I Never Said Thank You
I never thanked my legs for carrying me until they couldn’t.
Forty-two years. My legs carried me everywhere. Never complained. Never refused. Never asked for anything except rest and occasional stretching. I never once said thank you.
Health operates like electricity. Invisible until the power goes out. We flip switches expecting light. Always expecting light. Never thinking about the electricity making it possible.
We climb stairs expecting stability. Never thinking about knees that bend, muscles that lift, balance that holds. Just expecting. Just assuming. Just taking for granted.
We wake up expecting energy. Every morning. Never grateful that the body recharged overnight. That systems reset. That we can get up and move and live another day.
The miracle happens so consistently we forget it’s miraculous. Breathing without thinking. Walking without planning. Sleeping without effort. Digesting without awareness. Heart beating without permission. All of it miraculous. All of it invisible. All of it unappreciated.
Until it stops.
The diagnosis changed everything. Multiple sclerosis. Three words that redefined my relationship with my body. Three words that made me see what I’d been blind to for four decades.
Suddenly, every pain-free morning became a gift I’d previously ignored. Waking up without pain? Gift. Getting out of bed easily? Gift. Walking to the bathroom without stumbling? Gift wrapped in normalcy I’d never noticed.
Every deep breath was luxury I’d never noticed. Breathing deeply. Filling lungs completely. Exhaling slowly. Things I did thousands of times daily without one thought of gratitude. Luxury disguised as ordinary.
Every restful sleep was treasure I’d squandered on worry about tomorrow. All those nights I slept well and woke up worrying about work, money, problems that don’t matter anymore. Wasting treasure. Spending gold on anxiety.
Before illness, I complained about minor discomforts. The occasional headache. Brief fatigue. Small aches in my back or shoulders. These inconveniences consumed more attention than the major convenience of feeling generally well.
I’d complain to anyone who’d listen. “My back hurts.” “I’m so tired.” “This headache won’t go away.” Minor discomforts taking major space in my mind. While major health—the ability to walk, breathe, think, live—went completely unnoticed.
Now I understand why they say health is the crown that only the sick can see. The healthy walk around wearing crowns of gold, completely unaware. Crown so light they don’t feel it. So invisible they don’t see it. So constant they don’t appreciate it.
Only when you lose it do you see it. Only when the crown falls do you realize it was there. Only when sickness takes over do you understand what health gave.
We wear wellness like background music. Present but unnoticed. There, but ignored. Constant, but invisible. Until silence. Until the music stops. Until absence reveals how much presence mattered.
My friend asks me what I miss most about being healthy. She expects me to say running or sports or some active thing.
“Walking without thinking about it,” I say. “That’s what I miss.”
She doesn’t understand. How can you miss something so simple? How can walking be missed?
But that’s it exactly. Walking used to be nothing. Background. Automatic. Invisible. Now it’s everything. Foreground. Conscious. Visible. Difficult.
I miss nothing being something. Miss ordinary being special. Miss invisible being visible. Miss the crown I didn’t know I was wearing.
The cruel irony: gratitude arrives precisely when its object departs. We appreciate breathing when it becomes difficult. Value mobility when movement hurts. Treasure energy when exhaustion overwhelms.
Like thanking someone after they’ve left. Appreciating love after breakup. Recognizing friendship after loss. Always too late. Always after. Always when it doesn’t change anything anymore.
Perhaps this is human nature. To notice absence more than presence. To mourn loss more than celebrate possession. To appreciate only in retrospect. To see only when blind.
We’re archaeologists of our own experience. Discovering value only in ruins. Recognizing treasure only in ash. Understanding importance only in loss.
My son is fifteen. Plays football. Runs everywhere. Never walks if he can run. Body working perfectly. Health invisible to him.
I watch him and want to shake him. Want to say: “Do you know what you have? Do you understand how precious this is? This body that works? These legs that run? This energy that never ends?”
But he wouldn’t understand. How could he? His crown is invisible. His music is background. His miracle is ordinary.
Just like mine was at fifteen. Just like everyone’s is until it isn’t.
I think about all the mornings I woke up healthy and complained about waking up. All the days I could walk anywhere and complained about having to walk. All the nights I slept well and complained about having to sleep.
Wasting health on complaints. Spending wellness on worry. Trading miracles for grievances about nothing.
If I could go back. If I could talk to younger me. I’d say: “Thank your body. Every day. Thank your legs for carrying you. Thank your lungs for breathing. Thank your heart for beating. Thank every system that works without asking. Thank the crown while you’re wearing it.”
But younger me wouldn’t listen. Wouldn’t understand. Would think older me was being dramatic. Sentimental. Overly grateful about nothing.
Because health is nothing until it becomes everything.
Tonight I practice something I should have practiced decades ago. Gratitude for health while I have it. While some health remains. While some function continues. While some crown, however diminished, still rests on my head.
Thanking my body for its ordinary miracles. For what still works. For breathing that continues. For heart that beats. For mind that thinks. For hands that write these words.
Appreciating the gift while it’s still being given. Not waiting for total loss to recognize partial possession. Not waiting for complete darkness to appreciate dim light. Not waiting for death to celebrate life.
My left leg still works well. My right leg struggles but manages. I thank them both. Every step. Every movement. Every time they carry me somewhere, I say thank you.
My lungs still breathe. Deeper some days. Shallower others. But breathing. Always breathing. I thank them. Every breath. Every inhale. Every exhale. Thank you.
My heart still beats. Steady. Reliable. Faithful. Never missing a beat. Never asking for gratitude. Never demanding recognition. Just beating. Just working. Just keeping me alive. Thank you.
This body—damaged now, struggling now, different now—still functions. Still tries. Still carries me through days. Still doesn’t give up even when I want to. Still fights even when I’m tired of fighting.
Thank you. Finally. After forty-two years. Thank you.
I never thanked my legs for carrying me until they couldn’t. Never thanked my lungs for breathing until it became hard. Never thanked my body for health until sickness taught me what I’d lost.
But I’m thanking now. Late, but now. Diminished, but now. Grateful for what remains instead of bitter about what’s gone.
The crown is smaller now. The music quieter. The miracle less miraculous. But it’s still there. Still present. Still mine for however long I have it.
And this time, this time I’m not taking it for granted. This time I’m noticing. This time I’m appreciating. This time I’m saying thank you while there’s still something to thank.
Health operates like electricity. Invisible until the power goes out. But even dim light is light. Even weak current is power. Even partial health is health.
I’m grateful for the dim light. The weak current. The partial health. The diminished crown. The quiet music. The visible miracle.
Because I know now what I didn’t know before: Any crown is precious. Any music is beautiful. Any miracle is worth celebrating.
Thank you, body. For what you’ve given. For what you’re giving. For not giving up even when I took you for granted for decades.
Thank you, legs. For every step. Every stair. Every journey. Every carry. For not stopping even when I never said thank you.
Thank you, lungs. For every breath. Every inhale of life. Every exhale of waste. For keeping me alive without demanding recognition.
Thank you, heart. For every beat. Every pump. Every circulation. For faithfulness beyond what I deserved.
Thank you. Finally. Too late for what’s lost. Just in time for what remains.
The crown that only the sick can see? I see it now. Smaller than it was. But visible. Precious. Mine.
And this time, I’m wearing it with gratitude.
