In moments of uncertainty with MG, who or what do we trust?
When we place too much weight on any one thing, it eventually gives way
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When I was diagnosed with myasthenia gravis (MG), I believed I understood it. My father had lived with it, and from a distance, his struggle seemed manageable. But MG has a way of exposing illusions. It teaches, often brutally, the difference between what appears strong and what actually endures.
Humans have a penchant for naming things after those they deem worthy or exceptional. We name buildings, bridges, and airports after leaders, as if permanence could be borrowed from stone and steel. We erect monuments to figures whose legacies are, at best, complicated, and at worst, deeply flawed. We carve human faces into mountains, reshaping the natural world into a testament to power and memory. We even rename places that once held deeper meaning, layering new identities over old ones, as if history itself could be revised by decree.
There was a time when I was oblivious to the impact of such actions. I’ve come to see that the questions raised when we honor individuals in these ways are serious. They are not political; they are human and spiritual.
Where do we place our trust?
In the Old Testament, the Israelites received a command from their God: “Thou shalt have no other gods before me.” Soon afterward comes the story of the Golden Calf: While Moses is absent on Mount Sinai longer than expected, the people grow anxious and create an idol they can see and worship.
The story isn’t really about building a statue. It’s about anxiety, waiting, and the discomfort of uncertainty. The people find themselves in a moment of vulnerability. Leadership is absent longer than expected, and the future feels unclear. And so, they create something they can see, something immediate and reassuring.
Living with MG, I understand that impulse all too well. There are days when my body refuses me, when the simplest tasks — such as swallowing without choking or holding my head steady — require effort I don’t have. In those moments, I want certainty and control. I want something solid to lean on.
But MG offers no such guarantees. It strips away illusions of control and teaches dependence on others. It forces us to rely on medicine while also remaining wary of it. We can’t make it through MG’s challenges without faith. That faith doesn’t have to be religious; it may involve fellow humans instead of gods. Yet it always asks us to step off the cliff, not knowing if someone or something will catch us when we fall. As 2 Corinthians 5:7 says, “For we walk by faith, not by sight.”
So I find myself asking not about any particular objects, but about what they represent. Because it’s not just statues, airports, roads, schools, or municipal buildings — it never has been. None of this is new. It is simply the modern expression of an ancient instinct to make visible what we are tempted to trust.
MG causes muscle weakness that worsens with use. It is a condition in which strength fades the more it is relied on. There is a metaphor there, if we are honest enough to see it. What we elevate shapes what we become.
When we place too much weight on any one thing — medicine, strength, certainty, self-reliance — it eventually gives way. Not because it’s bad, but because it wasn’t built to carry that kind of burden.
So the questions are not whether a statue exists, a building bears a name, a mountain bears a face, or a place bears a newly assigned identity. The questions are: What are we tempted to trust? What do we look to, in moments of fear or uncertainty, and quietly say, “This will save me?”
MG has taken much from me. It has taken ease, predictability, and a certain kind of independence. In return, it has given me a clearer sense of proportion. I’m more suspicious of spectacle. I’m not comfortable with easy answers. Most important to me, it has increased my awareness that anything made by human hands cannot bear the weight of ultimate trust.
Throughout our history, great thinkers have reminded us that our restless hearts remain so until they encounter something greater, something not found in this world. Sticking with the biblical theme, Augustine of Hippo wrote, “Our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee.” “Thee” need not be a god. But it must be something greater than the self. It might be the love we feel for a child, or the comfort we find in the arms of a loving partner.
And no statue, monument, or name carved in stone has ever changed that.
Note: Myasthenia Gravis News is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Myasthenia Gravis News or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to myasthenia gravis.
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