MS Fighter

Most people think strength is load. That it’s yelling through the pain, throwing weights, making noise. But those of us in the trenches—those of us living with chronic illness—we know better. Real strength isn’t the roar. It’s the silence after. It’s when the world stops watching and you’re left with nothing but your thoughts, your pain, and your choice. Do I stay down? Or do I rise…again? There are no medals for getting out of bed when your body’s screaming. No cameras for the day you trained through brain fog, dizziness, or a full body burn no one else can feel. No pats on the back for keeping it together when your nerves are on fire and your soul feels like it’s cracking. And still, you rise. Because you’re not doing this for validation—you’re doing it to survive. To evolve. To remind yourself that you’re still dangerous, even when your body’s betrayed you. I’ve trained in crowded gyms and empty garages. I’ve boxed rounds where I could barely see straight—not to prove anything to anyone, but because something inside me refuses to quit. And I know I’m not alone. This post isn’t just for men—even though I write like one, fight like one, and bleed like one. It’s for anyone—any fighter—who knows what it means to battle quietly. Men. Women. Doesn’t matter. If you’re still showing up, still fighting, still building your own damn legacy in silence—you’re part of this tribe. This world idolizes noise. But I’ve seen the strongest people move in silence, trained in darkness, and suffer with style. So no, strength isn’t always loud. But it’s always real. And if you’re living with MS and still walking your path? Still getting your hands dirty? Then trust me, you’re strong as hell. Let the world sleep on you. Let them underestimate you. They’ll hear you when you’re done.

The Myth of Loud Strength.

Let’s kill a myth right now—the idea that strength has to be loud to be real. You know the type. The guy who growls after every rep, flexes in every mirror, and posts a motivational caption with every set of biceps curls. The kind of strength that needs likes to exist. But let me tell you something, as someone who’s lived with MS for years That kind of strength doesn’t survive the storm. When your nervous system starts glitching, when you can’t feel your legs right, when fatigue crashes down like a blackout curtain—yelling won’t save you. Still showing up. Still doing the fucking work. Silently. Consistently. Brutally. MS doesn’t care how loud you are. It cares how long you last. When you live with this disease, your strength has to grow underground. Where no one’s watching. Where the applause never comes. Where you don’t get a trophy for getting out of bed—you just get another fight. And here’s the thing…that’s the real test of power. The kind of strength that gets up when no one’s looking. The kind that doesn’t post about the struggle because it’s too busy surviving it. The kind that doesn’t need to scream, because it’s too focused on winning. That’s the strength I respect. Not the show. Not the noise. Not the BS. I’ve seen men and women alike walk into a gym or a job or a parenting role, dragging a broken body and a tired mind, and still lead like warriors. They weren’t loud. They weren’t flashy. But you could feel the fire in their presence. That’s real strength. The kind you don’t need to announce. The kind that doesn’t crack under pressure—because it was forged in pressure. Silently. Day after day. So let them keep selling loud. Let them keep shouting over the silence. The ones who last? We’re busy doing the work, not the performance.

My Silent Victories.

You want to know what real wins look like with MS? They’re not loud. They don’t come with cheers, followers, or PR numbers. They come in the form of decisions—quiet ones, made in the dark, when no one’s watching and you’ve got every reason to quit. I’ve had days where getting out of bed felt like dragging a corpse uphill. My legs were numb. My hands couldn’t grip my toothbrush. My brain was fogged up like a busted windshield in a snowstorm. And yet, I got up. I showed up for my work, my daughter, my training. Did I crush records that day? Hell no. But I beat the voice in my head whispering Just stay down. That’s a wing. A silent one. No one will notice and most people can’t even imagine considering this a win. But it is. A damn important one. There are times I’ve boxed through vertigo. Imagine ducking a jab when the room’s spinning. I actually lost my eyesight for a split second and lost a fight—this happened long before my diagnosis and when this happened, I started to be concerned like what’s happening (but that’s a different story I will tell one day). You don’t feel like a fighter—you feel like you’re fighting your own nervous system. But I kept going. Because I’d rather spar with the beast than sit still and let it take the whole ring. I’ve trained on days when I couldn’t feel my feet. Ever try a deadlift when your soles feel like rubber? No, it wasn’t a perfect set. No, I didn’t break records. But I was there—under the bar, breathing like a warrior, moving like it mattered. Because it does. I’ve held my daughter after a full day of work, a flare-up, and a broken night of sleep. My body was begging for rest. But I held her anyway. Smiled anyway. Because strength isn’t just physical—it’s choosing to give when you’ve got nothing left. There are victories no one talks about:

• Saying I’m fine and meaning it, not because everything’s perfect, but because you’ve found peace in the chaos.
• Showing up to dinner with your partner, even when you feel like collapsing.
• Writing a blog post through hand tremors (I have them at this point when writing this chapter).
• Finishing a walk, a workout, a round—not to prove a point to others, but to prove something to yourself.

And the wild part? No one ever sees these moments. They pass like shadows—but they build your core. This is what real strength looks like. Not noise. Not PRs. Not Instagram flexing. It’s the quiet, daily rebellion against everything MS throws at you. It’s refusing to give up your identity, your routine, your dignity—even when your body’s trying to rip it from you. These are my silent wins. Not glamorous. Not cinematic. But they’re mine. And if you’re reading this—if you’ve had even one moment where you said Not today, MS—then you know exactly what I’m talking about. You don’t need the world to cheer for you. Because fighters like us? We’ve learned to clap for ourselves in silence—and that’s more than enough.

What It Means to Be Quietly Relentless.

There’s a breed of people the world doesn’t understand—the ones who fight without noise. They don’t beg for attention. They don’t cry for sympathy. They don’t make speeches about how hard their life is. They just get up. Every. Fucking. Day. Quiet relentlessness is what separates the strong from the spectators. It’s not about proving anything to anyone—it’s about keeping a promise to yourself when. Your entire body is screaming quit. I don’t train to look tough. I train to stay ready—for pain, for stress, for the storm that MS brings without warning. Some mornings, my legs are bricks. My grip is gone. I’ve got fatigue like someone turned gravity up to 11. But I still lace up. Maybe I’m not hitting combos like I used to. Maybe the barbell feels twice as heavy. But I’m still in the fight—that’s what matters. Because relentless isn’t about being perfect. It’s about not fucking quitting. When people see me training, boxing, showing up—they don’t see the pre-game battle. The mental warfare. The calculations…Is this pain: Is it nerve misfire? Is it fatigue, or am I just tired? Can I push today, or do I need to pull back? Every session starts with a choice—cave in or carve forward. And I choose forward. Every time. I’ve trained through flares, through brain fog, through the kind of pain that would buckle most people. And not to prove I’m badass. But because this is who I am. Because I owe it to the version of me that didn’t give up back when it would’ve been easier to just stop. Quiet relentlessness is built in isolation. In the garage gym when everyone is sleeping. On a run when your body’s twitching with neurological misfires. In a cold shower when you’re bargaining with your breath. In the moment you delete the excuses and rewrite your story…again. This kind of discipline changes you. You stop giving energy to things that don’t matter. You don’t get caught up in drama, gossip, or validation. You just execute. You live your mission. You protect your energy like your life depends on it…because it does. People ask how I stay so motivated. I don’t I’m not motivated—I’m locked in. There’s a difference. Motivation is a feeling. Relentlessness is a decision. I made that decision the day I realized MS wasn’t going away (on day 1 of my diagnosis) but neither was my will to live like a fighter. You can break my body. You can strip my energy. But you will not touch my resolve. That’s what being quietly relentless looks like. Not loud. Not pretty. Not perfect. Just unbreakable—in the shadows, in the silence, in the places where most people would fold. If you’re there too—grinding in the dark, showing up tired, adapting without fanfare—then I see you. And I respect the hell out of you.

The Quiet Wins That Build Unshakable Strength.

You know what’s funny? The world’s obsessed with noise. With aesthetics. With likes. With curated highlight reels of strength and success. But the real ones? The ones who survive and thrive with MS—or any chronic battle—we live in the in-between. In the quiet. In the repetition. In the discipline no one claps for. It’s not sexy. It’s not social-media-worthy. But it’s real. It’s raw. And it’s ours. This journey—my journey, maybe yours too—it’s not about overcoming MS like it’s some final boss you beat once. It’s about enduring MS. Learning to co-exist with it without letting it define who the hell you are. Every time you show up when your body tells you to lie down—that’s a quiet win. Every time you train smart instead of reckless, lead your family while drained, or hold onto your dignity in the storm—those are the kind of victories that build unshakable strength. The world may not recognize that. But we do. Because when the lights go out, when the gym is empty, when the symptoms spike and your confidence dips…what you’ve built in silence is what holds the line. This blog isn’t just about MS. It’s about resilience. It’s about owning your masculinity or femininity—or your identity—not by outdated standards, but by your actions when shit gets hard. It’s about mental toughness, smart recovery, sharp training, and brutal honesty. It’s about becoming the kind of person who doesn’t need to yell to be strong. And whether you’re a man or a woman reading this—if you’re fighting in silence, if you’re showing up for yourself and the ones you love—then know this You’re not alone, you’re not broken, and you’re not weak. You’re battle-tested. And you’re exactly what the world needs more of.

“Champions aren’t made in gyms. Champions are made from something they have deep inside them, a desire, a dream, a vision.” -Muhammad Ali

Let that quote sink in—then go do the work. Quietly. Consistently. Relentlessly. Because that’s what strength looks like.