The Morning Everything Changed
In the middle of the pandemic in 2020, I woke up one morning with double vision. Because I sleep in my contacts way more than I should, I assumed that was the issue. But after a couple of hours, my vision still hadn’t cleared. That quiet panic started to creep in.
I went to an eye doctor who told me my eyes were perfectly healthy. Something which should’ve been reassuring until she suggested I go to the emergency room immediately.
This was still the phase during the pandemic where hospitals weren’t allowing visitors. I sat alone in the waiting room for over twelve hours. My my husband at the time had to wait in the parking garage the entire time. But inside? I watched nurses and staff behind glass who were overworked, understaffed, and underequipped. No one even checked on me. After eight hours of this, I told myself I must not be dying and walked out.
Finally Being Taken Seriously
The next morning, I called my primary doctor. She took my symptoms seriously from the moment she picked up the phone. By then, things were getting worse—the right side of my face was numb, and I couldn’t move it. I was genuinely convinced I was having a stroke.
She got me in immediately and scheduled an emergency MRI of my brain. She told me, “We’re going to figure this out.” And for the first time in a long time, I believed a doctor.
What she didn’t know was that this wasn’t my first alarm siren.
Photo by Spyder Marketing Co. on Unsplash
The Symptoms No One Took Seriously
When I was in my twenties, I had an episode where my legs went completely numb. It started in my feet and climbed to my mid-thigh over the course of two weeks. My doctor blamed it on my birth control and switched it. The numbness eventually faded, but the pain lingered for months. Still no answers.
In 2018, I went on a summer hike—because apparently I enjoy suffering—and got lost on a four-mile trail on top of a small “mountain” in the middle of my city. I took one tiny bottle of water because I thought it would be a quick loop. Spoiler: it wasn’t.
I overheated, got dehydrated, and my legs started going numb again. Eventually, I couldn’t walk. I had to be rescued by firefighters and paramedics. It was humiliating and terrifying… and still, no one had an explanation.
Throughout my teens and early twenties, I was always in pain. Always exhausted. Always struggling to wake up. I never felt “good.” People assumed I was lazy or unmotivated or dramatic. After a while, I started believing them.
The MRI That Told the Truth
I’ll never forget opening my patient chart and reading the results of the MRI. I will save you the medical jargon, but the words “demyelinating process and possibility of multiple sclerosis should be excluded”caught my attention immediately.
I stared at the screen in shock. I remember turning to my ex-husband and and the first words out of my were, “But what about powerlifting? I can’t quit powerlifting.”
What followed in the coming months was a whirlwind of more MRIs, lab work, spinal taps, and neurologist appointments. Each piece deserves its own post. But the end result was clear…I had multiple sclerosis. And the reality was I had probably had this disease since my early teen years. The scans showed multiple lesions on my brain, cervical spine, and thoracic spine.
When the diagnosis became official, I was heartbroken—and angry. I had been telling people for years that something was wrong, and I truly felt like no one listened. Not until the symptoms were visible. Not until it was undeniable.
The validation was real. But so was the grief. And the anger.
Choosing Strength Anyway
I cried. A lot. I begged God for answers. I wondered if I’d lose the ability to walk, or lift, or live normally. I wondered if MS would ruin my life in some slow, debilitating and torturous way.
I’d like to say that I handled the diagnosis with grace and dignity. And if you asked anyone close to me they would probably tell you that I did. But the truth is this…I was a wreck on the inside. That’s the thing about being handed a life-altering diagnosis. I had no choice but to take the next steps forward.
But somewhere in the middle of all that fear and rage, I found my strength. I realized I had been living with this for years—I just didn’t have a name for it. I didn’t need to give up my life. I just needed to understand my triggers and respect my body.
Six months after being diagnosed with a disease I thought would end everything, I stepped onto the platform at a powerlifting meet. I hit PRs on all my lifts. I won the competition. I proved to myself—and everyone watching—that I wasn’t going to let a diagnosis define me.
Why I’m Telling This Story Now
The years since my diagnosis have held highs and lows I couldn’t have predicted. Breakdowns and breakthroughs. The hardest emotional work of my life. Therapy. Friendships that deepened. A support system that showed up for me in ways I didn’t know were possible.
Today, I feel more loved and supported than I ever have—not because of my diagnosis, but because of how I chose to respond to it. When life hit hard, I didn’t crawl into a hole. I kept showing up. And the people around me did too.
That’s why I created this blog—for people like me.
People who are living with invisible battles.
People who haven’t felt heard.
People who are trying to find their strength again.
If you’re reading this and dealing with symptoms no one understands, or a diagnosis that feels too big, or a body you’re learning to navigate—please hear me:
You deserve answers.
You deserve compassion.
You deserve to feel seen and believed.
And you are absolutely not alone.
And your story matters more than you think.
XO, Samantha Jo