I have always been passionate about running, and even competed in some short races and a triathlon. I loved how swift and graceful I felt and how it helped clear my mind. I ran almost every day, until strange symptoms like tingling and numbness in my upper thighs and a heaviness in my left leg began to interfere. When the symptoms persisted, I went to see a neurologist. After weeks of testing, I was diagnosed with relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis (MS). As my symptoms intensified, I had to give up running, and with it the relaxed way it made me feel.

Since my diagnosis seven years ago and the loss of running as an outlet, I've become more anxious and less sure of myself. When the COVID-19 outbreak came along, my anxiety skyrocketed, while my confidence plummeted. I didn't know where to turn or how to proceed, and differing opinions destabilized me further. When a friend texted me that she was going off her MS medication—the same kind I take—I panicked.

Her message brought me right back to the day the neurologist delivered my diagnosis. Pointing to white spots on my scans, he described MS as a demyelinating disease, which means it damages the myelin that protects nerve fibers. The exam table felt like it had fallen away beneath me. I left the office in tears.

In the weeks and months that followed, I continued running, but I kept tripping over loose stones and took some scary falls. Eventually I stopped—and started taking a low-dose anxiety medication instead.

With the pandemic, that wasn't enough. I increased the dosage at my doctor's suggestion, and began meditating and practicing deep breathing. Still, my worries persisted. When I emailed my doctor to ask if I should go off my MS medication, he was adamant that I stay on it and reminded me to follow the current health recommendations, including washing my hands for 20 seconds, covering my face with a scarf or mask, and staying six feet away from others. I stayed home as much as possible and sent my boyfriend out for groceries and other essentials. I sanitized everything that came into the house—twice.

As the weather grew warmer, I started seeing people outside my window walking their dogs and jogging. I was emboldened to take a short walk in a nearby park while keeping my distance. One walk led to a walk every few days. Elated, I thought I'd turned a corner on my anxiety, until I missed disinfecting part of my front-door handle. I freaked out and raced upstairs to wash my hands again. I didn't go out, took my temperature two hours later, tried to meditate, and contemplated taking another anti-anxiety dose, but nothing worked.

I finally ventured out again. I wore a homemade mask and gloves and timed my exit so someone else went through the door first and I didn't have to touch the handle. The 40-minute walk—my longest so far—gave me confidence that I could march away from my terrors.

I was tired of being afraid. With the weather improving and the trees in full bloom, I was motivated to fast-walk every morning. I was grateful I could still do that; some people in my situation couldn't.

I started running a third of the track in the park and walking the rest, then ran more and more of it, until I was running the full circle slowly. Sometimes I ran longer, always maintaining a distance from my fellow runners. I did it every day, except when it rained.

Each day I felt calmer and more energized and was able to relax about my decision to remain on my medication. I wasn't moving as swiftly and gracefully as I used to, but running was once again providing the anxiety antidote I needed.