I am tired. I am so incredibly tired. Every day is a physical and mental struggle as I swiftly approach the three-year anniversary of the onset of my multiple sclerosis symptoms. Looking back, this is not how I expected things to be going at this point.

It is hard to say what I did expect. If I had to put it into words, it would probably be two things. First, I expected to have a better mental grasp of the situation by now. Second, I expected to have a better physical grasp of the disease and my body in general. Suffice it to say, I expect it is the second issue that is making the first more difficult to achieve.

I can say that as time has passed by and I have spent more time living with this disease, there are things I have come to terms with. The biggest thing I have come to accept is that there are things I love doing that I will never be able to do again. Acceptance, for me at least, does not mean the weight of the world has fallen off my shoulders. It does not mean a feeling of relief or contentedness. It does not even mean less tears or less anxiety.

Since my diagnosis, the idea of acceptance has been one of my biggest psychological struggles. There is a vague, blurry area between feeling like I have accepted a situation versus feeling like I have completely given up. What is the difference between accepting something and giving up? Is there a difference when it comes to your body’s physical capabilities?

I was an athlete prior to my diagnosis. I could push my body to go further and do more. I lived for physical accomplishments. I was always looking for a bigger mountain to climb. I was always wanting to go harder and faster. That was until MS stopped me in my tracks.

The first year of my diagnosis was the biggest fight of my life. I fought to keep pedaling. I fought to keep running. I did the exercises and the therapy. I devoured information about maintaining my mobility as if I would end up in a wheelchair the next day if I did not read it or try it. I told myself I would not give up. I told myself the things I loved meant too much to me to let the disease take it away. I still pedaled even though it was at a fraction of the speed and I could hardly keep my balance. I still rode even though I could barely hang on. I still ran even though it was really nothing more than a brisk walk and I struggled to put one foot in front of the other. I still did these things even though they physically tormented me instead of giving me pleasure. Do not get me wrong, I still loved feeling the sun on my skin and the wind in my air, but it simply was not as enjoyable when every bodily movement was a struggle.

Yet, I kept on. I would take all of that anger, sadness, and misery with me on every ride and run. The more I did the activities I loved so much, the more miserable I became. The harder I pushed, the harder the disease fought back. At some point, just approaching the idea of going for a ride instilled a sense of dread. I even found myself avoiding the safety of riding indoors on a trainer. The thought of struggling into cycling shorts left me too tired to even consider swinging my leg over the bike.

So, what is the difference between accepting I can no longer do something versus giving up on even trying? Is the idea to accept that I can no longer do the activity I love, or is the idea to accept that it is okay to stop trying? I suppose it is the second idea that has to happen first. I have to accept that it is okay to stop trying before I can accept that I can no longer do it.

I imagine for someone who has not gone through the process of having their life ripped out from underneath them, the two ideas may seem to be the same. Maybe they are right. I do tend to overanalyze. Maybe I am simply preparing to be mentally strong for when this disease takes away even more away from me than it already has.