Today, I realized something profound—something I’ve never fully admitted to myself before: I am Disabled.
It’s not that I didn’t know I’ve “had a disability” for some time. But there’s a difference, at least to me, between acknowledging a condition and embracing that capital-D word. It’s not a judgment, not a badge of defeat or pride. It’s just a truth that landed quietly but firmly today. There was a moment where I just admitted it to myself and I feel ok with it.
Disability isn’t binary. It’s not a switch flipped from 0 to 100%. It’s a spectrum, a shifting line where everyone lands differently. Right now, I’m navigating an evaluation process with the government, going through evaluations and scoring systems. But this realization didn’t come from a form or a checklist. It came from what is actually happening with me.
Last week, a bad fall (very publically outside a bar and restaurant) forced me to sleep downstairs for the first time because I couldn’t manage the stairs. This afternoon, I woke from a nap wanting to go to nearest synagogue—just 200 meters away (I checked this evening on Google Maps)—and I knew I couldn’t make it, even with my walker. I’d struggled there in the morning, and someone walked home with me. This time, I didn’t even try.
This isn’t about one bad day. It’s about the gradual, undeniable decline. A couple of months ago, I walked a 5K. A few months before that, I ran 10K. Now, 200 meters feels like a marathon. Progressive Supranuclear Palsy (PSP)—that first word, progressive—says it all. It chips away at you, not all at once, but in slow, gradual increments. You don’t notice you’ve lost something until it’s already gone.
But here’s where the story turns.
I’m not writing this from a place of despair or denial, waiting for a miracle that might never come. I’m writing from a place of calm, of gratitude, of meaning. I believe God has given me this journey—not as a punishment, but as a path to purpose. This isn’t the optimism of blind hope or forced positivity. It’s deeper, quieter. It’s mine.
I remain hugely blessed. I have the most incredible immediate family. I’m surrounded by people—some near, some far—who support me constantly. I live in a country I’ve always dreamed of living in. I’ve been able to retire at 50, and for someone as cautious and conservative as I’ve always been, that’s no small thing. We’re okay. And that’s a gift.
And perhaps most gratefully of all—my cognition is, thankfully, seemingly intact. My eyes are struggling to work but my mind is still sharp. I can think, reflect, write, and engage. I can still play chess, which brings me joy and keeps me mentally active. That, too, is a blessing I don’t take for granted.
I’ve been given a very important time which I never previously had. Time to reflect. Time to write. Time to mentor. Time to reconnect with the spiritual parts of myself that were often buried under the weight of routine and responsibility. In losing certain abilities, I’ve gained a kind of clarity.
Writing has become my voice—a way to process, to share, to connect. Mentoring others brings and will hopefully continue to bring unexpected joy. And spiritual reflection is a really important thing for me. I don’t see these as consolation prizes. They’re blessings. They’re the silver lining of a life reshaped, not diminished.
That said, don’t mistake this for paradise. I would never have opted for this and I would still choose other paths. I have bad days. I have moments of resentment, frustration, and even anger. There are times when I grieve what I’ve lost and fear what’s still to come. This isn’t a story of unbroken serenity—it’s a story of learning to live with both the light and the shadow. We all have our issues and tragedies and we all have to find the path to make the most of the lives we have and the cards we are dealt.
My optimism might look different from someone else’s. It’s not about running 10K again or pretending the next fall won’t happen.
I’m calm. I’m realistic. I’m learning to live within new limits while still holding on to what matters. Some days are harder than others, and not everything has a silver lining. But I’m still engaged, still contributing, still thinking clearly—and that counts for a lot.
This isn’t about finding beauty in every moment. It’s about staying present, staying connected, and making the most of what I can do. That includes writing, mentoring, reflecting—and yes, even playing a good game of chess. These things don’t fix everything, but they help me stay grounded. And for now, that’s enough.
