Copyright © 2025 by Marcelle Trinkaus
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When I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, I felt like the ground had shifted beneath me—literally and figuratively. One day, I was full of strength, navigating life with confidence. The next, I was fumbling through days filled with tremors, fatigue, and an overwhelming sense of loss. MS took away more than just my physical stability—it stole my sense of independence. I’m no stranger to adversity. As a Canadian Forces veteran, I’ve weathered storms. But nothing quite prepared me for the slow, invisible erosion that MS brings. It’s not a fight you can win by toughing it out. It’s an adjustment, a redefinition of self. At my lowest, I stopped doing the things I loved. Nature walks turned into memories, and even a short trip outside felt like a logistical operation. My world shrank, one symptom at a time. Then something unexpected happened. A friend invited me on a short outing to a wetland conservation area supported by Ducks Unlimited. I hesitated. The thought of navigating uneven terrain with my cane, of being seen in my new, diminished state, filled me with anxiety. But I went. Something inside me was yearning for something—anything—outside of the clinical walls of doctors’ offices.
What I found was more than fresh air. The wetlands greeted me with stillness and song. The early morning mist clung to the reeds as the sun rose, casting a golden glow over the marsh. Waterfowl glided across the surface without effort, their presence gentle and purposeful. There was no noise but the kind that soothes the soul: birds calling, frogs croaking, wind in the cattails. Ducks Unlimited had made the area accessible, with thoughtfully placed boardwalks, benches, and viewing platforms. I could move at my own pace, sit when I needed, and simply be. For the first time in months, I wasn’t defined by my illness. I wasn’t a patient—I was just a person, sitting beside a marsh, watching the world go by. I kept coming back. Again and again. Those wetlands became my sanctuary. They didn’t cure my MS. But they gave me back something that MS had taken: a sense of calm, connection, and control. They reminded me that healing doesn’t always mean fixing. Sometimes, it just means feeling whole again. Nature doesn’t rush you. It doesn’t judge. It accepts you exactly as you are. And thanks to Ducks Unlimited’s work in conserving and making these spaces accessible, people like me—veterans, individuals with chronic illness, anyone seeking peace—can find refuge in the rhythm of the wild.
Today, whenever my body refuses to cooperate or the weight of my diagnosis feels too heavy, I close my eyes and return to the wetlands in my mind. The mirror-like water. The soft chorus of birds. The gentle glide of a duck across a glassy pond. That’s where I find myself again. When I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, it felt like my body had betrayed me. One day I was hiking forest trails with ease, and the next, I was struggling to hold a coffee cup without shaking. The independence I’d fought so hard for—especially after serving in the military—began slipping away like mud through my fingers. The doctors gave me pamphlets, medication, and clinical words, but no one could give me peace.
At first, I tried to fight it with sheer willpower. Physical therapy. Strict diets. A drawer full of supplements. But MS isn’t something you conquer—it’s something you learn to live with. That was a lesson I didn't want to learn.
Then one spring, a friend invited me on a short outing to a wetland conservation area managed by Ducks Unlimited. I almost said no. Walking on uneven paths wasn’t easy anymore, and I hated asking for help. But something in me was desperate for air that didn’t smell like hospital disinfectant.
We arrived just after dawn. The sun cracked open the mist above the marsh, turning everything gold. Birds sang from the reeds, and the sound of frogs pulsed in the distance. I stood there, gripping my cane, breathing in the quiet hum of life. For the first time in months, I didn’t feel broken. I felt small—but in a good way. Like the weight of the world wasn’t all mine to carry.
Over the following months, I returned often. Ducks Unlimited had made these wetlands accessible, with well-placed benches, boardwalks, and quiet zones where even someone with unpredictable legs and a stubborn sense of pride could find peace. I started journaling there. Sometimes I sat for hours just watching the ducks dabble in the shallows, carefree and floating.
The wetlands didn’t heal my MS. But they healed me in another way. They gave me space to grieve, to breathe, and eventually—to hope. Nature has no expectations. It doesn’t pity you. It simply exists, and in doing so, reminds you that you do too.
Now, whenever the tremors come or fatigue settles into my bones, I close my eyes and picture that marsh at sunrise. The mirror-like water. The whisper of cattails. The ducks gliding forward, never in a hurry, always finding their way.
Thanks to Ducks Unlimited, that wetland saved a piece of me I thought MS had taken for good.
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