I never imagined I’d be here—writing something like this. But we’re at the point where we don’t know what else to do.

There comes a point when survival stops happening quietly in the background—and becomes the only thing a body can do.

I am a mother, a wife, and a woman whose nervous system is slowly turning against her.

Multiple sclerosis brings numbness, burning nerve pain, vision loss, muscle weakness, tremors, and a fatigue so crushing it feels like gravity itself is working overtime. It steals my balance, scrambles my memory, and takes more of my independence every week.

Scoliosis twists my spine. Migraines bring speech loss and blackouts. And sleep? It left long ago.

How Everything Unraveled:

I once had a career I loved—until the company was sold and the job vanished overnight.

I started over from scratch: cleaning houses, helping an elderly gentleman at his salvage yard, doing errands for anyone who needed a hand. Honestly

just doing any work I could while applying for any position available.

My health began to quietly slip away. First pain. Then dizziness. Then numbness in my feet. Now, I can barely walk without trembling, can't lift without stabbing pain, can't drive without fear of losing control.

I've gone nearly a decade without a “village.” No family to call. No help when things fall apart. Trying to hold it all together for my family.

Loss After Loss

In the past year, wave after wave of grief and instability hit:

My soul-dog, Daisy Mae, passed without warning.

A woman that didn't have to love me adopted me as hers. She became my grandma. During Covid the doctors weren't telling people about terminal illnesses and unfortunately she had grown a softball sized tumor on her left lung. We lost her to cancer the day after my birthday almost a year after her diagnosis.

The older gentleman we were caring for passed the day after my grandma, and with him went part of my heart. I loved him as my own and the beautiful friendship we shared in his own grief from his wife leaving us. Now the place we call home is no longer a place we can stay.

We lost two beloved cats—Jack and Paco—in sudden, separate tragedies. It hasn't stopped, it hasn't paused, as soon as I catch my breath we are living another tragedy or health crisis.

Both of our vehicles broke down. We own both of our vehicles and do most of our own work. 1 is a 2006 Chevy Silverado and the other is a 2000 dodge stratus. We’re now stranded in a rural area, 96 miles from the nearest hospital and roughly 2 hours from one doctors office and 3 from my neurologist.

I finally got approved for health insurance, but I can’t get to my neurologist until late August—and I have no working car to even get there.

Why I’m Asking

If I had family to call, I would. But I don’t.

I’ve been doing this alone for nearly a decade.

We are now just one mechanical failure, one denied appointment, one forced move away from losing everything.

Your help could:

Fix a vehicle so I can access care and work again

Bridge the gap in basic expenses while I wait for treatment and

disablity approval.

Help secure housing before we’re asked to leave the only place we have.

Give me the time and tools to heal—to keep showing up for my son, even as my body fights me.

What Your Kindness Means

Even the smallest kindness is a lifeline. A single share could lead to a helping hand. I am not one who asks for hand-outs or even help for that matter. I am just in a place with no clear way out and I've exhausted my resources. So I turned to outside community.

I pray to God everyday for the strength, courage, and health to fight.

From the heart of a mother trying to hold it all together with failing health and clutching onto hope:

Thank you for seeing us.