The Wheelchair, The Warrior, the Whisper

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Part One: Wheelchair O’Clock

The thing about healing is — it rarely waits for the calendar to be clear.

Right now, I’m sitting with a choice. A practical one, but also a deeply symbolic one.

Do I go to the Oasis event I manifested tickets for? It’s on a field. My legs are shaky at best. Walking feels like a negotiation. Standing still feels worse. So… the option is a wheelchair.

Just typing that — a wheelchair — makes something in my chest tighten.

Not because there’s shame in it.

Not because I think less of anyone who uses one.

But because… for me, it feels like a line in the sand I wasn’t ready to draw.

See, healing is layered. You can be okay — and still grieving the version of you who could run across that field without a second thought. You can be strong — and still feel your ego kick and scream at the thought of accepting help. You can be spiritual as hell — and still want to flip the table when your body gives you another plot twist.

I asked the tarot. I asked my body. I asked my friend who manages a care home if she could help me source one.

And now I’m here… asking myself the real question:

Is accepting the wheelchair a defeat — or a doorway?

Because here’s the truth:

I’m scared of needing it.

Not just today. But more days. Maybe one day, most days.

I’m scared that if I say yes to help, I’ll forget how to keep helping myself.

I’m scared that if I surrender, I won’t know how to stand again.

I’m scared that if I sit — if I let myself be wheeled — the world will move on without me.

But maybe this is me moving with the world?

Maybe choosing the chair today means I still get to be there.

Still part of it.

Still me.

Still a lightworker — just not on foot right for this

And maybe the real healing isn’t walking further than I should.

Maybe it’s letting go of the image I thought I needed to uphold.

Maybe it’s saying:

“Yes, I’m coming. Yes, I’ll be there. Yes, I’ll accept the help that lets me show up for myself.”

Maybe, I've got to roll with it (pun intended).

Even if it means wheels.

Even if it means vulnerability.

Even if it means gasp visibility.

So this is real-time healing.

This is me, in the middle of the moment.

No pretty bow on the end. No lesson fully integrated. Just truth, raw and rumbling.

Wheelchair o’clock might not be forever.

But if it’s what gets me to the field, to the music, to the memory…

Then maybe it’s right on time.

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Part Two: The Bit Where I Cry and Then Laugh About It

I am still on foot.

Most days, I walk through pain that most people don’t see. I push through stiffness, spasms, and that unpredictable feeling like my own legs might just… give way. I risk falling. I risk exhaustion. I battle — mentally, physically, energetically — just to stay upright.

And I ask myself: why?

What am I trying to prove?

It’s not for validation. I don’t live to be liked. I’m not afraid of people judging my choices — not really. Not when it comes to how I parent, how I live, how I speak my truth. But this? This hits different.

This feels like shame.

Like I’m giving up on myself.

And that — that stings. Because if there’s one thing I never do, it’s give up on myself. I work on myself daily. I show up. I stretch, I learn, I adapt. So why does accepting help feel like failure?

Maybe because somewhere, deep in the layers I thought I’d already healed, there’s a version of me still terrified that rest = weakness.

Still trying to earn her place by doing instead of simply being.

Still thinking that sitting down might mean I’m falling behind.

But then — right in the middle of that thought — Oasis comes on the radio.

Stop crying your heart out.

And like a switch flicked in the soul, tears fall.

Not dramatic ones. Just the quiet kind — the kind that slip out when truth has finally been heard.

And in that exact moment, my friend messages:

“I’ll sort you a chair out.”

As if the universe just whispered,

"We see you. You don’t have to carry this alone."

And then another truth crashes in — a cheeky one:

Is it really that different from sitting at my laptop all day editing podcasts and writing blogs?

I can sit there for ten hours in flow. I don’t judge that.

So why judge this?

I won’t be glued to the chair. I’ll likely stand up and dance at some point. Maybe I’ll even push it around like a festival drinks trolley. (There’s an image.)

This isn’t surrender in the way my inner warrior fears it is.

This is choosing ease when I’ve earned it a thousand times over.

This is saying: I want to be there more than I want to prove something.

So what am I scared of?

I think… I’m scared of being seen in a moment where I don’t look strong — even though this is strong.

I think I’m scared of seeing myself that way.

But maybe this is the part of the story where strength looks different.

Where healing doesn’t come from pushing through pain, but from loving myself enough not to.

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Part Three: The Cruel Unpredictability of MS

Here’s the part people don’t always understand — not unless they’ve lived it.

MS is an absolute mind fuck.

Some days you walk. Some days you wobble. Some days you lie in bed bargaining with your body just to feel a toe again. And then, just when you think you’ve worked out the pattern — it changes.

I remember in 2019 and 2020 when my legs first went rogue.

My toes were frozen. Stuck. Like someone had unplugged my connection to them. I could see them — but I couldn’t feel them.

And then one day, they came back online.

I remember wiggling them and thanking the universe out loud. It felt like magic. Like I’d been returned to myself.

I had two full years after that — 2022 and 2023 — where I felt normal. Stable. Whole.

And then?

The monster returned.

And this time… it feels worse.

Maybe because I’m in it.

Maybe because I’ve tasted ease and now I miss it so fiercely.

I second-guess every step now. I ask myself daily: Is this improving? Declining? Holding steady?

No one — not even the experts — can tell me if this will pass.

Like Stereophonics said:

“It’s the not knowing that kills you.”

And maybe that’s what makes the idea of the chair so hard.

Because if I sit in it, am I admitting something?

Am I sealing a fate?

So here’s my line in the sand:

I’ll borrow one.

But I’m not buying one.

Not yet.

Because I haven’t given up on my own comeback.

I haven’t stopped believing in the miracle of toes twitching.

I’m still here. Still willing. Still open.

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Part Four: The Lightworker and the Lesson I Haven’t Learned Yet

Here’s the thing:

Lightworkers don’t have all their shit together.

We’re not perfect. We’re not immune to pain, or panic, or spirals. We don’t float above it all on a sage stick and a playlist of 432Hz.

But what we do know… is how to dig.

We go looking for roots.

We feel the pattern before it shows its face.

We ask, again and again: “What is this trying to teach me?”

Whatever this layer is — this pain, this fear, this resistance — it’s not random.

It’s an echo. A thread. A wound resurfacing in different clothes.

And I don’t know yet if I’m here to transmute it or just to witness it.

Maybe it’s just as simple as letting go.

Accepting help.

Trusting that the energy will move when I stop trying to fix it.

Or maybe… it won’t.

Maybe it’s not ready yet.

Maybe I’m not ready yet.

But everything happens for a reason — even if we don’t get the reason in real time.

So for now… I’m holding the piece.

Even though I don’t know where it fits.

One day, I’ll glance back and see exactly where this chapter belongs.

And until then — I’ll keep walking when I can, wheeling when I need, crying when it lands, and healing out loud.

Because that’s what I do.

That’s who I am.

A lightworker.

Still learning.

Still living.

Still luminous.