and Slamming Doors”
Gaslighting doesn’t always look like abuse. Sometimes it’s soft. Quiet. Delivered with a gentle tone and a hand on your shoulder. “I’m just worried about you.” “You’ve been really sensitive lately.” It can come from people who say they love you, and sometimes, maybe, do.
That’s what makes it so dangerous. And so hard to name.
If any of this feels familiar, you’re not imagining it. That voice inside you, the one that’s been flickering under all the doubt? That’s still you. And you’re not crazy. You’re waking up.
There’s a moment, maybe you know it, where someone asks too much, again, and instead of speaking, your body screams. Your jaw tightens. Your stomach turns. You smile and say, “Sure, no problem.”
I used to think being agreeable made me good. What it made me was exhausted. And resentful. And invisible.
This is about the messy, liberating art of setting boundaries, even if your voice shakes, even if you’ve never seen it modelled, even if it costs you people who only loved the version of you that said yes too often.
Where We Learn to Over-Give
We don’t come out of the womb clutching a to-do list and an apology. That’s learned. Most of us were raised to be good girls and boys, to not make waves, to share even when it hurt. And if you’re someone who’s lived through trauma or chronic illness, the habit of over-giving becomes a survival strategy. We give more, so we’re not abandoned. We stay quiet so we’re not punished. We work twice as hard to prove we’re worth the space we take up. Then there’s the capitalist cherry on top: if you can do more, you should. Productivity becomes morality. Rest is suspect. And boundaries? Selfish. That’s the lie they sell us so we’ll keep bleeding ourselves dry.
What Happens When You Don’t
The body keeps the receipts. Fatigue. Resentment. MS flares. Migraines. Rage that simmers under your skin until it boils over or turns inward. When you don’t set boundaries, your body will eventually do it for you. And the people who benefit from your lack of boundaries? They’re not going to suggest you take better care of yourself. They’re not going to set limits for you. That’s your job. Without boundaries, you become a ghost in your own damn life, present, but not really there.
Boundaries Are Not Walls
People get twitchy around boundaries because they mistake them for barriers. But boundaries aren’t walls. They’re bridges with toll booths. They say, “You can come closer, but here are the terms.” Boundaries allow love in, real love, not the manipulative, shape-shift-until-you’re-pleasing kind. You can say, “I love you, but I don’t take work calls after 6 PM.” Or, “I care about you, but I’m not your emotional landfill.” Boundaries are not ultimatums. They are clarity. And clarity is kindness, even if sometimes it sounds like fire.
What Saying No Can Sound Like
Saying no doesn’t need to come with a PowerPoint presentation and a side of guilt. Sometimes it’s just: “No.” Or: “That doesn’t work for me.” Or the power move of silence. You don’t owe an explanation for protecting your peace. And yes, you’re allowed to say no to people who love you, people who raised you, people who expect the old version of you to show up on cue. Every no is a yes to something else. A yes to your body. Your time. Your sanity.
Expect the Pushback
You will be called selfish. Dramatic. Cold. Especially if you’re a woman, or someone socialised to be the fixer, the feeler, the forgiver. But hear this: you’re not selfish. You’re sober now. You’ve sobered up from the belief that you must earn your place by disappearing. Some people won’t like the new you. Let them leave. That’s not a failure, that’s a filter. The ones who stay? Those are your people. Those are the ones who can love you with your spine intact.
Boundaries for Chronic Illness & Energy Management
If your body is already fighting battles no one can see, your boundaries are your armour. Cancel the plans. Turn off your phone. Say, “I can’t do that today” without a TED Talk. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for how you manage your health, your pain, your rest. Boundaries aren’t just emotional tools; they are survival gear. Especially when every decision costs energy you can’t afford to waste.
Personal Note
For me, learning to say no started with getting sick. MS didn’t just strip my nerves, it stripped my tolerance for bullshit. I don’t have the energy to please and perform anymore. What’s left is a very raw, very real version of me. She’s not for everyone. But damn, she’s finally for me. And with that came loss. I lost a lot of people, people who were only around for the good times, for the easy yeses, for the mountains of emotional support I used to give without question. When I got sick and started drawing lines in the sand, some vanished overnight. Boundaries have a brutal kind of clarity. They show you who’s in your corner because they love you, and who was only there for what they could get.
I was walking, just walking, and suddenly the signal from my brain went silent like a dropped call. It’s the second time this has happened to me. It’s really strange because it takes a moment for the signal to reconnect, and during that moment, which feels far longer than it actually is, my arms flail about trying to find something to grab hold of, even though it is an entirely pointless exercise. I hit the ground hard, narrowly escaping hitting my head against a brick step. I’ve torn the same calf muscle four times. I know the pain intimately, like a pain you thought you’d outgrown but still clings like smoke to your clothes.
But this isn’t about the fall. Not really. It’s the shrinking in someone’s eyes when I say, “I have MS.”
Multiple Sclerosis.
You’ve heard the name. Maybe you’ve seen a celebrity wear a ribbon or a TikToker do a day-in-my-life with a cane and a glossy filter. But unless it’s in your body, or someone you love is limping through this mess, you don’t really know.
So let me tell you.
MS is a full-time job I never applied for
Multiple Sclerosis is an autoimmune disease where your body, your own beautiful, broken, fiercely trying body, decides to eat away at your nerves. The myelin sheath that protects your neurons gets attacked, and like frayed electrical wires, the signals get patchy. Delayed. Disrupted. Or gone entirely.
It’s not predictable. It’s not curable. It’s not one-size-fits-all. No, yoga and oat milk matcha spirulina chia smoothies are not going to cure it. Yes, I’ve tried.
But more to the point, it sure as hell isn’t funny.
For me, it means:
Pain that stabs and twists like barbed wire in my calves.
Spasticity that locks my legs in place like rusted bolts.
Hands that stiffen and fingers that won’t move.
Fatigue that isn’t “tired.” It’s “my bones have been replaced with concrete and I can’t lift my arms to wash my hair.”
Brain fog that makes me lose my train of thought mid-sentence, or forget words like “kettle” and “Thursday.”
Vision blurring, numb hands, trouble swallowing, and the occasional delightful surprise of losing control of my own limbs.
Painful electrical pulses that shoot through your body, anywhere, any time, every day. The ones I rarely talk about out loud.
And let’s not forget the big daddy of dickheads. The hug that crushes your lungs and stabs you in the chest if you try to take a breath or move before it’s done torturing you.
And stress? It pours gasoline on all of it.
Stress is not just a trigger; it’s a loaded gun
When I’m stressed, when life delivers too much grief, too many bills, too many people expecting me to perform wellness like a broken-down show pony, my symptoms flare.
I lose strength. I lose sleep. I lose pieces of myself.
The problem is, the world doesn’t see the flare.
They see me cancel plans. They see me slow down. They see me quiet. And instead of understanding or patience, I get comments.
“Must be nice to lie in bed all day.”
“You don’t look sick.”
“We all get tired, you just have to keep going.”
“Are you sure it’s not all in your head?” >> No fucking shit, Sherlock! Look at my MRI, my head is full of it.
This is not your punchline
I’ve heard the jokes. Seen the memes. Watched people laugh about forgetting their keys and say to me, “Oops, maybe I also have MS!” (Yeah, not funny.)
I’ve watched people roll their eyes when I say I can’t drive today because my left foot won’t lift properly. I’ve had colleagues act like I’m milking it. I’ve had doctors talk over me, then prescribe yoga and mindfulness when what I need is a damn MRI. I’ve had strangers verbally attack me because I parked in a disabled zone.
I’ve seen pity turn into boredom. Sympathy into silence. And let me tell you: nothing hurts like being dismissed when you’re already fighting your own body just to exist.
What I want you to know
I didn’t choose this.
MS took my ability to dance, to sing, to be spontaneous. It took my certainty. It took the version of me that used to trust my own body and enjoyed life. It took the me that loved to be spontaneous, adventurous, playful. But let me tell you, it didn’t take my fight. I will not sit down and be quiet. I will keep going. I will keep fighting. It did not take my voice.
And so I’m using it.
To say:
Please stop downplaying invisible illness.
Please stop measuring someone’s pain against how well they can smile through it or hide the shit show that’s going on inside them.
Please stop expecting people with chronic conditions to perform gratitude like it’s a damn talent show.
Chronic illness is hard enough without having to fight for legitimacy and dignity.
And I’m tired. So fucking tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of barely surviving. Tired of pretending I’m fine when I’m hanging on by a thread. I don’t get to rest. I don’t get to fall apart. I have to take care of myself, every meal, every bill, every damn decision, in a body that betrays me and reacts to everything I do or feel. And no one sees the cost.
I’m still here
I am still here. Still trying. Still waking up in this fucking body I didn’t choose, but have no choice but to live inside. Yes, there is a lot wrong with me, no, I don’t enjoy it, and no, it’s not funny.
Sometimes I cry from the pain. Sometimes I scream from the frustration. Sometimes I laugh, because if I don’t, I’ll unravel completely.
But I am here. Bruised, exhausted, aching, but here.
And if you’re reading this and you have a chronic illness too, I see you. You’re not lazy. You’re not faking. You’re not alone.
You’re carrying a battle inside your body that most people can’t even imagine.
And you’re still here, too.
What about you? Have you ever had to defend your pain? To justify your limits? Tell me. I’m listening.
I recently got suckered by a local sparkling drink that looked like it belonged in a wellness influencer’s fridge. You know the type, soft colours, botanical flavour, “low sugar,” “no colourants,” “crafted.” It practically whispered, “I’m healthy, babe.”
And I believed it. Especially because it featured one of my all-time favourite flavours: elderflower. I didn’t question it. I sipped it like it was liquid virtue.
Then I read the label. Twelve grams of sugar. Three teaspoons in one small can.
For someone managing chronic illness, inflammation, and fatigue, that’s a problem.
What happened?
I got healthwashed, misled by clever packaging that makes something seem healthy when it’s not.
These drinks use phrases like:
Botanical
Low Sugar
Guilt-Free
Plant-Powered
Inspired by Nature
But they’re often hiding more sugar than you’d expect, or loaded with fruit concentrates and additives that don’t belong anywhere near a “clean” label.
Here’s what to watch out for:
“Low sugar” still adds up. In South Africa, it can mean up to 5g per 100ml, so a 300ml drink can still sneak in 12g of sugar.
“Botanical” is branding, not nutrition. It’s marketing fluff. It doesn’t mean the drink is good for you.
Always read the back of the label. Ignore the pretty front. Flip it. Check the sugar per serving and the ingredients list.
Sneaky red flags:
Serving size is 100ml, but the can is 300ml
“Fruit juice concentrate” or “cane sugar” listed early
Claims like “natural” or “artisan” with no real context
My takeaway?
Even products that look healthy can mess with your health, especially if you’re sensitive to sugar, trying to reduce inflammation, managing symptoms, or lose weight.
This isn’t about guilt. It’s about knowing what’s in your food so you can make choices that support your body.
Because sugar has a sneaky little habit of dressing up in wellness drag.
Ever been healthwashed? Tell me your sneakiest “thought it was healthy” product below
