Episode 217: Building Resilience Through Acceptance and "Owning Ataxia," with "A Good Calamity" Author, Jay Armstrong

"Lasting resilience begins with acceptance. For me, acceptance is an every day prayer." 

~ Jay Armstrong

Author of A Good Calamity: Useful Essays and Poems on Living with a Disability

 

Are you struggling to accept something hard in your life? Are you even thinking about acceptance, or are you still fighting the hard truth?

Jay Armstrong was diagnosed with ataxia (a degenerative disease of the brain and nervous system) in 2013, shortly after the birth of his youngest son. The disease affects Jay's movement, balance and speech, among other things.

Jay notes that accepting his disease has been a challenge, but one that has helped him build lasting resilience. "You have to own your struggles," Jay says. "I no longer put my handicapped devices in the closet. I keep them out and say, 'This is who I am.'" (Jay has also named his walking cane Clark Able. Hahahaha!)

As we often say in Brilliantly Resilient, owning our struggles not only builds resilience, but allows us to let go of what "should be," to make room for what "could be." In Jay's case, he "should not have been" stricken with ataxia, but it is his reality. Once we accept our reality, we're better able to determine what "could be" possible and take small, incremental steps to rebuild.

Jay's new book A Good Calamity: Useful Essays and Poems on Living with a Disability, is the fourth book in his journey on living with his disease and its effect on his life and that of his family. It's funny, moving, and a testament to hard won resilience and wisdom. 

Tune in to hear more of Jay's wisdom on this week's episode of the Brilliantly Resilient podcast, and be sure to listen for these additional bits of Brilliance:

 

• Hard won wisdom doesn't come easy, but it comes honest.
• A Good Calamity: Useful Essays and Poems on Living with a Disability This is the first time I owned the word "disability" by putting it on the cover of the book. I was owning it. I have to own everything.
• Part of my acceptance was littering my life with visual reminders. You have to own your struggles. I no longer put my handicapped devices in the closet. I keep them out and say, 'This is who I am.' 
• My son asked me if I could go into the ocean and throw him into the water like another father was doing. And I had to say, 'No; I can't do that.' And that hurt...for a long time. Eventually, I realized that what I could do was be present. Presence matters. I can be there. And that's what my children will remember. That I was there.
• You eventually realize that no one is going to save you. Holding out hope for a cure becomes futile. What I tell other people and I tell myself is to accept this in little minute increments. Do little things to help yourself.
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