Spilled Milk

Living with a progressive disorder is like attempting to balance on a tightrope, where every step feels shaky and the ground keeps shifting beneath you. I often grapple with the harsh truth that my body is no longer the reliable vessel it once was, and hasn't been for quite some time. With progressive disorders, change is the only constant. Every morning, I wake up filled with a mix of hope and anxiety. I hope today will be manageable, yet dread what it could bring. Daily, my conditions might worsen, and I can never be sure which part of me will give out next: my legs, my arms, my hands, my tongue, my eyes. Every aspect of my life is thrown into question, and nothing feels truly safe from the relentless progression of the time bomb inside of me. Tomorrow is not guaranteed, and plans are often riddled with question marks. Time has become so incredibly precious. Each moment lost is one I can never reclaim. Each passing minute, I inch further into the stages of the unknown, whether I’m ready for them or not.

I’ve come to learn, sometimes in incredibly painfully ways, that there’s simply no time to cry over spilled milk. There’s no room to dwell on what used to be, or to mourn every small function I’ve lost. The grief is real, yes, and I’ve felt it deeply, I still feel it deeply. But I can’t afford to set up camp in that sorrow. If I’m always looking back, grieving what’s behind me, I miss what’s still in front of me — however small or fleeting that might be.

I’m not saying every day is a triumph or that I never break down. What I’m saying is that I’ve come to focus on forward motion; however slow, however uncertain. I try to shift my focus to what I can still do, who I can still love, and what kind of joy I can still wring out of this broken mess of a body. That’s the tightrope I walk now: balancing grief with gratitude, fear with fierce determination.

So no, I can't waste my energy mourning the milk that’s already spilled: the things my body used to do, the life I once imagined. The obstacles, they are real, but so are the joys. Laughing with my friends. The warmth of the sun on my skin. Feeling the ocean waves on my feet. These are not small things anymore — they are everything. Because at the end of the day, I don’t want to spend what time I have left looking backwards.

There’s no time to cry over spilled milk. Not because the past doesn’t matter, but because I still do.