I don't have much positive to say about motor neuron disease

The words of Stephen Hawking—“I don’t have much positive to say about motor neuron disease, but it taught me not to pity myself because others were worse off, and to get on with what I still could do. I’m happier now than before I developed the condition”—are spoken with the clarity of a man who turned suffering into wisdom. They are not words of complaint, but of triumph. For what he reveals is the great paradox of the human spirit: that even when the body is bound, the mind and soul can ascend beyond their former limits.

The origin of this truth lies in the eternal confrontation between humanity and suffering. Since the earliest days, men and women have faced illness and loss, and many have been broken by it. Yet the wisest discovered that within affliction lies a hidden gift: the chance to see life not through the eyes of despair but through the lens of gratitude. Hawking’s affliction stripped away many things, yet it left him with the sharp vision to know that self-pity is a chain more binding than disease itself. He chose to break that chain, and in doing so, he discovered freedom.

Consider the tale of Helen Keller, born deaf and blind. To many, her life seemed condemned to darkness and silence. But through perseverance, she found her voice, not only learning to communicate but becoming a teacher, a speaker, and a champion for those cast aside. Like Hawking, she refused to dwell in pity. Instead, she focused on what she could still do—and in that focus, she illuminated the world. Her story proves that happiness does not depend on what has been taken away, but on what one chooses to create with what remains.

History also recalls Epictetus, the Stoic philosopher born into slavery, his body crippled. Yet his teachings shaped generations, for he declared that no man could chain the soul that governs its own thoughts. He, too, spoke of the futility of self-pity and the necessity of action. Hawking, echoing this ancient voice, reminds us that by accepting what cannot be changed and acting upon what remains within our power, we transform limitation into strength, and despair into happiness.

The meaning of Hawking’s words is luminous: that disease may strike the flesh, but the spirit can still grow. By refusing to compare oneself endlessly to an imagined life without hardship, one learns to compare instead to those whose burdens are greater, and thus finds humility and gratitude. To “get on with what I still could do” is not resignation—it is defiance. It is the heroic choice to seize what life still offers and make of it something eternal.

The lesson for us is profound: do not wait for perfect circumstances to begin living. Life will always present obstacles—illness, failure, loss, disappointment. If you dwell on what has been taken, you will drown. But if you fix your gaze on what remains and act boldly with it, you will rise. The secret of joy is not to have everything, but to make use of what you have been given, however small or limited it may seem.

Practical wisdom calls us to act. When adversity comes, resist the temptation of self-pity. Instead, list what is still within your power. Focus your energy on those things, however humble, and pour your heart into them. Learn to measure your life not by what is absent, but by the fullness you create with what is present. Support those around you, remembering that many carry heavier burdens than your own. And most of all, remember that happiness is not the absence of struggle, but the triumph of spirit over it.

Thus, let Hawking’s words endure as a beacon: the body may falter, but the soul may soar. Illness may bind the limbs, but it cannot bind the will to live fully. And those who choose not to pity themselves, but instead to act, often find themselves—like Hawking—happier than they were before, for they have touched the deeper joy that arises only when all else is stripped away.