I know it’s Thanksgiving, but I’m going to combine this occasion with our anniversary.

It’s been 25 years since we made the promise to “have and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish all the days of our lives.”

This month we’ve been face-to-face with the in sickness part as I’ve been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. I’ve watched this man step up as a caregiver, literally walking with me, steadying me each step with his arm around me, holding me when I couldn’t carry my own weight.

When I saw my neurologist for the first time, she ordered an additional MRI and wanted it done immediately. I received the call while still in the office. The woman on the phone said they had an opening on November 4th at 9:00 p.m. and asked if that would work. I hesitated. My brain hadn’t had a chance to catch up with everything, and my first thought was—9:00 p.m.? Did I hear that right? Surely they wouldn’t start a two-hour MRI that late at night.
My second thought was—that’s my 25th wedding anniversary.

“Natalie— I think we need to take this.”
The urgency in her voice pulled me out of my daze.
“Oh yes. Right. Absolutely. Let’s take it,” I replied. We wanted the first available, and that was fine with me.

The date was set, and I was thankful. But as soon as I hung up, a nurse was calling me back for bloodwork. They were testing for everything, and they were going to need a lot of blood. All the stress had been building, and my body started trembling uncontrollably. I felt like I might pass out. The medical team was kind and doing what they could, but they had other patients to see and couldn’t draw blood in the state I was in. They offered to reschedule when I felt better. That wasn’t an option though. The doctor needed this bloodwork now.

“Can my husband come in?” I asked in desperation.

“Of course,” the nurse said. “Is he out in the waiting room?”

I nodded, and she sent someone to get him. When J walked in and saw the state I was in, we locked eyes and I saw the concern on his face. “Can you stay here with me and pray with me?” My shaky voice asked through tears. Of course he would. He held my hand, and my body began to settle down. The nurse started drawing blood and said, “He is your calm,” then smiled. “I love that. You just don’t see that kind of love anymore.”
I know how blessed I am.

So that Tuesday night, November 4th, J drove me to the radiology unit at UC Health. I slipped into a cold hospital gown and listened to the hum and clunk of the MRI while J waited outside the scanner room. A night that should have been candlelight and toasts became fluorescent lights and medical forms.

This wasn’t our first anniversary that was met with adversity. There was the year SJ had surgery and the covid year. This was the ‘in sickness’ we promised, and he lives it out without hesitation.

Since being diagnosed and dealing with flare-ups, J has bought me gifts, made me breakfast every morning, helped schedule appointments, worked remotely from a hospital, and prayed through all of this with me.

But the moment that struck me most wasn’t a grand gesture. It was a simple Sunday morning. J was running sound for service. He got there early, and since I couldn’t drive, Z brought me later. After worship, I got a text asking if I was okay. I texted back, “Yes, I’m near the back row.”
I watched him in the sound booth scanning the congregation. I kept looking at him, waiting for him to find me, and when he finally did, he nodded. It wasn’t a wink or a smile—just a man who wasn’t going to relax until he saw that his bride was okay. When his eyes landed on me, I saw the slightest relief wash over his face.

I know what MS feels like for me. I don’t know what my MS feels like for him. But I do know he will do whatever it takes to keep me safe. Every girl dreams of a knight in shining armor to slay dragons on her behalf, and J is that for me.

He will hate these public compliments, but too bad. He’s been married to an extroverted writer for 25 years, he’ll survive.

Happy anniversary, J.
Thank you for taking care of me.
I love you with my whole heart.
We’ll make it to Ireland one day.

A week ago I was officially diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.

The love that has poured in from family, friends, church, and coworkers has absolutely wrecked me (in the best way). It’s so much more than I could have ever asked for or feel like I deserve. So many of you are heartbroken because you know we’ve already walked through a whole lot (remember Hope at the Threshold?). In some ways it feels wildly unfair, but I also know that it could be so much worse.

My brain keeps time-traveling back to 2012 when SJ was diagnosed with profound deafness. You’re probably thinking, “Okay… MS and deafness? What do those even have in common?” One’s a disease, one’s a disability—totally different, right?

Well, kind of but for me there are a lot of similarities.

Both feel like a bomb just went off in your life the moment you hear the word. Both are pretty rare—roughly 3 in 1,000 odds. Both are lifelong. And for us? We had zero family history and basically zero real-life experience with either one.

They’re both nerve things, too. SJ’s is sensorineural hearing loss (the auditory nerve), mine is an autoimmune attack on my central nervous system.

Both things have come a long way in the past 40 years of medical advancements. Cochlear implants and disease-modifying therapies (DMTs) for MS both showed up on around the same time—the early 1990s. I’ve never seen the original cochlear implant in real life but I know from research they had a huge battery pack, wire dangling like a Walkman from the ‘80s. Fast-forward to 2025 and SJ’s implants are sleek, Bluetooth, rechargeable, incredible. I’ve watched that technology explode in just the 13 years since her surgery.

So when the MS community keeps telling me, “Treatment has come SO far in the last 20-30 years!” I understand that. Fifty years ago there were no DMTs and no cochlear implants. What used to steal decades of life or leave people unable to walk or hear is now… manageable. Treatable. Often livable in a really full way. I know it’s apples and oranges but it’s crazy how much science/medicine has advanced in my lifetime.

Last week J and I sat with some specialists picking a medication, and it felt a little like déjà vu.

In 2012 with SJ we had three cochlear implant brands to choose from:

Cochlear Nucleus (we picked that one), Med-El, and Advanced Bionics.

In 2025 with me three high-efficacy meds on the table:

Ocrevus, Kesimpta, Briumvi (that’s the one we landed on).

In both situations we prayed, did tons of research, talked with people who actually use the thing. In both cases the future looked exceedingly bright.

You know what I hear over and over from cochlear implant users AND from people on DMTs? Almost word-for-word the same testimonials:

“It’s life-changing.”

“Most people would never know unless I told them.”

“I live basically like everybody else.”

“Yeah, there are challenges, but I hardly think about it day-to-day.”

“You’re being diagnosed at the BEST time in history for this.”

“It’s hard at first, but just wait—it gets so much better.”

Just swap “cochlear implant” for “MS med” and it’s the exact same responses.

Of course, before you get to happy live-your-best-life part there is a lot of hard work to do. For SJ it was surgery and years of speech therapy to train her brain to listen with CIs and learn to speak. For me right now it’s debilitating symptoms, doctor appointments on repeat, and trying to find the treatment that actually makes me feel like a person again. People keep telling me there’s light at the end of the tunnel. Honestly, right now the tunnel is pitch-black and I can’t see a thing. I don’t know how long it is or when the light shows up.

When SJ was diagnosed there was this weird month of limbo between the first red flag and the official ABR test. I wrote a post back then titled “Nothing has changed but everything is different.” She was still the same smiley two-year-old running around—she had no clue our world was imploding. Physically she was unchanged; we just had new information.

This time, EVERYTHING HAS CHANGED. I can’t work right now. I can’t drive. Some days I can barely look at a screen (so the fact that I’m typing this today feels like a small miracle). Before diagnosis I had one weird symptom. Now I’m juggling six—coming and going whenever they feel like it. Some moments I feel almost normal. A lot of moments I’m face-to-face with MS in all its glory.

I thought about writing the big “here’s what MS is and how it looks for me” post, but… I’m just not there yet. I don’t know what “normal” is going to look like on the other side of this. I think it means infusions every six months and then getting back to counting steps, reuniting with my students, driving my kids around, planning birthday parties, and  living a really full life. I believe that, and I know God’s plans for me are still good.

But right now? We wait.

Wait on insurance appeals.

Wait to get the first infusion scheduled.

Wait to figure out why my optic nerves are mad at me.

Wait to see how my body responds to treatment.

Wait for life to feel like “mine” again.

My sister-in-law told me she kept waking up with this song on repeat in her head and felt like God wanted her to send it to me. It’s “Always On Time” by Elevation Worship & Bella Cordero. I’ve had it on loop for days. Something about the way it weaves Old and New Testament promises together—it’s ministering to me in the deepest way right now.

Here it is if you want to listen with me:

I don’t have a big update today, just a lot of real life and a heart that’s being held. I promise I’ll share more as soon as there’s more to share. Thank you for praying, for texting, for dropping off meals, for helping me make connections with other MS warriors. One thing I do know is that I am not alone.

As I was getting ready for my new weekly installment of Senior Sunday—a trend where parents post a photo or memory of their high school senior—I found myself getting very sentimental. The more photos I gathered and the more words that came pouring out, the more I realized I couldn’t possibly squeeze it all into a Facebook status. If you’ve followed Messy Mom for any length of time, you know that I process life by sharing it. I’m a woman of many words—and even more photos.

We just returned from a road trip to New England, something I’ve dreamed of doing with the whole family for years. Vermont has always been my happy place. My parents are from there, so I visited several times as a child and a couple of times as an adult. The New England fall foliage is indescribable—so breathtaking and awe-inspiring that photos can’t do it justice. It’s something you truly have to experience for yourself.

We haven’t always taken trips in the fall, but when SJ graduated from her deaf school in 2018, all the kids finally landed on the same academic schedule—which, in our district, includes a short fall break. That year we set out for Michigan to camp under the golden leaves.

We loved it so much we camped in Michigan again the next year.

In 2020, our annual fall trip was put on hold. The world was on lockdown, and that October was the only time we actually tested positive for COVID—three of us down for the count.

In 2021, we stayed at the cutest Airbnb in Indiana, and in 2022 we explored Clifty Falls, also in Indiana.

In 2023 and 2024, we camped in or near Hocking Hills with friends.

Last year, while sitting around the campfire, I gave everyone plenty of advance notice that we wouldn’t be camping for fall break this year. For Z’s senior year, we were going to Vermont—no exceptions. I was determined, but for a while it looked like it might not happen. I remember telling J, “It has to be this year—Z is graduating, and it’s our last chance!”

J challenged me, asking if I really thought Z would never take trips with us again once he started college. I said, “Of course not, but his school will be on a completely different schedule, and we have no idea where he’ll live or how demanding his workload will be.” This was our window—and I wasn’t going to miss it.

Thankfully, it all came together. We took off an extra day of work and school and managed to visit not only Vermont, but also Niagara Falls with an overnight in Buffalo, New York, two nights in New Hampshire, and one night in West Virginia on the way home.

To be honest, the leaves were a little dull compared to their usual vibrant splendor—but that didn’t make the trip any less meaningful. Z got to meet relatives from New England, the weather was perfect, and the scenery was still stunning. I’m so grateful we made it happen.

I know I’m a total sap, but looking back over the last eight years of fall breaks makes me tear up.

I think it hits harder than the holidays will because we know college kids (or just grown up children) celebrate the holidays, but those shared fall breaks in the same school district is definitely coming to a close. I will always cherish these times. Always.