A New Normal

When I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, my life changed overnight.

What I didn’t fully understand at the time was how much our life would change too.

Illness doesn’t arrive in isolation. It enters relationships quietly at first, slipping into routines and conversations. It settles into plans you’ve made for the future. It reshapes expectations in ways that are subtle but undeniable. When you’re engaged to be married and building a life with someone, a diagnosis doesn’t just belong to you. It becomes something you navigate together.

Wading through my new normal has meant learning how to live differently without losing the life we’re building.

MS has made my body unpredictable. Fatigue can flatten an otherwise ordinary day. Pain can appear without warning. Energy has become something I budget carefully, not something I assume will be there. Things that once felt effortless now require pacing, planning, and sometimes cancellation.

And for a while, I was terrified of what that meant for us.

I worried about becoming a burden.

I worried about being “too much.”

I worried that my illness would slowly shrink the life we imagined.

Chronic illness carries an invisible narrative that whispers: You are harder to love now. It suggests that needing support is the same as taking something away. That dependency equals imbalance. That partnership will quietly tip into obligation.

Those fears don’t disappear just because your partner is kind.

In the early months after my diagnosis, I tried to minimise everything. I downplayed symptoms. I apologised for resting. I pushed through exhaustion to prove I was still capable, still independent, still worthy of being chosen.

But love built on denial is fragile.

The turning point wasn’t a grand romantic gesture. It was conversation. Honest, uncomfortable, sometimes tearful conversation. We talked about what scared us. About the unpredictability. About the grief for the version of the future that felt simpler.

We also talked about choice.

My fiancé is not with me out of obligation. He is with me because he chooses to be. And that distinction matters more than anything.

Illness forces couples to confront realities earlier than they might otherwise. We had to think about accessibility in our home. About energy levels when planning holidays. About how we would divide responsibilities on days when my body isn’t cooperating. We had to acknowledge that flexibility would become part of our foundation.

But flexibility is not weakness. It’s resilience.

There is a misconception that when one partner becomes disabled, the relationship shifts into caregiver and patient. That narrative is tidy, but it’s incomplete. It erases nuance. It assumes imbalance is permanent and one-directional.

Our relationship has not become a story of sacrifice. It has become a story of adaptation.

Some days he supports me physically.

Other days I support him emotionally.

Some days I need more patience.

Other days I give more strength.

Balance in any long-term relationship moves. Disability simply makes that movement more visible.

We’ve learned to measure success differently. A good day isn’t about ticking off a long list of tasks. It might be cooking dinner together slowly. It might be sitting side by side in comfortable silence. It might be managing an outing with careful pacing and returning home before exhaustion hits.

Joy hasn’t disappeared. It has just become more intentional.

There is also intimacy in this new normal — not despite the illness, but because of the honesty it demands. When you are forced to talk about vulnerability, fear, and physical limitation, walls fall faster. Pretence becomes exhausting. What remains is something quieter and, in many ways, stronger.

MS has changed the rhythm of our life, but it hasn’t changed its direction.

We still make plans. We still talk about the future — about our wedding, about building a home, about shared goals. The difference is that those plans now include accessibility, pacing, and contingency. They are grounded in realism rather than assumption.

And realism, I’ve learned, is not the enemy of romance.

If anything, choosing each other with full knowledge of the challenges ahead feels more powerful than loving in ignorance. There is something steady about knowing that your partner has seen the hard days and stayed.

Of course, there are moments of frustration. There are days when fatigue interrupts something important. There are times when I feel guilt for what my body can’t do. Illness doesn’t disappear for the sake of harmony.

But neither does love.

I am not a burden.

He is not my rescuer.

We are two adults navigating a life that didn’t go exactly to plan.

Wading through this new normal hasn’t been graceful. It has been honest. It has required patience, humour, compromise, and sometimes stubborn optimism. It has required both of us to let go of rigid ideas about what partnership “should” look like.

What we’ve discovered is this: disability does not erase love. It reveals its depth.

We are still building a life together.

It just happens at a pace that leaves room for reality.

And in that slower, more deliberate space, I have found something I didn’t expect — not just acceptance of my new normal, but gratitude for the kind of love that can hold it.