The Weight of Water:
My Evolution from Patient to Mermaid

I knew I was a mermaid long before I was an MS patient. In the 90s, my reality was a stiff, tragic bowl cut, but my goal was Ariel. I was so obsessed with her trailing dresses that I’d wear red pantyhose on my head to mimic her hair. Today, my long hair is a piece of my identity—a reminder that the “makeshift mermaid” survived to become the real thing. No pantyhose required.

The Warning Signs

My path to the ocean was carved out by the necessity of survival. In 2013, an MRI flagged “something,” but I was young, felt invincible, and shrugged it off. By 2019, the silence ended. My left foot started acting “weird”—I was suddenly unsteady, stumbling over flat ground. Then the cognitive fog rolled in, and “blind spots” began eating my vision for fifteen minutes at a time. The “something” from 2013 had finally caught up.

A Diagnosis and a New Chapter

In early 2020, my life shifted in two opposite directions at once. I met my husband, Bruce, on February 29th—a Leap Day miracle just before the world shut down due to COVID. Exactly one month later, on March 30th, the day after my 29th birthday, I was officially diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. By early 2022, I learned it was specifically Primary Progressive Multiple Sclerosis (PPMS). Unlike other forms of MS, PPMS doesn’t give you breaks; it is a steady, relentless worsening of everything.

The Daily War

To be blunt: MS has messed up my legs. On land, every step is a calculation of pain and effort. I’ve gone from chasing around preschoolers all day, to one cane, to two, and now I even use a wheelchair part-time. It’s a struggle just to move from room to room. In September 2023, the physical toll forced me to leave my career as a preschool teacher—a heartbreak I’m still processing. On land, the weight of the disease is constant.

Finding My Strength in the Deep

After my diagnosis, I quickly realized that the world felt different—heavier, more unpredictable. But then I re-found the water. There’s a specific kind of liberation that happens when you’re submerged; the buoyancy acts like a reset button for my MS symptoms. In the pool, the weight was gone, the heat didn’t trigger me as much, and for the first time in a long time, I felt completely in control of my movements. I fell in love with the water all over again, not just as a swimmer, but as someone who had found their sanctuary. I knew then that I didn’t just want to be in the water; I wanted to live in it. I wanted to be not just a diver, I wanted to be a mermaid.

The road wasn’t easy. In March 2022, a dive shop flat-out rejected me because of my diagnosis. They saw the “MS patient” and decided I was a liability. Then we met Randy at Abyss Scuba. When I told him I had MS, he didn’t blink.

The Transformation

Because of my legs, I can’t carry the 40-or-so pounds of equipment on land; what is a manageable weight for others is an impossible, gravity-defying anchor for me. When we do beach dives, the transition is a team effort. My husband walks me down to the shoreline, helping me steady my failing legs until we reach the waves. Someone else carries my BCD (Buoyancy Control Device) into the surf for me.

The second I am deep enough, I slip into my gear in the water. The canes and the wheelchair stay behind on the sand, and I sink into the ocean. The crushing heaviness in my legs evaporates. I am no longer a patient; I am weightless. I am free. In the water, I become the strongest version of myself: the mermaid. MS might have stolen my ability to walk easily, but it can’t touch me at 60 feet down. Today, Bruce and I travel to the warm waters of Curacao every year. I’ve proven that even with a “snowflake disease,” we can adapt, we can fight, and we can thrive.

Follow my journey on Instagram: @MyMSMermaidLife