Exclusive Content

"How are you?"

It’s such a simple question. Most of the time, it’s not really even a question. It’s a formality. A greeting. A reflex.

But when you're living with multiple sclerosis, that question can hit different.

After I got out of the hospital, people asked me all the time. Friends. Coworkers. Neighbors. Even the guy at the Dunkin' drive-thru. And I always said the same thing:

"I’m fine."

It was automatic. A lie, for the most part, but not one I meant with malice. I just didn’t know how to say what was really going on. I didn’t know how to explain I still had spinal headaches that made it hard to sit up, that my legs didn’t feel like my legs, that I wasn’t sleeping, that I couldn’t stop thinking about the what-ifs. That I didn’t know who I was anymore.

How do you say all that in a socially acceptable answer to "How are you?"

The truth is, I was scared. And I didn’t want to see that fear reflected back at me in someone else’s eyes. So I kept it light. I cracked jokes. I downplayed things. I said I was getting better, even when I wasn’t.

There’s one moment I think about a lot. It was a couple weeks after I came home. I was on the couch, again. I hadn’t left the house in days. Jocelyn had gone back to work at the high school, trying to catch up on everything she missed while I was in the hospital. My dad stopped by to bring over meatballs and sauce. He asked how I was doing, and I gave him the same answer I gave everyone else.

"I’m good, Dad. Just tired."

He nodded, stirred the sauce, and kept chatting like everything was normal. But later, I heard him crying out in the driveway. Not loud. Just one of those quiet, gut-punched sobs that slips out when you're trying not to lose it. That sound stayed with me. I realized in that moment that maybe I wasn’t doing anyone any favors by pretending I was okay.

I thought I was being strong. But strength isn’t silence. Strength is honesty.

It wasn’t until I started being real with people, really real, that I started to heal. That didn’t mean dumping everything on everyone. But it meant finding safe people. Saying, "Actually, it’s been a rough week," or "I’m having a hard time with this part."

And you know what? People surprised me. They didn’t run. They leaned in.

If you're living with something hard, especially MS, give yourself permission to answer that question a little differently today. You don’t have to tell everyone everything. But you also don’t have to carry it all alone.

So the next time someone asks, "How are you?" maybe just try being a little more honest than usual.

Even just a little.

Because your truth matters. And someone’s ready to hear it.