To Walk or to Roll: Redefining Strength in the Face of Change

There are days when I stand at a literal crossroads—my hand resting on the back of a chair, eyes fixed on the hallway ahead—and I ask myself a question that cuts deeper than it seems:

“Do I walk, or do I roll?”

To anyone watching, it’s a simple choice. But for me, it carries layers—of pride, pain, resilience, and grief. Walking feels like a win, a reclaiming of something slipping from me. But it can also come at a cost—a price my body pays later in fatigue, stiffness, or worse. Rolling is freedom, it’s ease. But some days, it whispers, “You gave up.”

That tug-of-war isn't just physical. It’s emotional. It’s mental. And more than anything, it’s a reminder that living with a disability means constantly navigating not just the world—but our own inner conversations about identity, strength, and worth.

The Weight of the Decision

There’s this complicated relationship I’ve developed with walking. It used to be second nature—something I never thought about. But now, every step is a conscious calculation. How far is it? Is there a place to sit? What will the toll be tomorrow?

Some days, I push myself to walk because it feels like holding onto something important—like I’m still in the fight. But pushing too far just to prove I can has often left me paying for it later. And that’s not strength—that’s self-punishment dressed up as pride.

My wheelchair, on the other hand, is freedom. It’s not a symbol of defeat; it’s a tool that lets me live. I’m more present, more engaged, and more able to participate in life when I use it. But even knowing that, I’ve had moments where rolling felt like surrender—until I realized:

Both walking and rolling require strength.

Strength to push through—and strength to let go.

Society’s Lens

For a long time, I assumed people were judging me. I told myself, They think I’m drunk... they think I’m fragile. But after time with my psychologist and raw conversations in my MS group, I started to question that narrative.

Is it really what others are thinking? Or is it just the story I’ve been telling myself?

Most people aren’t criticizing or pitying—they’re just living their lives, like I am. And when I choose ease, safety, or comfort, that’s not weakness. That’s wisdom.

A self-defense course I attended took it even further. The instructor didn’t treat my mobility aids like limitations. He saw them as tools of strength—cane, walker, chair. Parts of each could be used to protect myself if I needed to. It was like flipping a switch. I walked out of there feeling empowered, not vulnerable.

So now I ask: What else have I been telling myself that’s just not true?

When we rewrite those inner stories with honesty and compassion, everything starts to change.

The Lesson in Letting Go

Letting go didn’t come easy. I clung to the idea that strength meant pushing through, walking further, refusing help. But I’ve learned that letting go of that idea isn’t defeat—it’s growth.

I’ve also had people tell me not to attend support groups. “You’ll see people in power chairs—that’s where you’re headed,” they warned. But here’s the thing: they missed the point entirely.

Attending these groups hasn’t made me more afraid—it’s made me stronger. Because yes, I’ve seen people further along in their journey. But I’ve also seen people just starting out—afraid, unsure, newly diagnosed. And when I see them, I see myself from years ago. I remember those feelings. And I realize: I’ve come a long way.

It’s like watching a baby learning to walk—falling, crying, getting up again. Now, as adults, some of us return to walkers or wheels, and we think we’ve gone backward. But we haven’t. We’ve just moved forward into a different stage of wisdom and strength.

The question isn’t what we’ve lost—it’s what we’ve survived.

Closing Reflection

So, do I walk or do I roll?

The answer is… it depends. But whatever I choose, it’s not about proving anything. It’s about living fully, with clarity, courage, and compassion for the journey I’m on.

I no longer measure strength by how far I can walk, or how long I can stand. I measure it by how willing I am to adapt, to keep showing up, to keep telling myself the truth—especially when the world offers silence.

Mobility aids are not signs of surrender. They are tools of freedom. Symbols of choosing joy over ego. Life over image.

And that, to me, is real strength.

"Maybe strength isn’t how far you can walk. Maybe it’s how far you’ve come—and how gently you’ve learned to carry yourself the rest of the way."