A Reflection on Aging, Limitations, and the Strength of Grace

A Life Lived in Reverse

There was a time—long ago—when carrying groceries wasn’t even part of the conversation. At 26, I was learning to carry something far heavier: a diagnosis.

MS had arrived early, and with it came a wheelchair, uncertainty, and the loss of what I’d once imagined adulthood would look like.

In some ways, I lived my old age early. And then, as life does sometimes, things shifted. Over the years, I have experienced unexpected grace and the return of mobility, although now I am accompanied by the use of a cane and a respectful nod to curbs, stairs, and slick sidewalks.

So when I say I used to carry groceries, I don’t mean all my life. I mean in the middle—a brief, ordinary stretch when my arms were strong, my gait was steady, and my hands held more than a single book. They held a sense of capability I hadn’t known I’d missed until it slipped away again.

But here’s what I know now: not everything we carry is visible. And not everything we let go of is a loss.

Because I used to carry groceries.

Now I carry grace.

What Happens When We Stop Doing?

I remember a time when being helpful meant doing: Hauling books, pushing a vacuum cleaner. Carrying the heavy end of the couch.

And then, slowly—so slowly it was almost imperceptible—that kind of helpfulness faded. First, it took me longer. Then, it took someone else stepping in. And today, I am often the one being helped.

It’s a strange thing, adjusting to limitation. It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t knock politely. It just shows up one day and announces that strength will look different now. That usefulness will have to be redefined.

Resisting the Redefinition

I resisted at first, of course. I still do, sometimes. I argue with my cane. I make bargains with my feet. I imagine I could “train my way back” to who I used to be.

But eventually, we run out of ways to disguise the truth: the body keeps changing. And when it does, so must our measure of worth.

The New Things I Carry

Carrying used to be physical. Now, it feels more invisible.

I carry patience I didn’t use to have.

I carry stories that take time to tell.

I carry the memory of a friend’s laugh, and the silence that followed when her chair sat empty.

I carry grace—though I didn’t recognize it at first. It arrived quietly, like breath. Like a prayer I didn’t know I was praying.

Not the kind of grace that comes with accolades or admiration.

This is the kind that waits with someone in pain.

That notices the loneliness behind someone’s eyes at the pharmacy.

That offers a listening ear instead of a casserole, because it’s all you can manage, and—strangely—it’s enough.

Grace Isn’t Flashy, But It’s Powerful

The world tells us we are what we produce. What we carry, deliver, solve, fix.

But grace doesn’t work like that. It isn’t a task. It’s a way of being.

I used to carry eggs and apples. Now I carry someone’s fear for a few minutes so they don’t have to hold it alone.

I carry my own sorrow gently, like a bird’s egg in the palm of my hand—fragile, but still full of life.

Grace isn’t something you haul. It’s something that holds you.

It’s not flashy. No one claps when you sit quietly in a waiting room or hold a hand through tears.

But it’s the sacred stuff. The weightless weight that changes everything.

Slowness as a Spiritual Practice

The more I live, the more I believe this:
there’s a holiness in slowness. In doing less, but noticing more.
In being present—not just in the room, but in your own heart.

One afternoon, I sat with a friend who was grieving. I didn’t bring food. I didn’t bring advice. I just brought myself.

Later, she said, “Thank you for being here. I felt seen.”

That’s when I understood. I used to bring bags of groceries. Now, I bring presence. Calm. Grace.

And somehow, it’s heavier with meaning than anything I carried before.

The Ache of Watching Instead of Doing

Still, I won’t pretend it’s easy.

There are days when I resent what I’ve lost. When I’d give anything to be the one lifting, loading, doing. There’s a particular ache in being the one who watches rather than acts.

But then someone holds the door open with a smile. Or a child grabs my hand for no reason at all. Or I get to listen to someone’s story and reflect it back with kind understanding.

And I think, maybe this is what I’m meant to carry now.

Maybe this is what grace is—a shift from strength to presence, from doing to being.

What Are You Carrying?

We all carry something.

Some carry invisible grief. Others carry stories they haven’t dared to speak aloud.

Some carry the weight of memory, or fear, or love that no longer has a place to land.

And some of us—by design or necessity—learn to carry grace.

Not because we’re noble, but because our hands are too empty for anything else.

And grace… well, it’s always been light enough to lift with a trembling hand.

Final Reflection

I used to carry groceries.

Now I carry grace.

And while I miss the muscle and the motion, I wouldn’t trade what I’ve gained in return.

As I grow older, I come to understand that

We are not what we carry. We are how we carry it.

So today I’ll carry tenderness. A bit of wonder. A gentle sense of humor. A reminder that even when our bodies falter, our presence still matters.

What are you carrying now?

And what are you ready to set down?