Curt slammed the door and tossed his keys on the counter. The expression on his face said it all. Frustration. Discouragement. Disappointment. I’d seen it every Friday night for weeks.
 
“There’s another week without a paycheck,” he said.
 
“Surely things will pick up,” I said. “What about that couple looking for a house? How’s it going with them?”
 
Curt pressed his hands against his temples. “That deal fell through. They couldn’t get financing.”
 
It seemed like everyone struggled with finances these days – including us. For our family, it began a couple years ago.
 
After sixteen years at the same company, Curt was considering a career change. He liked his job but wasn’t sure he would ever reach his ultimate goals at the company. He was a Type-A personality, constantly pushing himself toward more challenges and responsibility. Someday he hoped to be in a position to help make major company decisions.
 
Quitting a perfectly good job was a big decision. We prayed about it. We asked for advice from friends we respected. Finally, we decided to go for it. Curt quit his job and began his new career in real estate.

Four months later we learned that his former company had been bought out. We felt like we had dodged a bullet. Many folks lost their jobs.  
 
Curt’s first year in real estate went well. Business was good and he enjoyed the new challenge. We needed to move closer to his office, so we sold our house, moved into a rental and made plans to build our dream home. We were excited about our new adventure. Until the following year – in 2008 – when the economy crashed.
 
At that point the real estate market came to a standstill. Our excitement turned into anxiety. Week after week my normally upbeat husband came home discouraged. Now here we were again, another week and no paycheck.
 
I squeezed Curt’s shoulder. “You’re a hard worker and a smart businessman. Things will turn around.” I tried to sound confident, but inside, I worried. And those worries multiplied in the upcoming weeks.
 
It wasn’t easy, cramming our family of five into a tiny rental house. Most of our belongings were packed away in storage. The kids missed our old home and struggled to adjust to a new school. And then there was the stress of building a house.
 
We had broken ground and started construction earlier that year. Now we worried if we could even afford it. Each time we met with our builder we made changes to cut costs. We held off on finishing the basement. We decided against a three-season porch. We waited to finish the landscaping. I tried not to complain, but it was hard to stay positive while our dreams slipped away.

One Sunday morning I was in church by myself. Curt was upstairs teaching Sunday school. Our girls were in their classes. The worship service began and song lyrics flashed onto the screen. I opened my mouth, attempting to sing, but the words felt lodged in my throat. I thought back to life before Curt quit his job. We were doing fine financially. Our kids had felt safe and secure. Life was comfortable. Then everything got messed up. We did what we thought God wanted us to do. We took a leap of faith. And for what? Now we could barely pay our bills and my husband felt like a failure. Why did God lead us into this heartache?
 
A few days later, we decided it was time. Time to swallow our pride and dust-off Curt’s resume.
 
“It’ll be fine,” I’d said, giving him a hug. “Someone with your education and experience won’t have trouble finding a job.” But we both knew it wasn’t that simple. In this economy, companies weren’t even hiring.
 
But even before Curt had the chance to start his job search, something amazing happened. Curt got a phone call from a local insurance company. Apparently, someone who had worked with him at his previous company had given them his name. They had a job opening and asked if Curt would be interested in submitting a resume. Curt interviewed for the job and the rest is history.
 
The day after we moved into our new house, Curt headed off to work at his new job. That was ten years ago. Today, he finds his position as Chief Information Officer very rewarding.
 
God knew the market was going to crash. Nothing surprises Him. But even when things don’t go as planned, He can also work everything out for good. He holds every single day in His hands. We just need to focus on today and leave the rest to Him.

I wiped my sweaty palms against my khakis and glanced at the dashboard clock: 7:58 AM. Across the parking lot, a young woman carried an armful of books and headed toward the front doors. Should I go in? Registration began at 8:00, but the first speaker didn’t start for a few more minutes. I’d wait. Right now, conference attendees were probably mixing and mingling, sipping their lattes and discussing their latest novels.
 
I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel, trying to ignore the annoying voice inside my head.
 
Writing for the church newsletter doesn’t make you a writer. Anyone can write for a church newsletter.
 
I watched a couple more conference-goers weave their way through the parking lot and disappear through the front doors. My stomach flip-flopped. How did I get myself into this? Instantly, I knew. It began several months ago, when my pastor preached a sermon I couldn’t ignore.
 
It was a time of transition in my life. After ten years of full-time motherhood, my youngest had started kindergarten – and I felt lost.

You might look like a fool. Others will discover you have no idea what you’re doing. You could fail.
 
So, I ignored the dream, tucking it away – until the next Sunday morning.  
 
“How many times do we limit ourselves because of fear?” My pastor’s eyes scanned the congregation. “How often do we miss what God has for us because we fear rejection and worry too much about what others might think?” I fidgeted in my chair. How did he know I’d been struggling with fear?
 
Over the next several minutes I scribbled down notes and words of encouragement. But I’ll never forget what he said as he concluded.  
 
“If you believe God put a desire in your heart, don’t let feelings of fear stop you.”
 
I caught myself nodding in agreement.
 
“It’s okay to be afraid,” he said. “In fact, it’s normal to feel fear. Just don’t let fear control you. Trust God with that fear. God will walk with you through your fear.”
 
I wrote down three simple words and underlined them as my pastor spoke.
 
“Do it afraid.”

Over the following months those three words became my motto as I stepped out of my comfort zone and into the wonderful, yet overwhelming world of writing. I began reading every book I could find on improving my craft. In time, I worked up the courage to submit articles for publication – and had lots of practice learning to cope with rejection.
 
Meanwhile, the relentless voice in my head worked hard to discourage me. But I didn’t give up. “Do it afraid,” I said as I pushed myself to write another article. “Do it afraid,” I thought as I emailed a magazine editor. “Do it afraid,” I said as I signed up for a writer’s conference.
 
And afraid I was.
 
My heart thumped in my chest as I walked into the first workshop of the conference. Like the new kid in a junior high cafeteria, I searched for a seat in a room full of strangers. But those awkward feelings didn’t last long. By the end of the workshop, I felt at home. The speakers shared valuable tools for improving my writing. They also challenged and inspired me to persevere.   
 
Perhaps even better, I formed new friendships. Meeting other people with a heart for writing energized me. These were my people. As someone who does her best work secluded in her office, it was nice to know I was not alone. Especially when I realized I wasn’t the only one with an annoying inner voice.
 
In the months after the conference, I continued to follow my pastor’s simple, but powerful advice. I joined a critique group, entered a writing contest and signed up for another conference. Each time I pushed myself, my confidence grew. Eventually, doing it afraid led me down a path to publication.
 
Today, I am still pursuing my dream. When insecurities creep in, I remind myself that the only way I can truly fail is to quit. Being successful is more than hitting a bestseller list. Real success is doing what I love. I may have sweaty palms and butterflies in my stomach, but I will succeed when I keep doing it afraid.  

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Have you ever experienced this scenario? You have a thought—and you intend to verbalize that thought in a clear, concise manner. But somehow, as the words leave your brain and travel to your mouth, there’s a glitch—and your words come out completely wrong. If so, this post is for you.

This happens to me far too often. When my girls were young, I blamed it on “Mommy Brain.” Someday I’ll probably call it a “Senior Moment.” For now, I’ll stand firm that I’m a writer—not a speaker.
Anyway, a few years ago, I suffered through one of those dreadful moments. I’m not sure it was an all-time, most embarrassing moment, but it definitely ranks among the top ten.

At the time, Curt and I were building a house and facing the monumental task of picking out lights. One day, while browsing at a home lighting store, “mother nature” gave me a call. I left the girls with Curt while I searched for a bathroom.

After finishing my business, I washed my hands and reached for a paper towel. Nothing. I looked under the sink and peeked into a cabinet. Still nothing. I shook my wet hands and returned to the store.

I found Curt and the girls talking with a salesman. As I approached, Curt looked up. “Oh, this is my wife,” Curt said. The salesman extended his hand.  

Immediately, a thought crossed my mind. I can’t shake his hand; I still have dripping wet hands from no paper towels in the restroom. But when the words left my mouth, they came out all wrong. 

“Sorry,” I said. “I can’t shake your hand. I was in the bathroom and there wasn’t any toilet paper.”

Wait! What did I just say?

The salesman’s jaw dropped along with his hand. Curt busted out laughing. My girls looked horrified. I wanted to crawl under a table. 

“Paper towels! Paper towels!” I blurted out. My face burned hot. “You’re out of paper towels!”

Years later, my husband still teases me about it.

So how do you recover from a moment like that? You can do what I did: gasp in horror, turn bright red, and kick yourself for being such a dork. I also never returned to that store.

Since then I’ve had plenty of practice handling embarrassing moments. Usually, it’s after I’ve tripped. (Thank you, multiple sclerosis.) How do I respond? There’s the ever-popular, “Another one bites the dust,” or my personal favorite, “I’m not drunk, I just have MS.”

I’ve also found the following techniques work beautifully:

1. Change the subject. Pronto!
   Your first instinct may be to find the closest exit and make a break for it. But in that moment, the best thing you can do is take a deep breath, dust yourself off and move on. The sooner you push past an awkward moment, the sooner everyone else will too.  
   
   
2. Keep it in perspective.
   In the whole scheme of things, how much will this one little incident affect the rest of your life? Not much. Who cares if that salesman went home and had a good chuckle with his wife at my expense? I’ll probably never see him again. Besides, he probably needed a good laugh. You’re welcome, mister.
   
   
3. Laugh at yourself.
   Seriously, nobody’s perfect. People say and do dumb things ALL the TIME. Laugh at yourself, and that embarrassing moment will lose its power over you.  
   
   
4. Commiserate with a friend.
   If it continues to bother you, call a good friend. (Don’t call my husband; he’d probably still be laughing.) Call someone who loves your dorky-little-self unconditionally. Share and compare embarrassing stories. You should feel better in no time.  
   
   
5. Blog about it.
   Yep. That's right. If sharing my own humiliating blunder can help even one person overcome their own face-reddening awkwardness, it was all totally worth it. Sort of.       

 
How about you? Would any of you dare to share your embarrassing moment with the world? How did you handle it? Do tell! I may need some advice.

It was shaping up to be one of those weekends. Two kids had important activities they were required to attend. Taylor had a volleyball tournament in Indianapolis. Closer to home, Madison had a music contest on Saturday. Curt and I decided to divide and conquer. He’d take Taylor. I’d stay with Madison.

Then the snowstorm hit. Yep, I know it’s the end of March. Welcome to Illinois.

At first, I was bummed. (We could’ve gone to Taylor’s tournament!) Then I looked on the bright side. I would be home ALL weekend – with nowhere to go on Saturday!

My mind raced with all the glorious things I could accomplish. First, I’d start reading a book that’s been patiently waiting for me on the top of the pile. Then, I’d write. I had several nonfiction stories brewing. Or I could work on my novel. I’m still trying to figure out my characters. Maybe I’d start plotting. Also, a whole weekend would give me plenty of time to dig into spring cleaning – even if it did look more like Christmas outside.

But somewhere in the midst of my plans, I realized something. I had an entire weekend with my 13-year-old ahead of me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a whole weekend alone with this kid. Who knew if it would ever happen again?

I thought of my firstborn, away at college. And my 16-year-old, who will be a senior next year. I’ll always have stories to write or housework to do. But I won’t always have a 13-year-old all to myself for the entire weekend.

So, what did we do?

We watched chick flicks like Steel Magnolias and The Help. (Who doesn’t like a reminder that they are “kind, smart and important"?) We played with the puppy. We baked chocolate chip cookies. We slept in late. Wore pajamas all day. Took naps.  

And, thanks to technology, I watched Taylor play volleyball at her tournament. I can’t say I had a productive weekend, but I can say this:

It was practically perfect.    

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I’ve always been a little envious of my fiction-writing friends. They can twist and turn their stories in whatever direction their imaginations take them. If the plot seems boring, they can change it. If a character is annoying, they can kill him. Meanwhile, I am stuck in my factual, nonfiction box, only allowed to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. 
 
Don’t get me wrong. I love real-life inspirational stories. But every now and then, I’ve wondered what it would be like to create my own cast of characters, throw them into a story and make them come to life.

Every month I gather together with a small group of writers. Many of them, fiction writers. I love hearing their creative ideas as they brainstorm their stories. They make me shake my head and respond with the following six words:  

“I wish I could write fiction.”

Inevitably, their faces would light up. “You can!” They’d grin, obviously hoping I’d join them on the other side.
 
But I knew I couldn’t.
 
I had zero story ideas. And if, by chance, I ever did think of something book-worthy, I wouldn’t know how to begin … or end ... or what to say in the middle. So, I put my dream on the backburner.   
 
Months passed and turned into years. Then one morning I woke up with a small spark of an idea. Interesting. I went about my day. Then came another idea. And another.

I stood in line at the funeral home, waiting my turn to express sympathy to my friend. What would I say? She had just lost her husband. No words seemed right. I desperately wanted to say something … anything … to help. I quickly dismissed every thought that came to mind.
 
No, I can’t say that. That sounds so cliché. 
No, that sounds like something from a Hallmark card.
No, that’s too upbeat … maybe she’ll think I’m making light of her pain.
No. No. No! 

I hate being at a loss for words.
 
As a writer, I spend a great deal of time thinking about words. I love finding the perfect word to describe a thought. A feeling. A setting. On the other hand, there’s nothing worse than wracking my brain and fumbling to find words. That’s when I dig out every writer’s best friend: a handy little thesaurus. But every thesaurus in the world couldn’t give me the perfect words to help my hurting friend.
 
I hugged her and whispered those two worn-out words everyone says. “I’m sorry.” Then I told her I’d been thinking of her. And I’d be praying for her. I know there’s power in prayer, but as I looked into her eyes, my words felt inadequate. 
 
A couple weeks later, I saw another friend who’s been going through her own serious struggles. Connie has a brain tumor. It has changed her looks. And it has changed how she speaks.
 
Connie was always so quick-witted and proficient with words. She wrote beautifully. But her words don’t come easily anymore. Even within a few minutes of small talk, I could sense her frustration. As if, the words are there, but they’re just beyond reach.

Suddenly her expression grew serious. “I’ve been thinking about you, Sheri. How are you?”
 
I shook my head and smiled. Unbelievable, I thought. With everything she’s been through – and she was thinking about me.
 
I told her I was doing well, but a little nervous about an upcoming MRI.
 
I’ve had an MRI every year since I was diagnosed with MS. One year I had a reaction to the contrast dye. The technician gave me a shot in the arm, slid me into the machine and walked out of the room. Suddenly, my stomach rolled and my mouth watered, signaling to me that I needed a bucket – now. I called for help and prayed she’d get me out of that machine in time.
 
But I wasn’t just nervous about throwing up. I was also nervous about the test results.
 
“When’s your appointment?” Connie asked.
 
“Monday at 1:00.”
 
She squeezed my arm. “I’ll be praying for you.”
 
On Monday I arrived at my appointment early. I filled out the paperwork and waited my turn. Suddenly, my phone buzzed.

She remembered.
 
Connie hadn’t said a word, but I knew ... she was thinking and praying for me at that moment. It meant more to me than any eloquent words she could ever speak.
 
As the technician slid me into the MRI machine, I thought of my friend who had lost her husband. Maybe it was okay that I never found the right words. Maybe it’s impossible to wrap messy emotions into a neat little package. Maybe sometimes, there really are no words.

​The energy and excitement is almost tangible. Fans cheer. Buzzers echo throughout the arena. Shoes squeak against the hardwood. It’s the second quarter and the Rockets are tied: 24-24. They’re playing tough, hoping to bring home a state basketball trophy.
 
I notice the student section is full of teenagers. There are so many familiar faces. Some I’ve taught in my math classes. Some are friends with my kids. Others I recognize from the hallway. But there’s one boy missing from the crowd.
 
My boy. 

No doubt he’d be in the midst of it all. He loved hanging with his friends and cheering on the Rockets. My heart aches as I remember that tragic day, almost three months ago. 
 
It was Christmas Eve. Our family was ready to leave for lunch at my in-laws. They lived just up the road, within walking distance.
 
Our oldest son, Drake, had already left the house. This didn’t surprise me. It was a beautiful day, and Drake took advantage of every opportunity to be outdoors. He especially loved our back woods. He spent hours exploring, climbing and building forts. He was my carefree, adventurous boy. I assumed he had gone for a walk and would meet us at Grandma’s.
                    
However, when we walked through the door, my mother-in-law looked confused. She glanced at each grandchild, as if conducting a head-count.
 
“Lexi. Douglas. Alayna. Did you forget somebody?”
 
I looked around. “Drake’s not here?”
 
That kid, I thought. He’s still messing around in the woods. I turned to my husband. “Call his cell phone. He probably lost track of time.” 

​Dana tried his number, but Drake didn’t answer. I thought of his friend who lived across the field. “Maybe he went to Brady’s.”
 
Dana swiped his finger across his phone, searching for the location of Drake’s cell phone. “Looks like he’s still in the woods.” Dana shoved his phone back in his pocket. “I’ll go get him.”
 
The rest of the day was a heartbreaking blur. Drake had experienced a terrible accident – and my world stopped. 
 
Drake’s visitation was also a blur. We spent six hours greeting a continuous line of friends, family, teachers, classmates, neighbors, and teammates. The basketball team came as a group. I knew it was especially tough for them. They had been scheduled to play in a holiday tournament that night. They paid their respects and with heavy hearts, headed to the tournament.
 
I was glad to hear that Rockridge won that tournament, and I was deeply touched when I heard what transpired after the game. The entire team had gathered together, held up the trophy and shouted, “We did it for Drake.”
 
At that point, the varsity basketball team dedicated the rest of the season to Drake’s memory. “Do it for Drake” became their motto.
 
Instead of a funeral home, we held Drake’s funeral in the high school gym. We wanted his friends and classmates to feel more comfortable. The entire gym was packed.
 
Both Dana and I spoke at the funeral. People thought we were strong, but we knew better. They didn’t see the private moments. Yes it was difficult, but we had no choice. We needed to do it for Drake. We wanted to talk to the kids.
 
“This pain hurts,” I said, looking into the eyes of Drake’s best friends. “And we know you’re hurting too. God feels our pain.”
 
The first home game after Drake’s death was an emotional one. The entire basketball team presented our family with the first-place trophy from the holiday tournament. Engraved on the trophy, “We did it for Drake.” The cheerleaders carried a huge banner which said, “Do it for Drake – A Great Friend and Teammate.” This would hang on the gym wall for the rest of the season.
 
We were overwhelmed by the love and support of our small community. Dana took the microphone and spoke to the crowd.
 
“Three weeks ago our world turned upside down. Day by day, minute by minute, we’ve been trying to put it all back together.” He took a deep breath. “You’ve put a big piece of our hearts back together, because of everything you’ve done for us.”
 
The first day back to school after break was especially tough. Drake normally rode to school with me. I walked in without him and passed by his locker. I had hung a poster with his picture on his locker over break. It was still there, exactly as I'd hung it. I felt so touched. I knew how teenagers could be. But no one had messed with it. Not one scribble. Not one mark. I appreciated the students being respectful.  
 
That first day back, everyone – from teachers and students to bus drivers and lunch ladies – wore Under Armour (Drake's favorite kind of shirt) to show their support.

Weeks passed and the “Do it for Drake” motto gained momentum. The cheerleaders dedicated their season to Drake. And then the wrestlers.
 
Meanwhile, the basketball team was having a phenomenal season. We loved watching them. They gave us something to look forward to every week. Their support comforted us, and their determination strengthened us. While the Rockets fought hard on the court, our family fought our own battle with grief.  
 
One night was particularly tough for our son, Douglas. He missed his big brother. He plopped down next to me with a heavy sigh. “I wish we could make one phone call or send just one text message to heaven.”
 
“I know,” I said, hugging him close. “I miss Drake too.”
 
Suddenly, Douglas brightened a bit. “Drake could send us a selfie with Jesus!”
 
I laughed, but inside my heart ached. Truth was, I’d take anything if it came from Drake. A phone call. A text message. A selfie. Anything. Didn’t matter what it was. I missed my boy. 
 
By March, our basketball team had a seventeen-game winning streak. For the first time in school history, the Rockridge Rockets were headed to state! I knew Drake was watching and smiling down. He always liked to see people happy. He loved to make them smile. And during that final game of the season, I found a great reason to smile. 

I looked up at the scoreboard. Rockridge was tied: 24-24. I called to my daughter. She always had her phone handy.
 
“Lexi, grab your camera! Look at the score!”
 
Lexi knew the significance of that number. Twenty-four was special to our family. For years, Dana and I have been Nascar – and more specifically – Jeff Gordon (#24) fans. When our kids started playing sports, they all chose jersey number twenty-four. Drake had been number twenty-four since tee-ball. These days, I always notice the 24th of every month. The day Drake passed away.
 
Lexi snapped the picture. Just then, Rockridge came down the court, shot a perfect three-pointer and broke the tie. The crowd roared as the ball swished through the net.
 
Dana and I were stunned. Of all players; Rockridge number 24 had broken the tie.
 
Later, when we looked at the picture, Dana noticed one more thing.
 
“Angie,” he said, “Look at the sign at the top of the scoreboard.” It was an advertisement for PAR-A-DICE Casino.
 
“Paradise,” I said with a smile. Drake was waiting patiently for us in paradise.

​That night, the Rockets brought home a state trophy. The final score: 52-47. Without a doubt, I knew Drake was watching (and smiling down at his friends and family) from paradise.

Have you ever felt like you were being watched? It’s a creepy sensation. Like someone (or something) is following your every move. Lurking in the shadows. Waiting ...   

I’ve experienced this feeling many times. The first time it happened was about a year ago. At the time, I was alone in the house.

I sat at the kitchen table, working on a story. Suddenly, the timer buzzed on the dryer in the laundry room. I jumped up from my chair and looked for a basket. As I bent over and pulled warm clothes from the dryer, an eerie feeling swept over me.

I wasn’t alone.

I could sense it. Someone was watching me from behind. My heart flip-flopped in my chest. I spun around and gasped at the face staring back at me.

-
-
-
-

Sorry. Did I fool you? I just wanted to have a little fun. I never get to write spooky Stephen-King-like-scenes.

Anyway, what I said is true. I've had that creepy feeling many times. Inevitably, I turn around to find this cute little stalker with big brown eyes.

Macy is definitely a family dog. She loves every one of us unconditionally. Even my husband- the one who didn’t want a dog. But when Curt heads off to work and the girls are away at school, Macy is undoubtedly my dog. She follows me everywhere I go.

When I sit at the table and work on my computer, Macy sleeps on a nearby blanket on the floor.

When I go grab a snack, she promptly wakes up and follows me to the kitchen.

When I need to do laundry, she trails behind me as I collect all the clothes.

When I go to the bathroom – yep, you guessed it. She follows me there too.

At first, having my own little stalker was kind of annoying. For one thing, it was nearly impossible to take her for walks. She wanted to be so close by; she was constantly under my feet.

I was also afraid I’d trip over her while walking up or down the stairs. One of the first things I taught her was to sit patiently at the bottom of the steps until I got to the top. Once at the top, I’d motion for her and call, “Upstairs!” Then she happily ran up the steps, eager to be back by my side.  

I will admit, her constant companionship has been strangely comforting. 

I know I’ve shared some of the challenges of living with MS on my blog before. It’s an unpredictable disease. But no matter what kind of day I’m having, Macy is there to offer unconditional support. 

On good days, when I feel well and have plenty of energy, I like to go for walks. As soon as I reach for my leg brace, Macy’s eyes perk up. By the time I've tied my shoes, she’s already sitting by the door wagging her tail.

On bad days, when I’m exhausted and achy and I just need to rest, Macy follows me up the stairs to my room. She stares at me until I scoop her up and plop her onto my bed. Then she snuggles down on a blanket, exhales a sweet contented sigh, and falls asleep at the foot of my bed.

Don't get me wrong. She's certainly not perfect. Some mornings she relentlessly barks at me until I get out of bed. (The nerve of her!) She's a rambunctious puppy with way too much energy. And given the chance, you wouldn't believe what she can do with a roll of toilet paper.

Even so, I've become quite accustomed to having her around. She's a great addition to our family. Even if she is a creepy little stalker. 

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If you're a girl who grew up with brothers, you understand the torment I’ve faced. To be fair, I probably deserved it. I was an annoying little sister. I snooped through their stuff and tattled to Mom. Still, my brothers took such pleasure in picking on me.

One of my brothers had an interesting method of torture. He grabbed my arms, jerked them back and forth, and forced me to hit myself in the face. I grimaced and ducked, trying my best to dodge the inevitable smack. Then he’d laugh hysterically. “Stop it, Sheri! Stop hitting yourself!”

His pompous tone infuriated me. I clenched my fists, and with every bit of strength I could muster from my scrawny arms, tried smacking him back. But it never worked. He was four years older and a whole lot stronger. I only ended up punching myself, which provoked more teasing. “Come on Sheri! Why do you want to hurt yourself?”

As my brother jerked my arms around like a pair of rubber bands, I grew more and more angry. I felt so powerless. And very frustrated.

Strangely, I’ve had similar feelings during my fight against MS.

I remember the first time I heard a basic explanation of MS. “Multiple sclerosis is a disease in which the body attacks itself.” I was completely baffled. Why would my body want to attack itself? It’s like slapping myself in the face. It doesn’t make sense!

Yet, I had been beating myself up for years. I felt the effects daily. Headaches. Debilitating fatigue. Weakness. Pain.

Fortunately, I am beginning to find hope between each sucker-punch. Instead of continuing to clobber myself, I am making changes to take better care of myself.

One example is my diet. I’ve found a real correlation between the foods I eat and how I feel. When I’m tempted to eat junk, I imagine a swift slap upside my head.

“Okay Sheri. I know that Twix bar looks good, but it will give you a headache. Do you really want to hurt yourself?”

Little by little, I am making positive changes in how I care for myself. And I can feel the difference.

Unlike the ridiculous fights with my brother, I am not helpless. My hands aren’t tied. I may be under attack, but I am empowered.

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