“Small Victories Each Day “

Since the day I was diagnosed with Mogad, life has felt like a series of hurdles—each one taller and more daunting than the last. The endless cycle of doctor visits, new medications, and tests has left me feeling exhausted, both in body and spirit. There are days when the uncertainty presses down on me, making it hard to breathe, let alone find peace in my own mind. But through it all, my family has been my anchor. I am so grateful for the way they have stood by me, even when none of us had the answers. We’ve all had to learn together—reading, asking questions, sitting in waiting rooms, and trying to make sense of a world that suddenly felt unfamiliar. Their patience and willingness to understand what I’m going through has been a comfort I never expected, but desperately needed.I felt a small spark of hope. It reminded me that even in the darkest times, I am not facing this journey by myself. We are all still learning, still coping, and still searching for answers. But together, we fin...

When my struggles with MoGad and mental illness felt like an invisible wall between me and the rest of the world. I wanted to tell people how hard it was, how much I wished they could see the effort it took just to show up. But I also wanted them to know that I was more than my struggles. I was resilient. I was hopeful. I was still searching for joy, even if it came in small, quiet moments. Writing became my way of making sense of it all.  So I wrote a book and Each note, each story, was a reflection—a way to capture the strange beauty of surviving, of hoping, of fighting for myself and My blog became a collection of these moments, a place where I could be honest about the darkness and still celebrate the light. Looking back, I see now that my story isn’t just about pain or struggle. It’s about the strength I found in unexpected places, the hope that kept me moving forward, and the joy that, no matter how small, was always worth holding onto.

When my struggles with MoGad and mental illness felt like an invisible wall between me and the rest of the world. I wanted to tell people how hard it was, how much I wished they could see the effort it took just to show up. But I also wanted them to know that I was more than my struggles. I was resilient. I was hopeful. I was still searching for joy, even if it came in small, quiet moments. Writing became my way of making sense of it all.  So I wrote a book and Each note, each story, was a reflection—a way to capture the strange beauty of surviving, of hoping, of fighting for myself and My blog became a collection of these moments, a place where I could be honest about the darkness and still celebrate the light. Looking back, I see now that my story isn’t just about pain or struggle. It’s about the strength I found in unexpected places, the hope that kept me moving forward, and the joy that, no matter how small, was always worth holding onto.

When the house is quiet and everyone else is away, it’s just me and my sweet Chihuahuas. I might not have the energy I once did to play with them, but they don’t seem to mind at all. They simply curl up beside me on the bed, their tiny bodies pressed close, their warmth seeping into my side. Sometimes, one will rest a little head on my arm, while another tucks in behind my knees. Their eyes meet mine, soft and full of understanding, and in those moments, I know they worry about me in their own way. They don’t need words to show their love. Their presence is enough—the gentle rise and fall of their breathing, the way they nuzzle closer if I sigh or shift. Even on days when I feel alone or tired, their companionship fills the room with a quiet comfort. I feel seen, cared for, and never truly alone. My Chihuahuas are my silent supporters, always there to remind me that love doesn’t need grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s just the simple act of being together, side by side, that brings the mo...

My granddaughter Glory is the light that brightens even my darkest days. I never expected to find such a powerful motivation in her, but every moment with her fills my heart with hope and purpose. Her laughter is like music, a melody that lifts the heaviness from my shoulders and makes me want to try harder, to be better, to see the world through a more positive lens. When I hold Glory in my arms, the pain in my body seems to fade away. My arms, which often ache, feel strong and steady with her gentle weight. When we lie together, my back pain is replaced by the warmth of her presence. Even though my vision is blurry and I can barely make out her face, I cherish every second I get to spend with her. I listen for her giggle, feel her tiny hands, and soak in the happiness she brings just by being near. There are days when I only get to see her for a little while, but those moments are precious. I savor them, knowing that her happiness is my happiness. Glory has given me a reason to stan...

  The day I was named Teacher of the Month during my final year of teaching is etched in my heart forever. I remember walking into my classroom, the walls alive with the colors of children’s artwork, the air buzzing with the energy only a room full of kindergartners can create. I had been struggling for years—pushing through pain, fatigue, and the weight of my diagnosis—but in that moment, surrounded by the laughter and bright eyes of my students, I felt a surge of joy and pride. When the announcement came, I was caught completely off guard. My colleagues gathered around me, their faces beaming with pride and affection. There were hugs, laughter, and more than a few tears. The children, sensing the specialness of the day, wrapped their little arms around me, their hugs warm and sincere. I’ll never forget the way the children—my last class—clung to me, their faces pressed against my shoulder, their voices whispering words of love and thanks. It was a bittersweet celebration. I kne...

Living with Mogad as an adult has been a journey I never expected. In 2009, when I had my first episode of optic neuritis, I lost my vision for the first time. It was terrifying, but eventually, some of my sight returned—never fully, but enough to let me keep teaching, to keep living the life I loved. For almost twenty years, I was a teacher, always on the move, always helping others. My classroom was my world, and I thrived on the energy and connection with my students. But in 2023, everything changed. My second episode of optic neuritis struck my right eye, and this time, the vision loss was permanent, and now I am   diagnosed with eye atrophy this  was a heavy blow. Suddenly, the world looked different—colors faded, details blurred, and I found myself depending on others for even the simplest things, like picking out my clothes. The loss of feeling in my hands made it hard to hold onto anything; I dropped and broke things constantly. The independence I once took for grant...