Tracking More Than Steps
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve written anything, and honestly, that’s because I’ve been tired. Not just “need a nap” tired, but that deeper kind of fatigue that sticks around no matter how much you sleep. The kind that makes you realize something’s off and you’ve been running on fumes without even noticing.
I wear a Garmin Vívioactive 5—mostly because I like tracking my walks and steps—but over time, I’ve started paying more attention to the other data it gives me. Things like heart rate, respiration, recovery, and especially the “Body Battery.” It’s basically a way to measure how charged (or drained) you are based on sleep, activity, and stress.
I even wear it overnight, which has been eye-opening. Seeing how my sleep breaks down—light, deep, REM—and how that affects my recovery has taught me a lot about what my body’s actually doing when I think I’m “resting.” Spoiler: some nights, most nights, not much!
Since being diagnosed with MS, I’ve learned how important it is to listen to those signals instead of brushing them off. The data from my watch has become more than just numbers—it’s information that helps me understand what my body’s trying to say. When my energy dips, when my sleep doesn’t restore me, when my body battery never seems to recharge—it’s all valuable feedback. It reminds me that rest isn’t a luxury; it’s part of how I take care of myself and manage what’s going on beneath the surface.
What’s funny is that as a parent of athletes, I’ve heard the phrase “rest and recovery” for years. The boys would say it constantly—how important it was for preventing injury, how it made them stronger, how performance depended on it. I believed it for them, of course. But I don’t think I ever really applied it to myself until recently.
Somewhere along the way, we start thinking rest is optional—that we can just push through because we have things to do and people counting on us. But the truth is, your body will always find a way to get your attention. Sometimes it whispers, sometimes it yells, but it always tells the truth.
For me, having those reminders right on my wrist keeps me accountable. It’s not about chasing perfect numbers—it’s about noticing patterns, discussing the patterns with my doctors, and actually listening.
Fatigue isn’t failure. It’s feedback.
And learning to see it that way—to pause, recharge, and advocate for what your body needs—is one of the most important lessons I’ve learned lately.
Because when you learn to honor what your body is telling you, you give yourself the chance to show up stronger, clearer, and more present—in every part of your life.
Two Weeks In: What I’ve Learned Since My First Infusion
Two weeks after my first infusion, I keep thinking about a question the nurse asked me before treatment:
“What would you like this medication to do?”
Such a loaded question. My first thought? I want this to end.
Of course, she quickly reminded me that this isn’t a cure—because right now, there isn’t one. Fair enough.
I wasn’t sure how to answer. I didn’t want to set expectations or give myself false hope. So I simply said, “Less joint pain would be ideal. That would make starting the day easier.” Beyond that, I figured it would take time to understand what “progress” would really look like.
Rethinking Progress
Over these last few months, I’ve started to realize that progress with PPMS isn’t what I used to imagine. My hope is that symptoms can be managed, even though the disease will inevitably progress.
Now, I focus on patience and trust. If the medication slows things down, even just a little, that’s something.
Interestingly, I was the first patient at my infusion center to receive this treatment in its newer form. Normally, being “first” fuels my competitive side—but this wasn’t exactly the kind of podium I wanted to stand on.
Showing Up, Together
When I talk about “showing up,” it’s not just about me showing up for myself—it’s also about the people who show up with me.
My family, my friends, my doctors, and the team at the infusion center have surrounded me with support. They’ve answered questions, offered encouragement, and reminded me I’m not in this alone.
That kind of support changes everything.
I’ve also realized how invisible MS can be. Someone recently told me, “You don’t look sick. I’d never have known.”
The truth? You can’t always see it—but I sure as hell can feel it. It makes you question your sanity when you’re perfectly sane. It makes you feel 10 years older than you are. It impacts not just you, but everyone around you.
Staying Busy, Staying Me
I’ve always thrived in a work environment. Helping others—whether it was once as a teacher or now as a realtor—has always given my days meaning.
So I decided: no matter how I feel, I will keep showing up.
I go to work every day (some days from home, most days at the office).
I walk two miles daily and hit my step goal (a smaller goal than before, but still a win).
I plan to get back on the golf course with my husband and boys as the weather cools.
And I continue showing property—which, thankfully, has really picked up this fall.
Fall has always been my favorite season, and this year it feels like an opportunity to keep moving forward.
Celebrating the Small Wins
If there’s one lesson these past two weeks have taught me, it’s that the small wins matter most.
Less joint pain.
Holding a cup without worrying I’ll drop it.
Picking something up off the floor without wincing.
Walking my dog for the first time in months without fear of losing the leash.
All of these things—wins.
Sometimes it isn’t about dramatic results. Sometimes it’s just about moving in the right direction.
Where I Am Now
Right now, this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Whether it’s in health, work, or personal life, small wins add up. They look different for everyone, but by sharing them, we not only show up for ourselves—we show up for each other.
Just because you can’t see what someone is going through doesn’t mean it isn’t real.
So, keep showing up. Keep sharing your experience. And keep the conversation going.