Living Past the Diagnosis: The Story Behind the Age I Still Claim, Before MS Took Hold

When someone asks my age, I usually smile and say, “Thirty.” It’s automatic now so quick it sounds like a reflex. Most people laugh. Some raise an eyebrow. A few push back and say, “You’re not 30.” I don’t argue. I just say, “If you really knew me, you’d understand.”

Sometimes, that’s the end of the conversation. They move on, assuming I’m joking or trying to cling to youth. But every now and then, someone asks the question I’ve learned to expect: “Why thirty?”

That’s when I decide if I want to explain. Because the truth behind that answer isn’t a punchline or a midlife denial. It’s a marker. A timestamp. It’s the last version of myself that existed before everything changed before I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.

Age 30 was the last year I lived without knowing I was sick. The last year I didn’t carry the label of “disabled” or “chronically ill.” The last time I went through a full day without wondering if my body would hold up, if my energy would last, or if my future was quietly being rewritten behind the scenes.

So when I say “thirty,” I’m not ignoring time. I’m remembering the last time I didn’t have to explain anything.

The Day Everything Changed

June 27, 2016. That date is burned into my memory with a clarity I didn’t ask for.

I was 31 years old. I had just celebrated another birthday and was settling into what I thought would be just another year of adulthood juggling work, fatherhood, responsibility, and everything else that comes with trying to hold your life together. What I didn’t realize was that my body had already been changing, quietly and without permission, for months. Maybe even years.

There were warning signs, but I dismissed them like many do. Fatigue I couldn’t explain. A strange heaviness in my legs. Numbness in my hands. Dizziness that came and went. I told myself it was stress. Lack of sleep. Pushing too hard. I convinced myself to keep going because that’s what we do especially in the military, especially as men, especially when you’ve built your identity around being strong and reliable.

But then came the moment when I couldn’t pretend anymore. The symptoms escalated. My body felt like it was short-circuiting. Basic movements became difficult. Words felt further away. Something was wrong, and I knew it. I walked into that medical appointment still holding onto hope that it was something small something reversible. I walked out with a diagnosis that would stay with me for the rest of my life.

Multiple Sclerosis.

It’s hard to describe what that moment feels like unless you’ve lived it. It’s not just fear it’s a kind of mourning. You grieve the version of yourself that existed just moments before. The version who didn’t have a name for what was happening. The version who still had the illusion of control. The diagnosis doesn’t just hit your body it rearranges your identity.

In a matter of minutes, I went from being someone who occasionally felt off to someone who would never feel “normal” again. There was no going back. Only forward into uncertainty, into new routines, into a life that would now revolve around symptoms, appointments, and adaptations.

June 27 didn’t just give me a diagnosis. It drew a permanent line between the life I thought I had and the one I was about to learn how to live.

30 Was the Last Time I Felt Untouched

There’s a kind of freedom you don’t realize you have until it’s gone. The ability to trust your body without second-guessing it. To wake up and not brace for symptoms. To move through a day without carrying a quiet fear about what tomorrow might bring.

Age 30 was the last time I had that.

That’s why I hold onto it. Not out of vanity. Not because I’m in denial. But because 30 represents the version of me that existed before everything shifted. It was the last full year I was able to live without carrying the invisible weight of a diagnosis without scanning my body every morning to assess what I’d lost overnight.

When I say “I’m 30,” I’m not pretending time hasn’t passed. I’m naming the last year I felt whole in a way I haven’t since.

The Answer Isn’t for Everyone

When people challenge me when they say, “Come on, you’re clearly not 30,” I sometimes let it go. Not everyone wants the truth, and I’ve learned not to offer it when it won’t be received with care.

But for the few who ask sincerely, who want to know why, I explain.

I tell them that 30 wasn’t just an age. It was a turning point. It was the year before my body changed. The year before I had to learn how to manage a disease that never really leaves, even when it quiets down. I tell them that 31 wasn’t just another birthday it was the start of a reality I’m still figuring out how to live with.

Some people pause. Some nod, unsure of what to say. Some say nothing at all. And that’s fine. This truth isn’t for everyone but it’s still mine.

Living Beyond the Number

I know how old I am. I know what year it is. I know the math. But numbers don’t always tell the full story.

What matters to me more than age is who I was when I got sick and who I’ve had to become since. I’ve had to rebuild trust in my body. I’ve had to let go of expectations I once held for myself. I’ve had to learn how to carry something that doesn’t get easier just because I’ve grown used to it.

I say I’m 30 because it reminds me of the person I was before MS. But the truth is, I’ve done a lot of living since then. I’ve endured more. Grown more. Fought harder. Learned to speak louder about what it means to live with something you didn’t choose, can’t fix, and still have to carry every day.

So yes technically, I’m older than 30. But emotionally? Physically? Spiritually? That’s where the line was drawn.

And if you really knew me, you’d understand why I never answer that question the same way again.