Change has been my constant companion. At first, misunderstood. At times, unwelcome. At last, recognized, though I have not always been. Recognized. Especially on returning home after a considerable absence. It comes in waves, it seems. The awkward handshake. The slow search, from the bottom of my wheels to the top of my head. They seemed baffled by what I have become, those old family friends. And then, a break through: “Yes, there he is,” though those words are rarely uttered.”You have your father’s stong jaw,” they tell me. “How like your mother you seem.” That initial confusion sometimes rattles me. But I have learned to let myself be lingered over. I remain the same inquisitive, free-thinking imp, despite outward appearances. Those have been dramatic.

I mark most of my physical changes at one special place. It’s where I grew up. It functions, still, as a yardstick. That summer, post college, when I tried to run down the lane. My legs did not carry me more than a hundred yards. The moment, after an extended road trip, when I realized I could not walk from the car to the house without a cane. Or the lazy spring afternoon I discovered that shooting a free throw was an impossibility.

Following each moment, I thought, “So this is how it is.” I considered torturing myself with a million “what if” scenarios. I contemplated railing against my fate. I imagined focusing single-mindedly on a cure, the elusive cure. And I did indulge myself, a little. But I knew those impulses were futile, perhaps because my body knew. My lower spinal cord was demylinating, affecting coordination, strength, balance. For me, resistance and struggle came at the expense of peace. So I acknowledged the need to change, used the resources that were available, and moved forward. I am not saying that I denied the emotions that came with these losses. But I believe this approach allowed me to retain a steady sense of self.

Internal steadiness. Externally shakiness and spasticity. It’s quite a split. The dichotomy of me.

I continue to focus on small shifts and resist the tendency to see change as catastrophic or overly complicated. And I am asking you to view change in a different light, too. At low points, I list my successes: switching to hand controls, transitioning to a wheelchair, channeling my anger in productive ways. Try it. Think about the amazing things you’ve accomplished. Count the times you’ve overcome challenges. And then open yourself up to change. You can alter your trajectory. You can vary your narrative. You can live a life reimagined.