Redefining Independence: My Journey with MS and Support

Learning to Ask for Help

I’ve never given much thought to how I feel about asking for help—until recently. Probably because, before my disease progressed, I rarely had to ask. Or, more likely, I just didn’t ask even when I probably should have.

Now, asking for help is an everyday—often many-times-a-day—occurrence. And even so, I still only feel comfortable letting certain people help with certain things. It’s not that I don’t trust others—I just hate making myself vulnerable (and, truth be told, I’m kind of a control freak).

A good friend once said to me, “You hate asking for help, don’t you?”

My response: “I hate needing it.”

At the time, I didn’t think much about that answer. But why do I see needing help as such a negative thing? For me, needing help has always implied weakness or ineptitude. And no one wants to be seen as weak. On the days when I can manage everything without assistance, there’s definitely a sense of pride and accomplishment. But on the days when I can’t, I often find myself apologizing—as if I’m a burden for needing help.

Recently, though, we received life-changing support through Vocational Rehabilitation (VR)—a federal-state program that helps people with disabilities obtain or maintain employment. They came to our home and my workplace to assess what I needed in order to stay independent and continue working.

Thanks to VR:

• We now have a stair lift, allowing us to keep our bedroom upstairs.
• I’ve been given an incredible motorized wheelchair (seriously, if wheelchairs had a luxury class, this would be the Lamborghini).
• We have a self-opening door with a remote and a new ramp for easier access to our vehicles.

These changes have already made life so much easier and opened up my world in ways I didn’t expect. If I hadn’t asked for help, I would still be stuck—physically and emotionally.

The final piece of this puzzle is a vehicle I can drive directly into with my wheelchair, equipped with hand controls so I can safely drive again. This would restore a major part of the freedom I’ve lost since needing a wheelchair full-time.

Not being able to drive has been a massive adjustment. I’ve always loved driving—windows down, radio up, taking long country drives. Driving has always symbolized freedom for me. With a modified vehicle, I’ll be able to:

• Take my boys to their extracurricular activities
• Run errands on my own
• Commute independently to and from work
• Navigate stores and events using my own wheelchair instead of relying on others to push me

However, VR can only modify certain types of vehicles. Jeremy and I are responsible for purchasing a vehicle that meets the following requirements:

• Must be under 5 years old
• Must have fewer than 100,000 miles
• Ideally a Chevy Traverse (recommended by my VR counselor because of our steep/rough driveway)
• Must have a chassis style compatible with my specific needs

This isn’t a luxury vehicle—it’s a necessary, functional tool for independence. But it’s also a significant expense that would create a major financial strain.

Since my diagnosis, many people have asked how they can help. Now, one of my closest friends has generously offered to set up a GoFundMe to help us acquire this vehicle:
🔗 GoFundMe: An Accessible Vehicle for the Larson Family

It took some convincing to get my husband on board—pride is yet another obstacle in asking for help. But allowing others the opportunity to step in where I no longer can has been one of the most valuable lessons MS has taught me.

I don’t think I would have learned it otherwise. I would’ve just kept plowing forward, determined to do it all myself.

But asking for help takes strength. I’m learning to accept that everyone needs help at some point in life—some of us just need it more often.

Instead of apologizing, I’m learning to show gratitude. So, to everyone who has ever helped—or ever will—THANK YOU for being part of my village. I truly couldn’t do this without you.

Toxic Positivity