When you live with an illness like Multiple Sclerosis, the language is often of battles and fighting. We are told to be warriors, to arm ourselves for a constant struggle. But I’ve found that the best tool isn’t a weapon, but a lens: the practice of learning to spot the glimmers of light, even when the shadows feel overwhelming. This isn’t about ignoring the reality of the condition; far from it. It’s about learning to change our relationship with that reality, one quiet moment at a time. It’s about finding a different way to live alongside it, a way that holds space for hope.

To speak of light, we must first be honest about the shadows. The glossy pamphlets and motivational slogans often skim over the granular frustrations of a body that no longer moves as it once did. The exhaustion is not just tiredness; it’s a profound, bone-deep fatigue that can settle over a day like a heavy fog, obscuring plans and erasing possibilities. This has a ripple effect that touches every part of life, particularly family life. There is a unique flavour of disappointment that comes from seeing the hopeful faces of your loved ones as they plan a long family walk, knowing you cannot join them.

I remember a specific moment with perfect clarity. The plan was simple: a short trip out for a bite to eat at a nice pub overlooking the River Hamble. A moment of normality, of connection. But as we arrived, we were met with a single, non-negotiable step at the entrance, rendering it completely wheelchair unfriendly. In that instant, the simple joy we had planned evaporated, replaced by that familiar, dull ache of frustration and exclusion. That single step became a symbol of the countless invisible barriers that pepper the landscape of chronic illness. It’s in moments like these that the darkness can feel total, a feeling that anyone with a chronic condition, and those who love and care for them, will surely recognise.

It is precisely in these moments that the word ‘mindfulness’ is often suggested. For many, the term conjures up intimidating images of silent, cross-legged meditation, of a demand to ’empty the mind’ – a near-impossible task when that mind is wrestling with pain, brain fog, or disappointment. But what if we redefine it? For me, mindfulness isn’t about emptying the mind at all. It’s about gently guiding it to a better place.

For me, that place is a memory, a mental postcard I have bottled up for such occasions. I am sitting and looking out over the Solent, the body of water that separates the English coast from the Isle of Wight. The sun is shining, and as I watch the gentle movement of the sea, I notice the brief flecks of light that glimmer and dance off the tips of the ripples and waves. For that moment, as I focus on that single, beautiful detail, I am calm. I am centred. I am, almost, at peace. That is my mindfulness. It is not an escape from reality, but a conscious decision to focus on a sliver of beauty within it. It’s the tool that allows me to find the light, even when the world presents me with an unfriendly step.

This might sound lovely in theory, but how do we get there when we’re standing in front of that step, feeling the frustration bubble up? The bridge from the shadow to the light is built with simple, practical tools. The first, and most powerful, is the breath. It’s always with you. In that moment of rising tension, the practice is to stop and simply breathe. In for five seconds, out for five seconds. The goal isn’t to think about anything special; it’s to focus only on the breath itself. Feel your chest move in, and then out. After just a couple of breaths, you no longer need to count. Your focus has shifted from the external problem to the internal anchor of your breathing. It is an act of getting back to the moment, of finding a small, quiet space of peace inside the storm.

The second tool is just as vital: humour. When the situation feels like it needs to be trivialised, and when I have someone with me, I will try to make a joke. A wry comment about the step’s personal vendetta, or a silly suggestion for surmounting it. This small act of levity does something miraculous. It reclaims power from the inanimate object, from the frustrating situation. It says, “This may have blocked my path, but it will not crush my spirit.” More than that, it sends a powerful signal to the person I am with.

And this is where we see the ripple effect. When a person is faced with someone else’s struggle – be it with a physical disability or any other kind of pain – they often feel awkward. They don’t know what to do, what to say, or how to act. It’s a natural human reaction, but it can build a wall between people. When you use your breath to find your calm centre, or when you use humour to lighten the mood, you are giving them a profound gift. You are dissolving that awkwardness. You are showing them that you are still you, that this moment of difficulty does not define the entire experience. It allows them to relax, to connect with you as a person rather than seeing you only as a patient. It turns a moment of shared frustration into a moment of shared humanity.

Living with MS, or any long-term condition, is not a journey with a clear destination. It is a series of moments, day by day, hour by hour. Some will be heavy and dark, that much is true. But within those days, there are always opportunities to find a different focus. The practice of mindfulness is simply the art of noticing them.

So, the only question that matters is this: where will you look for your glimmer of light today? Perhaps it’s in the rhythm of your next breath, the warmth of a cup of tea, or the shared smile that follows a whispered joke.

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