A journey of learning to embrace life with compassion and care for myself.
When I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS) in January of 2023, my focus was anything but myself. Providing for my household, caring for my children, caring for my patients (I’m a Registered Nurse), and securing a home for my disabled mom were a few of my top priorities. I had no real concept of self-love. I refused to accept the diagnosis for a full year, trying to live life as I always had. This was until one day, as I struggled to climb the stairs at work after a 12-hour shift, it dawned on me that I was fighting my very own body instead of working with my body to fight MS. I had to learn to love myself enough to set boundaries and care for my vessel as much as I did others.
Self-love involves accepting yourself fully, treating yourself with kindness, and prioritizing your own well-being. For those of us with a diagnosis of MS, practicing self-love is essential in coping with the physical and emotional challenges provoked by MS. Here are a few ways I practice self-love.
1. Cultivating a Positive Mindset
Living with MS can be overwhelming, but adopting a positive mindset can help navigate the journey with resilience and hope. Embracing self-love encourages a shift in focus from limitations to possibilities, fostering a sense of empowerment and optimism.
2. Managing Stress Effectively
Stress can exacerbate MS symptoms, making it crucial to develop healthy coping mechanisms. Self-love practices such as mindfulness, meditation, and deep breathing can reduce stress levels, promoting relaxation and calmness.
3. Prioritizing Physical Health
Self-love involves taking proactive steps to maintain physical health. Regular exercise, a balanced diet, and adequate rest are vital components of managing MS. Listening to my body and responding to its needs with compassion was most difficult but lead to improved overall well-being.
4. Nurturing Emotional Well-Being
MS can take an emotional toll, leading to feelings of frustration, anger, sadness, depression, and anxiety. Self-love encourages individuals to acknowledge and honor their emotions without judgment. I went through the entire grieving process before embarking on my journey to self-love.
5. Setting Realistic Goals
Self-love involves setting realistic and achievable goals that align with our individual abilities and circumstances. Celebrating small victories and progress creates a sense of accomplishment and motivation, contributing to a positive outlook on life.
6. Practicing Self-Care
Self-care is a fundamental aspect of self-love. Engaging in activities that bring joy, relaxation, and fulfilment can enhance mental and emotional health. I like to do activities in my garden, such as yoga, reading, and meditation. I’ve also become more in tune with nature, taking more walks and appreciating its beauty. Listening to music, dancing, and indulging in self-care nurture the soul and promote balance.
Living with multiple sclerosis is undoubtedly challenging, but the practice of self-love offers a powerful tool for navigating our journeys with grace and resilience. By embracing self-love, I have a sense of empowerment, hope, and well-being, transforming my experience into one of growth and self-discovery.
Hi, I’m Nicole. I’m a mom to 3 and registered nurse by profession. I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in January of 2023 after a case of optic neuritis, which led to vision loss in my left eye. I recall experiencing symptoms of MS as early as 2016. I now use my knowledge as a RN as well as my experiences as a MS Warrior to educate, uplift, and bring awareness to the “rare” autoimmune disease known as Multiple Sclerosis.
This morning, before I’d even opened my eyes, I knew. Not from a calendar reminder or a “you’re due for a flare-up” ping. Just the weight of my own body. Heavy. Cement-heavy. Fire-in-my-veins heavy.
Welcome to the delightful surprise party that is chronic illness. No RSVP needed. You just… wake up in it.
The Flare Days You Don’t See Coming
Some flares sneak up on me. Others kick the door down and announce themselves with full-body spasticity, shooting nerve shocks, and hands that feel like they’ve been beaten with hammers. Today it’s the latter.
My feet and calves are twitching like live wires, and my hands are stiff, aching, and protesting even this act of typing. Vision? Blurry. Pain? Electrical. Plans? Cancelled.
And here’s the kicker: I used to ignore this. I’d push through. Slam a Red Bull, down some coffee, and throw myself into work like I was invincible.
Spoiler: I’m not.
Before Chronic Illness, “Rest” Was an Afterthought
Rest used to mean feeling guilty. Lazy. Weak. I grew up in a culture of “hustle harder” and “push through the pain.” Rest was what you earned once everything else was done, except everything else was never done.
So I’d rest, sure. For twenty minutes. While scrolling. Or I’d lie in bed with my laptop, answering emails like a good little burnout-junkie.
Turns out, that’s not rest. That’s just horizontal productivity.
Now? Rest Is a Ritual
Rest is no longer a break; it’s a boundary. It’s a ceremony.
The bed is made, properly made. Soft, high-quality linen. No scratchy textures. My skin is too sensitive, and my nervous system too fried, for anything but comfort.
Sounds of nature fill the room. Crickets. Forests. Sometimes just silence, blessed and still.
Lavender floats through the air, either from a candle or a diffuser, because my brain needs cues that it’s safe to exhale.
Baths with Epsom salts when I can manage it. Lavender-infused again. Heat is magic. Fun fact: so is Lavender.
And always, always tea. Sometimes a fancy store-bought herbal one, sometimes a wild little blend of whatever’s in the fridge: fresh ginger, honey, lemon, mint, berries. I long for a proper teapot with a built-in infuser. I’ll get it one day, fingers crossed.
There was a moment, a real one, when I realised: rest is not a luxury. It’s not a nap. It’s not working from bed. It’s not multitasking with a heating pad on.
Rest is permission. Permission to shut off. To stop proving yourself. To not be available to everyone all the time.
I finally saw what my body was begging me for: clear boundaries. Not “I’ll just do this one last thing.” Not “It’s fine, I can take that call.” But a full switch-off, emotionally, physically, and mentally.
Friday to Monday. No clients. No guilt.
Just… recovery.
If My Body Could Speak…
It would say:
“You call this rest?! Give me real rest or I’ll force it out of you.”
And honestly? Fair.
Because my body has forced it out of me before. Through flares. Through burnout. Through collapse.
Rest Isn’t Weakness, It’s Wisdom
If you’re living with chronic illness, or even just carrying too much life in your bones, you don’t need permission to rest. But I’ll give it anyway:
Let your rest be lush. Let it be soft. Let it be sacred. Let it be enough.
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If this post helped you feel seen or reminded you to rest, consider buying me a tea. It helps support my work, and keeps this blog alive and well (even when I’m not).
It feels like fire in my veins. That kind of pain. The pain that makes you shake not from fear but from sheer bodily revolt. Electric shocks snap through me like I’ve been rigged up to a sadistic little taser and someone’s got a trigger-happy finger. It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m trying to hold back tears while typing this, because even typing feels like a bloody expedition.
This latest MS flare kicked off just after midnight Sunday, that weird, ghostly hour when the world is silent and your body chooses to riot. My fingers are stiff; they don’t want to move. My thoughts are flickering—like a dodgy lightbulb in a horror film.
And then it rains.
Bugsy, The Windscreen Wiper Assassin
The irony is thick: the one day I am at my most broken, the sky follows suit. Not a gentle drizzle. No, today it’s an angry, theatrical downpour. Bugsy—my ride-or-die, neurotic rescue dog—decides the windscreen wipers are obviously murderers. Every time they swipe, he lunges at the dashboard like he’s in a high-stakes action film and sinks his teeth into the once-beautiful leather seats. We have to head back to our town today. When I’ve managed to gather the strength or energy, we’ll hit the winding farm roads, half-swallowed by floods. Note to self: get life jackets to keep in car. My hands will barely grip the steering wheel, thank fuck for power steering, and my muscles will spasm with each bump in the road. And this is Africa, we have nothing but bumps in the road.
In Afrikaans, we have a saying, “ek voel vere.” It literally means, “I feel feathers,” but what it actually translates to is: I don’t give a damn. Today, I voel vere for everything outside this pain. Bills, emails, deadlines, they can all burn. I have a battle to fight, an onslaught to defend myself against, and a body to survive.
But here’s the kicker: I’m generally a sunny person. Not toxically positive, but cheerful. It’s unsettling to feel like I’ve been spiritually mugged in a dark alley of my own nervous system.
Summer’s Cruel Heat, Winter’s Damp Betrayal
Summer here hits 44° Celsius (that’s 111° Fahrenheit for my metric-challenged readers). That heat is its own private hell: it strangles your lungs, turns your brain to soup, and turns MS symptoms into a kind of demonic opera.
But winter? Oh, winter has its own weapons. Cold, wet air that drowns your lungs, drags bronchitis in like an uninvited guest. Sometimes even pneumonia.
Out of the frying pan, straight into the fucking fire.
But There’s a Silver Lining. Always.
Change is here. That counts. Even if it’s a shitstorm wrapped in fog. They say a change is as good as a holiday. Not sure who “they” are, but maybe they’ve been through something too.
Today, this is the best I can do: get through the drive. Hold Bugsy back from annihilating the car or me. Breathe through the fire in my limbs. And write it down, so tomorrow I don’t gaslight myself into thinking it wasn’t that bad.
If you’re in your own flare, of pain, grief, rage, consider this a hand squeezed in solidarity.
Hold on. Even feather-light resistance counts.
If this piece held your hand for a moment or made you feel a little less alone in your own firestorm, consider fueling my next journal entry with a warm cuppa. Bugsy and I run on caffeine and courage.
I was halfway through my master’s in architecture, you know, living on coffee and blind optimism, when the rheumatologist slapped the words “systemic lupus erythematosus” on my file. Cheers, doc. Overnight my wrists puffed up like angry balloons, and every drafting pen felt heavier than a pint of Guinness. Lecturers talked about taking time off, friends offered the usual “sure everything happens for a reason” guff. I nearly believed my career was headed for the bin.
Then one grim November night, rain lashing the windows, fever spiking so hard I was talking shite to the ceiling, I saw the shadows on the plaster twist into mad, gothic cathedrals. Proper haunted-house stuff. Half-delirious, I grabbed a sketchbook and scribbled the shapes: crooked arches, spiral staircases that went nowhere, angles that would give my old geometry teacher a heart attack. The pain blurred my lines, but it also kicked perfectionism out the door.
Weeks of bed rest turned into the best studio I never asked for. Between hot-water-bottle shifts and Netflix binges, I filled page after page with structures that bent, curved and tilted like bodies that refuse to behave. By the time I limped back to campus, I had a portfolio full of buildings that could actually cradle people with dodgy joints, light sensitivity, all that craic. My professors were gobsmacked, they called the work radical.
Fast-forward to now: clients hunt me down for offices with nooks to stretch stiff backs, galleries with railings you want to hug, studios lit so migraine brains don’t feel like they’re in a nightclub. Lupus still barges in uninvited, some mornings I’m drafting from bed, stylus propped against a feck-off stack of pillows, but it’s taught me architecture isn’t about rigid grids; it’s about sheltering messy, miraculous humans.
Yeah, illness nicks plenty, but it also leaves breadcrumbs to new ideas. Every dawn, joints creaking like old floorboards, I glance at those ceiling shadows and think: grand, let’s build something weird and kind today.
If you have a story to tell or a question for the team, email us at hello@kateandginger.com
A few nights ago, I dreamt my best friend stole my boyfriend—and to add insult to injury, everyone was mad at me for not being happy for them. Excuse me?? In what universe is that a reasonable emotional response? Apparently, in Dreamland, I’m the villain for having feelings. Love that for me.
Then last night I dreamt I was pregnant. I’m 48. My ovaries audibly laughed when I woke up. But in the dream, I was wearing my boyfriend’s graphic tees, proudly showing off my bump like some Pinterest-worthy mum-to-be. The subconscious is wild.
In real life, I’ve been having weird, sweat-inducing, doubled-over-in-agony pelvic pains and suspect it’s time to say goodbye to the IUD that’s been living rent-free in my uterus for a while now. I’ve been dreading having it removed. Not quite as bad as having it inserted, but still—hello!!! A little anaesthesia wouldn’t hurt.
I mentioned this to my Mother, and, bless her, she warned me to be careful I don’t fall pregnant. At 48… with cyst-infested ovaries? It would be an act of the divine. (SFX: angels singing)
Still, the dream left a strange warmth behind. I don’t have children—I couldn’t (unless you count the four-legged, fur-covered kind)—but that dream baby felt oddly real. Maybe it’s just hormones. Or gas. Or the fact that I became an aunt again recently, and my new niece is absolute perfection. I’d love to be more present in my nieces’ and nephews’ lives, but I live on the other side of the world. I suppose that makes me a digital aunty. A pixelated presence with a Wi-Fi connection and a whole lot of love.
It’s weird. And a little sad. Call me old-fashioned, but I want to hug the people I love. Not just double-tap their faces on a screen.
Speaking of hugs—Bugsy (my dog) prefers his affection delivered in flying leaps and enthusiastic face-licks. Not exactly subtle, but I get the message. Imagine if humans did that. Note to self: Get some tea tree face wash.
So yes, last weekend we stayed up talking till 3 am, laughing like teenagers, like there wasn’t a chronic illness or middle age looming in the background. Was it irresponsible? Definitely. Was it worth it? Absolutely. Sometimes, connection matters more than rest. (MS doesn’t care about my emotional growth. It wants naps. Now.) Still, sometimes the pain is worth the priceless joy of two souls connecting.
Which brings me to today: I am completely out of spoons. No cutlery left in the drawer. My battery is flat, my tank’s empty, the engine won’t even turn over. I had another one of those weird spells yesterday where I just… shut down. One minute I was upright, the next I was horizontal and unconscious—like a phone that forgot to warn you it’s on 1%. It’s happening more often. Still trying to figure out what it is.
I made a beautiful lunch disguised as breakfast. (Don’t come for me, I don’t eat before 11 am unless bribed.) Toasted seed loaf, smashed avo, egg, spinach, feta, and edible flowers—because I’m clearly in my edible flower era. They make the plate look happy. And honestly, if your food can’t spark a little joy, what even is the point?
Anyway, I’m rambling. That’s what happens when you’re sleep-deprived and slightly hormonal with a head full of dreams and a body full of meh. Someone, please bring me coffee. Or a hug. Or maybe just a soft place to nap where no one expects anything from me for at least 12 hours.
