DEAR PRIDE: A LETTER TO OURSELVES

Pride has been showing up in my life in ways I didn’t always recognize. For a long time, I only understood pride as something positive. Being proud of myself. Being proud of how far I’ve come, what I’ve survived, and what I continue to accomplish while living with MS. That kind of pride matters. It has helped me rebuild confidence, honor my resilience, and remember that my life did not stop at diagnosis.

Lately, I’ve noticed another side of pride. A quieter one. One that doesn’t always feel empowering.

This version of pride shows up when I hesitate to ask for help. When I tell myself I can figure it out alone, even when my body is clearly asking for support. It’s the pride that convinces me I should push through fatigue or discomfort, that resting or leaning on others somehow takes away from my strength. There have been mornings when my body simply wouldn’t cooperate, and pride still urged me to move as if nothing had changed.

Becoming aware of this has required me to slow down and look more closely at my patterns. I’ve had to ask myself where I’m honoring my growth, and where I’m making life harder than it needs to be. Living with chronic illness has already introduced enough unpredictability. I’m learning that I don’t need to add more pressure by insisting I do everything on my own.

There is a difference between being proud of yourself and being guarded by pride. One allows space for celebration, reflection, and self-trust. The other can quietly limit connection, support, and ease. I’m learning to let pride coexist with vulnerability, to recognize that asking for help does not undo my resilience. It expands it.

I’ve also noticed how much pride is tied to control. Control over my body, my energy, my plans. However, chronic illness has taught me that control is often an illusion. What I can practice instead is flexibility. Trusting the pivot. Trusting that support does not mean failure, and that needing help does not erase everything I’ve accomplished.

This awareness has been freeing. It has allowed me to soften my inner dialogue and meet myself with more compassion. To honor what I can do without punishing myself for what I cannot. To understand that strength doesn’t always look like pushing forward. Sometimes it looks like pausing, receiving, and allowing.

So, dear pride, thank you for reminding me of how far I’ve come. Thank you for revealing where I still have room to grow. I’m learning to hold both truths at once, celebrating my resilience while making space for support, care, and connection along the way.