from the Vault:
When I say I am allowed to like my life, I think I am pushing back against pity.
The idea that because I am sick, everything about my life must be tragic.
That because MS changed my body, I am only allowed to talk about loss.
That every good thing needs a sad footnote.
But my life is still mine.
And I am allowed to enjoy it.
I am allowed to like my life without pretending it is easy.
I am allowed to be grateful without becoming fake.
I am allowed to have joy without apologizing for it.
MS has changed almost every part of my life.
It changed my work.
It changed my body.
It changed my energy.
It changed my hand.
It changed how I move through the world.
There is grief here.
There is frustration here.
There are days when pain, fatigue, stiffness, brain fog and mobility problems take up far too much space.
I am not denying any of that.
I am just refusing to let it become the only true thing about me.
I like my wife.
I like my kids.
I like my work.
I like my plants.
I like race mornings.
I like what I am building.
That does not erase the grief.
It just refuses to let grief own the whole house.
One of my daughters makes art.
I can see lessons in her work that go all the way back to when she was in Grade 4 or 5.
Now we can have real technical conversations.
Not only father-and-daughter conversations.
Illustrator conversations.
We talk about composition, shape, colour, anatomy and what is working inside an image.
She was drawing a pop star, and we could speak in that little visual language that Natalie and her sister do not completely understand.
I love that.
MS changed my hand.
MS changed what drawing looks like for me.
But it did not erase the artist in me.
It did not erase my ability to see.
It did not erase what I know.
And now some of that knowledge lives in a conversation with my daughter.
That counts.
Natalie and I watched Man on Fire together.
Nothing monumental happened.
We sat together and watched a movie.
That is life too.
Not everything meaningful needs to become a major event.
Sometimes it is a movie with your wife.
A conversation with your daughters.
Music playing.
A fight weekend.
A family gathering.
A piece of Trinidadian culture that still feels alive in you.
A project that gives the day some shape.
A plant finally sitting outside, stretching its branches and looking for the sun.
A good day does not have to be big.
The small life is not a failed life.
I think illness can make us suspicious of ordinary happiness.
You feel like you should be doing more.
Going farther.
Building something bigger.
Being more impressive.
Proving that the disease did not win.
But joy still counts even when it is small.
Especially when it is small.
A laugh still counts.
A good meal still counts.
Sitting on the deck still counts.
Watching racing in the morning still counts.
Seeing a plant take to a new pot still counts.
Finishing a paragraph still counts.
Being present with the people you love still counts.
There was a time when I thought a good life had to look more successful from the outside.
More career.
More money.
More movement.
More proof.
Now I notice different things.
Did I laugh today?
Did I make something?
Did I talk to my girls?
Did Natalie and I have a good moment?
Did I get outside?
Did I see something growing?
Did I feel useful?
Did I feel like myself?
Those are not consolation prizes.
That is my actual life.
I did not get every life I imagined.
I did not get to keep every version of myself.
That hurts.
But I am still here.
And there are things here that I genuinely love.
Sometimes joy is rotisserie chicken.
I am about to make chicken today.
I love doing it.
Everybody loves my chicken.
I am allowed to enjoy that without adding a sad footnote.
My life is not perfect.
My body is not reliable.
There is grief here.
There is pain here.
But the chicken is real.
The love is real.
The work is real.
The laughter is real.
And I am allowed to like my life.