One of the biggest compliments I would get from the players marking me on the soccer field was, “where did you come from, I just beat you back there?!? But my favorite was, “can you please stop running?” If I got that request in the 65th minute of the 90-minute game, the guy checking me didn’t have a chance. For much of my life, my identity was wrapped up in being an athlete.

Based on what I read, MS was going to cause a dramatic physical decline. I tried to fight it, but I was losing the battle early on.

As my walking gait changed due to stiff legs from muscle spasticity, my movement was becoming increasingly unstable. I would stick to the walls and furniture to make sure I had something to lean on. My biggest fear was being asked to cross wide, open spaces like gym floors.

I really didn’t want to be the guy with a cane. I didn’t want to be perceived as “handicapped”. I was an athlete, known for his work ethic and leadership. I couldn’t reconcile the world I was now forced to be in.

Every time I moved, I was a hazard to myself, those around me, and those who had to pick me up off the ground when I inevitably fell. I needed a cane. I debated: Was it worse to be the guy with a cane, or the guy sprawled out on the floor in a public setting?

I’ve been the guy spectacularly sprawled out on the floor amidst gasps from everyone around, assessing myself for broken things.

After struggling mightily with the concept, I knew it was time. I found a mobility supply store far from where I lived where I wouldn’t be recognized. I hobbled to the entrance. As I started to open the door, I heard, “Is that you, Rahul?” Seriously, what are the chances of being recognized at a mobility store in the middle of a light industrial area nowhere near my house? It was a former soccer teammate who worked in the area. He didn’t know about my diagnosis. I begrudgingly shared my news, stunning my teammate.

When I started using the cane, I was able to reduce the amount of angst I would have in walking from one place to the next. I had abandoned most social events because I was embarrassed by myself and my walking. While not ideal, the cane provided some measure of stability, both physically and mentally.

One day I was in my home office, grabbing the windowsill and the door handle to lower the blinds. My sister was silently watching me. I went out to a meeting, and when I returned, there were grab bars in my office. Not institutional-looking grab bars, but subtle, tasteful, sturdy grab bars. They were a gamechanger, reducing the amount of risk I subjected myself to when doing the basic tasks I had done so easily just a few months ago.

I asked my sister, “the grab bars are in exactly the right place. How did you know where to put them?”. She looked at me and said, “I just matched them up with your dirty handprints on the walls.”

Throughout my evolution with MS, I’ve come across tools that would make my life easier. Each time, I battle with myself about whether it is a tool I want to use or be seen using.

But I have learned that the cane, forearm crutches, manual wheelchair, motorized wheelchair, and scooter are just tools. They allow me to go and watch my kids play sports or sing in their Christmas concert, to go out for dinner with friends, travel, and garden. The tools allow me to participate in my adapted life. Beyond just the event I get to attend, they reduce the amount of time I waste worrying about getting there, finding the bathroom, or moving about a place.

As a proud, strong athlete, it still takes me a while to use the tool. In the end I do, and I say to myself, “I should have used this sooner.” You’d think I would learn one day. Something about being a stubborn mule.

The adaptations we have made in the house, my office, and the car have made my life easier and safer. In 20 years of adapting my life, it turns out the biggest challenge I had to overcome was my own perception of myself. The only person judging me was me. I have learned that people are not looking at my disability, they are looking at me, sometimes admiring how I am navigating my adapted life.

I thought I had lost who I was, but it turns out, I have been able to better understand who I am.