There is a certain narrative we craft for ourselves about the way life will unfold. In my story, a cane was reserved for the golden years, perhaps when I was 85 or older. It wasn’t something I ever imagined I’d need before then. And yet, life—with its twists and turns—had other plans.
Living with multiple sclerosis, a chronic illness that affects my balance and mobility, has taught me to adapt in ways I never anticipated. When I began experiencing balance issues, I resisted the idea of using a cane. It wasn’t an easy decision—how could it be, when it seemed to challenge the image of myself I had carried for so long? But as it turns out, that cane didn’t mark the loss of freedom; it was an invitation to reclaim it. I haven’t regretted it for a moment.
Reframing Mobility Aids
For many of us, mobility aids come with an emotional weight. They challenge the identity we’ve carried for years—the idea of being self-sufficient, capable, and unencumbered. But the truth is, these tools don’t take away independence; they restore it. When I finally let go of my resistance and picked up my first cane, it wasn’t about giving up. It was about showing up for my life in a way that honored where I was in that moment.
The first time I used my cane, I noticed something remarkable. Instead of focusing on the fear of losing my balance, I could fully engage with the world around me. I could stroll through the farmer’s market without worrying about uneven pavement or feeling unsteady. Suddenly, the possibilities that seemed to shrink with my diagnosis began to expand.
Thankfully, the cane isn’t a constant companion. I rely on it most during MS relapses or on days when my balance feels particularly precarious. It’s also been a steadfast ally during other health struggles—when I faced pancreatitis, its steady presence was invaluable as I navigated moments of profound weakness.
Adventures Rediscovered
Last October, I took another leap: I invested in a pair of hiking sticks. At first, they were simply tools for a planned trip to Zion National Park with my sisters. But those hiking sticks became so much more. They allowed me to step onto red rock trails, cross uneven terrain, and feel a part of the adventure rather than left behind.
With their help, I traversed the majestic red rock landscapes, climbed over smaller boulders, and soaked in the grandeur of the place. I didn’t follow my sisters everywhere—some trails were beyond my reach—but I found my own sacred spots to rest and meditate on the ancient stone. In those moments, I felt profoundly connected, not limited.
These hiking sticks have become part of my life, even beyond that trip. Around town, they encourage me to stand taller, easing the strain on my back and providing the balance I need to move with confidence. They’ve become a visible yet empowering reminder that adapting doesn’t mean giving up—it means finding new ways to engage with the world.
The Emotional Journey of Acceptance
The hardest part of embracing mobility aids wasn’t the physical adjustment—it was the emotional one. At first, I worried about what others might think. Would they see me as fragile? As “less than”? Over time, I realized the only perception I needed to change was my own. These tools didn’t diminish me; they equipped me to move through life with more confidence and joy.
Practical Advice for Others
If you’re considering a mobility aid, know this: it’s okay to feel uncertain or hesitant. Start small—try out a cane or hiking sticks in a low-pressure setting. Pay attention to what feels good and what meets your needs. And don’t forget to choose something you love. Mobility aids can be as functional as they are stylish, reflecting your personality while offering support.
A Life Reclaimed
Rediscovering freedom doesn’t mean returning to who we once were. It means embracing who we are now, with all the tools and support we need to live fully. For me, that means continuing to explore the world, one step at a time—sometimes with a cane, sometimes with hiking sticks, but always with gratitude.
If you find yourself navigating life with a chronic illness, consider this: a cane, or perhaps a set of hiking sticks, might not be a symbol of defeat, but a tool for liberation. They may open doors to places you thought were closed, offering you the freedom to live fully, right here, right now.
