I was only trying to get my leg stretched. Who knew I would leave feeling like a walking history book?

One of the joys—and I use that word loosely—of MS is spasticity. My right knee does not like to bend, and my hip can pull me forward as though it is trying to catapult me into next week. Physical therapy sometimes feels like convincing a body made of iron rods to negotiate.

I became friendly with the therapist helping me stretch. We talked about sports, music, and life. Because we connected so easily, I assumed we were about the same age.

Then I received a history lesson about myself.

The Moment I Became the History Channel

During one session, I talked about my Army service—being stationed in Germany before the Berlin Wall fell and later serving in Saudi Arabia during Desert Shield and Desert Storm.

My therapist grew quiet. I assumed I had him hooked, so I asked whether he remembered those events.

He replied, “I remember reading about them in school.”

In school.

As in textbooks and history class. He had not even been born yet.

I swear my bones creaked a little louder.

I had assumed that my experiences were part of everyone’s shared memory. To him, I was a primary source—an elder telling stories from a world he knew through lessons and photographs.

Then I Recognized the Other Side

At the independent-living community where I lived, I often ate with people in their nineties and even a few past one hundred. They spoke about their lives as naturally as I spoke about Germany or the Gulf War.

Air travel, household television, and other things that had always existed in my memory were once astonishing changes in theirs.

I finally understood: I had been listening to living history too.

Every generation assumes some version of the world has always been there. Then one day, we realize that the ordinary details of our own lives have become lessons for someone younger.

The Gift of Slowing Down

MS slowed me in ways I never requested. But the slower pace also gave me time to listen more carefully to people who came before me.

Their memories are not trivia. They are bridges between eras—and mine are becoming bridges too.

This means I have officially earned the right to say “Back in my day.” At this rate, I may soon tell someone that I walked ten miles to school under the hot Jamaican sun, uphill both ways.

For now, I will stretch my ancient, battle-hardened leg and wonder how long it will be before someone asks what life was like before smartphones.

That day is coming—and apparently, so am I.