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My name is Phoebe Walker, and dance saved my life.

Before multiple sclerosis entered the picture, I was a premed student with my eyes set on a future in medicine. I'd earned scholarships and been accepted to some of the most competitive universities in the country, including the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. My husband was active-duty military, and we were preparing to move so I could continue my education when my body began sending signals I couldn't ignore — left-sided weakness, balance issues, and eventually, the inability to walk.

In 2001, I was officially diagnosed with MS. The diagnosis was devastating. I had small children at home and was just beginning to build a life. The doctors handed me a box of medication and a future painted with decline and disability. For a long time, I believed them. I grieved the loss of the life I thought I'd have. Depression crept in. I let go of dreams I'd spent years cultivating.

But somewhere in that darkness, a new spark was lit. I decided to fight — not only for my future but for my children and myself. I went back to school and earned a Bachelor of Science in Biology. Still, my MS was relentless. At my lowest, I was blind in both eyes and unable to walk or move my limbs. My husband had to carry me to the neurologist's office. I sat in that space for months — broken, terrified, and praying for direction. One step at a time, I began moving again. I rehabbed myself with the limited tools I had: a treadmill, a recumbent bike, and a will to survive. I didn't have a formal physical therapist. I didn't have fancy equipment. I just had grit.

It took a year, but I learned to walk again.

After finishing graduate school, my husband encouraged us to try ballroom dancing as a date night idea. I was hesitant — what if I fell? What if it was too hot? Too much? But something in me said to try. And when I finally walked through those studio doors, everything changed. For the first time in a decade, I felt joy — real joy — the kind that seeps into your bones and reminds you that you're alive.

Dancing didn't just bring me joy — it brought healing. Within three months of regular dance classes, my balance improved, my reflexes sharpened, my memory improved, and I even noticed reduced incontinence. When you're dancing, you focus so intently on movement, rhythm, and connection that the pain, fatigue, and fog fade into the background. You remember how to be present.

That feeling was too powerful not to share. During the COVID-19 pandemic, when studios shut down and I felt symptoms creeping back, I knew I needed to do more. I founded DAMMS 411 — “Dance A Myelin My Shoes” — a nonprofit designed to bring the healing power of dance to others living with MS and similar chronic conditions. DAMMS offers grants to help cover the cost of social dance lessons for at least one quarter, regardless of financial need. I believe everyone deserves a chance to move their body, feel joy, and rebuild confidence — without worrying about the bill.

We've created a private Facebook community that continues to grow organically, filled with dancers from across the globe, some with MS and some without. I've met wheelchair dancers who move with unmatched grace, and I've seen firsthand how community, music, and movement can breathe life into the body and spirit.

In recent years, I've gone from social dancing to competing nationally. I've placed at every competition I've attended — including multiple bronze, silver, and finalist rankings at Nationals. I've performed lifts, spins, and routines I never imagined my MS-ridden body could achieve. My neurologist, who once viewed my dancing skeptically, now tells me he's amazed by my progress. For the first time in my MS journey, he scheduled me for a 12-month follow-up instead of the usual six.

I live on the Space Coast of Florida, right by Port Canaveral. From my house, I can hear the cruise ships sounding their horns. Every day, I wake up grateful that I can move and do my best to inspire others to do the same. Dance is possible whether standing, sitting, or somewhere in between. Start with a finger, a shoulder, a breath. Just move. Music can move mountains. And movement, in any form, is life.

MS didn't mean the end of life; it meant the beginning of a different one. A dancing one. A purposeful one. And I'm just getting started.