Tag Archives: love

About Me, Multiple Sclerosis

I Thought MS Would Take My Legs

Five years ago today, I had a conversation with my partner in crime.

I had been having extreme difficulty walking for a few days. She called me and said she was coming to get me and take me to the emergency room.

I told her, “Not today. Let’s go in the morning.”

She said okay.

That night, I lay in bed wondering what could possibly be causing me to have so much trouble walking for so long. I remember it was a Friday. Looking back now, I wonder: What was I thinking?

I had already been to urgent care that day. They had no idea what was going on, and I could barely get myself there.

The next morning, we went to the emergency room. After several MRIs and other tests, I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.

I couldn’t believe it.

I thought MS wasn’t genetic. My sister already had Multiple Sclerosis, so surely what was happening to me had to be something else.

But no.

Although MS allegedly isn’t directly inherited, somehow we BOTH have MS.

I thought my life was over.

I thought I was destined to be in a wheelchair. Disabled. Dependent on other people.

Because that was the image of MS I had seen.

I remember meeting Dr. Dyke, the neurologist on duty in the emergency room. He was such a nice guy. He ended up becoming my neurologist and remained my doctor until I moved away from DFW.

My BFF came to the emergency room and was there when I received the diagnosis. After that, she came to every appointment with me for years.

I don’t think I fully appreciated then how much care that required. She took time off work to attend those appointments with me. Other than my son, I had no family in DFW.

Without my BFF, I would have been alone.

I received steroids in the emergency room. It took a few hours, but eventually I was able to walk out without incident.

And then, just a few days later, my partner in crime, 18 friends, and I went to Tulum, Mexico, for a friend’s birthday trip to paradise.

Because apparently a life-changing diagnosis wasn’t going to stop the itinerary.

I told my friend Ivy, the birthday girl, about my diagnosis. She and everyone else on that trip watched over me with such kindness.

Before leaving, I bought a packable cane just in case I needed it.

Five years later, I still keep that cane in my car.

I remember calling my mom the day after my diagnosis to tell her. I didn’t want to tell her on August 21 because that was her birthday, and I didn’t want to tell my Daddy over the phone.

Some time later, my parents came to visit, and I told my Daddy that I had MS too.

He cried.

Not just a tear.

His initial reaction was deeply emotional.

And somehow, I found myself comforting him about my diagnosis.

The diagnosis also made other things in my life make sense.

For years, I had issues with my bladder. I couldn’t always hold it. I had accidents. I have memories of running desperately to bathrooms and even peeing on the side of the car.

It was just something I laughed about.

My friends knew that if I said I had to go, everyone needed to stop what they were doing and make sure I got to a restroom.

Over the years, I remember searching bladder incontinence online and seeing very clearly that one possible cause was Multiple Sclerosis.

But it never clicked.

Not until I ended up in that emergency room.

Today, I wear incontinence underwear every day.

Actually, I wear two.

Just in case.

And then there are the changes people can’t see.

The mild cognitive impairment.

Words don’t come to me the way they used to.

I used to be quick. I could pull something someone said earlier in a conversation and turn it into a funny callback. I could jump into conversations naturally. I could think of questions. I could keep the conversation going.

Now, I often sit quietly while other people are talking.

I listen.

I observe.

But sometimes I can’t figure out how to break into the conversation. I don’t have anything to add because the words simply aren’t there. Questions don’t pop into my brain the way they once did.

I go to ChatGPT for conversation starters more often than I’d like to admit.

When I was diagnosed, I thought the worst thing MS could take from me was my ability to walk.

Five years later, I realize I was wrong.

It took some of my words.

And that is an invisible pain I never knew to fear.

Not having the words has created a different kind of loneliness.

I am here.

People are around me.

I want to connect with them. I want to join the conversation. I want to explain what is happening inside of me.

But sometimes I simply can’t find the words to do it.

And losing my words hurts because it feels like I lost a piece of myself.

If MS only affected my walking, people could see me struggling.

They might slow down.

Offer me an arm.

Find me somewhere to sit.

Understand why I’m tired.

But nobody can see me searching for a word.

Nobody can see the thought that was there a second ago disappear before I could grab it.

Nobody can see how lonely it can feel to have something to say and not be able to find the words to say it.

Five years ago, I lay in bed wondering why I couldn’t walk.

I had no idea that five years later, I would be grieving something I didn’t even know I could lose.

My words.

DDC

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About Me, Mental Health, Multiple Sclerosis

What Happened To Me?!?!

If DDC 2021 met DDC 2026, she probably wouldn’t recognize her.

She’d spend the first few minutes asking questions.

What happened to your spark?

Why don’t you laugh as much anymore?

When did you stop planning girls’ nights and random Tuesday adventures?

Why do you stay home so much?

When did you stop blogging?

Why are you so quiet?

And then she’d ask the question that hurts the most.

“What happened to me?”

I wish I had a simple answer.

I could tell her that Multiple Sclerosis happened.

Depression happened.

ADHD happened.

Stress happened.

Perimenopause happened.

Maybe even years of carrying more than I realized happened.

But none of those answers would fully explain why she no longer recognizes herself in me.

The hardest part hasn’t been learning to live with MS.

The hardest part has been grieving the woman I used to be while trying to become someone I never expected to meet.

I miss the way my brain used to work.

I miss finding the perfect word without searching for it.

I miss making people laugh with a callback to something they said an hour earlier.

I miss walking into a room already thinking about how to bring people together.

I miss blogging because the words used to arrive faster than I could type them.

Now they often feel trapped somewhere just beyond my reach.

People say Multiple Sclerosis is an invisible disease.

Sometimes that’s true.

Most people don’t see the battle happening inside my mind.

They don’t see me searching for a word that used to come effortlessly.

They don’t see the grief that comes from feeling like a stranger inside your own life.

I used to describe myself as outgoing.

Effervescent.

Now I spend many evenings at home with an audiobook.

I’ve noticed something strange about that.

I can almost measure my isolation by the number of books I read.

The higher the number climbs, the quieter my life has become.

It’s only July, and I’ve already finished 28 books.

Books haven’t replaced people.

They’ve simply kept me company.

I’ve stopped blogging.

I’ve stayed in a job I’m afraid to leave because I no longer trust my own abilities the way I once did.

Little by little, fear has made my world smaller.

Last week I met another woman with MS at physical therapy.

She was using a walker.

I only said hello.

Later, I wondered if I wasn’t avoiding her at all.

Maybe I was avoiding the fear she represented.

Or maybe I was avoiding the grief we would’ve recognized in each other without saying a word.

Today, though, I decided to write.

Not because the words suddenly came back.

They didn’t.

I wrote because I was tired of waiting until everything felt normal again.

Maybe this is what hope looks like now.

Not pretending I’m the woman I was in 2021.

Not believing I’ve lost her forever either.

Just trusting that somewhere underneath the grief, the doctor’s appointments, the diagnoses, and the fear…

I’m still here.

Maybe DDC 2021 wouldn’t recognize me right away.

But I hope if she stayed awhile, she’d still recognize my heart.

And maybe…

she’d remind me that it’s okay to keep becoming.

DDC

Lesson: Grief isn’t limited to losing people. Sometimes the hardest grief is mourning the version of yourself you thought you’d always be. Healing begins when you stop waiting to become your old self and start giving your present self permission to have a voice.

Question: Have you ever grieved a version of yourself that no longer exists? What helped you begin accepting—and even appreciating—the person you’re becoming?

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About Me, Mental Health

Cloudy With a Chance of Heavy Rain

If my emotional state had a weather forecast today, it would read:

Cloudy with a chance of heavy rain.

From the outside, the clouds don’t always look threatening. Most people see me at work. They see me smile. They see me answer emails. They see me show up.

What they don’t see is that it takes me nearly an hour after waking up just to convince myself to get out of bed.

The hardest part of my day isn’t work.

It’s preparing myself to face it.

People assume I’m okay.

I’m not.

Lately, I’ve been grieving someone who is still alive—myself.

I miss the version of me who woke up excited about life. The woman who was optimistic about the future. The one who believed there was always something to look forward to.

I don’t know exactly when she became so hard to find.

Living with multiple sclerosis has changed me in ways that are obvious and in ways that are invisible. Most people notice when my body is tired.

They don’t notice when MS steals my words.

When I know exactly what I want to say but can’t find it.

When a conversation becomes a search party for vocabulary that used to come effortlessly.

Depression has its own voice.

It whispers that I’m doomed.

It tells me this is as good as life will ever get.

It makes me question whether I’ll ever feel like myself again.

Sometimes I wonder if people understand that this isn’t just sadness.

It’s disconnection.

It’s looking in the mirror and feeling like you’re staring at someone you recognize but don’t quite know anymore.

If my body could speak, I think it would say only one word:

Help.

And yet…

There are still moments.

The sound of Mason laughing.

Showing up for work, even when every part of me wants to stay in bed.

Holding on to the smallest hope that my future self is waiting somewhere ahead, ready to tell me:

Everything is going to be alright.

I don’t know when this season will end.

Right now, everything feels hard.

Everything.

But maybe healing doesn’t begin when the clouds disappear.

Maybe it begins when we finally tell the truth about the weather.

Today, my forecast is cloudy with a chance of heavy rain.

And for today, telling the truth about that is enough.

DDC

Lesson: Some days the goal isn’t to find the sunshine. Some days the goal is simply to stop pretending it’s sunny. There is courage in naming the storm, and sometimes that’s the first step toward seeing the clouds begin to part. 

Question: What keeps you going when you can’t see the sun? 

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Chapter 2

44

On Sunday, November 23, 2025, I turned 44 years old. And if I’m being straight with you—this past year has been… heavy.

Coming home as an adult is complicated. You return to familiar streets and familiar people, but life doesn’t rewind just because you did. Rebuilding isn’t automatic. It takes intention, self-awareness, and the courage to face the parts of your life that feel empty.

I walked back into Louisiana with a loose plan:

  • find a stable income 
  • find a church home 
  • find a Toastmasters meeting.

 A decent start, but not nearly enough for the life I need.

Even though I know I’m a person who thrives on community, laughter, conversation, and shared space, I didn’t create a plan to nurture connection. I didn’t set expectations for maintaining old relationships or building new ones. In the back of my mind, I kept imagining friendships just falling into place—like they used to. People popping in, inviting me out, recreating the same spontaneous warmth I once felt in Texas.

But life doesn’t recreate the past. Not without effort. Not without intention.

I declared 2025 my “Year of Connection,” but looking back, it wasn’t a year of connection. It was the year that revealed how deeply I craved connection—how much I missed feeling woven into a community. A year that showed me the difference between wanting connection and actually building it. That realization forced me to get honest about my lack of action.

Craving connection without specific action leads nowhere. And the truth is, my cravings don’t matter if my actions don’t match them. I’ve been in a self-induced isolation for so long that I almost forgot how to be a friend and how to connect. Realizing that made me see just how much I’ve been missing real closeness.

I want connection. Real connection. The kind that looks like weekly calls, occasional brunches, random Tuesday hangouts, sitting in someone’s living room talking about life. I’m not craving quick, empty check-ins. I’m craving meaningful relationships that naturally include those small moments — the shared posts, the random texts, the tiny touchpoints that make life feel lighter and more human.

As I step into 44, I know exactly what I want this year to mean:
The year I walk out of isolation.
The year I choose connection with intention.
The year I return to spiritual grounding and reconnect with the church in a real, committed way.
I’m naturally a dramatic person. I don’t need 44 to be dramatic. I just need it to be deliberate.
A quiet turning toward community. A gentle re-entry into belonging. A reflective acknowledgment that I’m ready to live again—not just exist.

And this year, I’m choosing connection on purpose.

DDC

Lesson: Oh yes it’s time. Connection time! I’m coming out of isolation and into my connected era. Ready or not. Here I come! 

Question: So . . .  where do I start? 

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About Me, Humor, Love Life

The Speech I Should Have Given

My BFF got married this weekend at a beautiful, love-filled wedding — the kind of day that feels like a movie, where everything and everyone is glowing, and you can feel love in the air like confetti.

I told her that I wanted to be on program at her wedding. Her response? “There’s no program, but you can speak at the reception.” Somehow, I heard that as a maybe. Not exactly the guaranteed microphone moment I envisioned.

Still, I prepared — because that’s what best friends do. I spent the weeks leading up to the wedding studying YouTube speeches, jotting down notes, and even consulting ChatGPT (yes, I had AI assist with my emotions — don’t judge). I wrote a few sentences that I thought might capture our friendship — just in case the opportunity came up.

Then came the reception. The music was perfect, the love was loud, and the energy was everything. At one point, Sharecker walked over to me and said, “It’s almost time for speeches.”

And I froze. Like a deer in headlights.

She must’ve noticed because she immediately offered, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

But of course I wanted to.

I reached for my phone to review the notes I’d so carefully prepared — and right then, my phone screen went black. Dead. No charger in sight.

So I did what best friends do when life doesn’t go according to plan — I spoke from the heart.

I stood up, nerves shaking, voice cracking, and said what I could remember: that I loved her deeply, that I was proud of her, and that seeing her so happy filled me with joy. There were laughs, there were tears, and it felt like the right kind of imperfect — the kind that’s real.

But now, with my 27” monitor, full battery, and all the words that escaped me that night — here’s the speech I should have given:

The Speech 

Good evening, everyone. I’m Danielle Denise Clark, and I have the honor of being best friends with the beautiful bride, Sharecker.

We met riding bikes in middle school, and from the very first moment, I knew I needed her in my life for the rest of my life.

Over the past 30 years, Sharecker has always been love in motion. With acts of service as her love language, she has shown up for me in every way imaginable — physically, emotionally, spiritually, and wholeheartedly.

We’re quite the opposites, too. I can be loud, over the top, and a little extra — while she’s calm, reserved, and effortlessly cool. But that balance has always been the heartbeat of our friendship.

Sharecker is generous with her spirit, steady in her presence, and intentional with her words. She doesn’t just talk about love — she lives it.

And today, watching her marry Charles — the man who makes her feel safe, seen, and protected — felt like witnessing love find its home.

So here’s to Sharecker and Charles:
May your marriage be filled with joy, understanding, forgiveness, and friendship.
May you continue to choose each other everyday, again and again, in both the ordinary and extraordinary moments that make up your life together.

And in the words of a great poet, Nicki Minaj:
 “It’s a celebration every time we link up. Greatness is what we are on the brink of. I wish I could have this moment for life”

Cheers to the Sellers — to love, laughter, and a lifetime of togetherness. 

DDC

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About Me, Daddy, Mental Health, Personal Finances, Where to?

Starburst

A change of address is coming and I am experiencing a multitude of emotions. Excited. Sad. Nervous. Eager. Nostalgic. Regretful. Joyful. Curious. Grateful. 

Excited. I moved to Texas two weeks after my college graduation in May 2005. I have visited throughout the years but never longer than 2 weeks. I am excited to experience the 2024 version of Louisiana. Excited to establish a life of intention. Excited for a chance for a new beginning. A life reset:)

Sad. 

Nervous. Being in my parent’s home without my Daddy has saddened me every visit. Sometimes just for a moment. Sometimes for a few hours that include wailing tears. I am nervous about my ability to maintain a positive, happy, hopeful disposition. Nervous that my sparkle will dwindle in my new environment. Nervous that the grief stricken energy which permeates the walls of my parent’s home will transfer to me. Nervous that my pop of pink starburst energy will become beige. 

Eager. Moving home is the ultimate reset. A metamorphosis. During metamorphosis, the caterpillar undergoes significant changes in its body structure and physiology, eventually emerging as a completely different creature with adaptations suited for its adult life. I am eager to undergo significant changes. Change in body structure. Change in environment. Change in mindset. 

Nostalgic. A time was had in the DFW metroplex these last 19 years. I have been reflecting over the people and places that made an impact on who I am today. I spent many a Friday night happy hours at the Pappadeaux’s on Frankford then would let the night take us where it may. Hey Kelly*. I remember the night that a semi famous comedian gave me the dollars out of his pocket after I performed Mary J. Blidge’s ‘Not Gon Cry’ at Maxwell’s on a Tuesday. Karaoke was, is, and will forever be my love. Thankfully, I stumbled upon a Thursday night karaoke only 3 miles away.

Regretful. Are you familiar with the butterfly effect? A concept which suggests that small changes in initial conditions can lead to vastly different outcomes. New discoveries of productivity and attention strategies that I have been learning recently make me wonder who I could have been if I knew then what I know now. I am currently using a pomodoro technique to write this blog. It is a time management method designed to improve focus and productivity by breaking work into manageable chunks and incorporating regular breaks to maintain mental freshness. It involves breaking work into intervals, traditionally 25 minutes in length, separated by short breaks. I wonder who would I be if I knew the pomodoro technique in 2005. What could I have done with that one simple technique? We will never know and it does no good to ponder over the what ifs.

Joyful. I am moving home to live with my Mom. Last year my Mom suggested the idea of my moving home. I am still in shock that this move was her idea. I am joyful to have the opportunity to build a meaningful relationship with her at this stage of our lives. Joyful for the front row seat to her potential metamorphosis. EXTREMELY joyful for having a significant reduction in monthly living expenses. 

Curious. What lies ahead? Will I shine bright like a diamond? Will I be a neutral beige? Will my Mom and I become buddies and have a made for television relationship? Hallmark not Tubi.

Grateful. I am grateful that my Mom has welcomed me into her home. 

DDC

Lesson: A passenger called me Starburst as a nickname this week and I liked it. 

Question: Any tips on starting over in your 40s? 

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