Chapter 5
Ours is a story of love, illness, and resilience โ a marriage tested by multiple sclerosis and trigeminal neuralgia diagnoses we never saw coming, financial strain that often felt crushing, and the messy miracle of raising children through it all.
It is also a story of grace โ the kind that shows up in unexpected ways, whether through anonymous school-fee payments, helping hands, or laughter that bubbles up even on the hardest days.
This is Louisโs chapter. The one where his story โ his battles, his dreams, his breakthroughs โ takes centre stage.
Louisโs health is still a daily consideration. The nerve pain comes and goes like an unwelcome visitor, and there are mornings when his body simply refuses to cooperate. He walks permanently with a cane now. And with the cane at only 38 years old come the comments, the stares, the assumptions.
His illness is invisible to most, but it reveals itself in a hundred ways. There are days his legs give out from under him. Days when the pain leaves him gasping, even with heavy medication.
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He falls. Often.
But it is not just the falls. His speech sometimes slurs, as if his mouth cannot keep up with his thoughts. His balance is unreliable โ even a short walk across the room can feel like crossing a tightrope. His eyesight blurs, his left hand does not work the way it should, and the brain fog steals words mid-sentence.
He can no longer physically do things he managed with ease years ago. Fatigue stalks him everywhere โ to the point that even a shower can leave him needing to rest. And then there is the weather: if it is too hot or too cold, his whole body punishes him with pain. We do not have extra money for luxuries like an air conditioner, so he just suffers and toughens up through it.
And yet, the strangest part is this: the doctors tell us the lesions on his brain are shrinking. The MRI scans look stable. But while the images improve, his symptoms quietly worsen. It is the cruelest contradiction โ progress on paper, but decline in reality.
We have learned to laugh at the absurdities โ like the time I confidently told him the trail in Kaapsehoop would take 15 minutes, only for it to turn into a four-hour obstacle course.
There was the time we got to skip the long, winding line at the border crossing because of Louisโs cane. The official took one look at him, waved us through, and I thought, well, if we have to deal with all this, at least we get VIP treatment every now and then! Little perks, small mercies โ sometimes humour is the only thing that keeps us upright when life keeps throwing curveballs.
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And yet, behind the laughter, there are quieter moments when Louis aches to do what other dads do. To kick a rugby ball in the yard. To chase the kids. To walk (because he cannot run) without wondering if his body will betray him mid-step.
And it is not just the things he longs to do โ it is the things he has to miss. You can see it in his eyes every time another family outing slips through his fingers. A simple picnic and stroll through the botanical gardens, too far for him to walk. A berry-picking day under the Lowveld sun that is just. Too. Hot.
There was also the rugby match. It was supposed to be โour timeโ โ just Louis and me. But instead, he stayed home with the boys, all three of them falling asleep together in their weekend ritual, while I went with my brother and friends. At first, I was sad, wishing he could be with me. But later, looking back, I realised he would not have managed it. The steep stairs of the pavilion, the long distances, the endless walking, the masses of people โ small things most of us take for granted โ would have been impossible for him. His absence was not a choice; it was a necessity. And that realisation stung. It is in those moments, watching the life he wants happening just out of reach, that the grief shows in his face.
For a long time, Louis has been the steady one โ the silent pillar holding us up while I juggle the business, finances, and our world. He is the stay-at-home dad: the lunchbox packer, the school-run guy, the baby-rocker. He cooks dinners, folds laundry one-handed, and keeps our home steady while fighting a battle in his own body that no one else can see.
It is not always pretty. He carries pain, fatigue, frustration โ and yes, moments when he feels like less of a man. There are days I feel like I am losing my husband to a storm I cannot calm. We walk through long silences. We carry grief and guilt in equal measure.
But. He never gives up.
He had to learn something he never wanted to โ something that bruised his pride but saved his spirit: asking for help.
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When the bills stacked higher than the money coming in due to only having one (inconsistent) income, we created a Back-a-Buddy campaign. It felt vulnerable โ exposing our needs so openly โ but the response reminded us that community is real. People showed up. They gave. They prayed. They carried us through a season we could not have managed alone.
But the help he needed was not only financial. Louis also reached out for professional support. He found the courage to walk into a psychologistโs office and admit that the mental weight was too heavy to carry alone. Because when your peers are climbing careers, advancing in life and building dreams, it is hard not to feel left behind.
There was even a day when the courier did not arrive in time, and Louis had to ask a friend on the same medication if he could borrow just two pills to get him through.
And yet, asking for help โ financial, emotional, professional โ became the first step toward healing.
Word of our story quietly made its way beyond our circle โ and one day, a stranger who had heard it reached out. She did not just offer kind words; she organised a fundraiser to help carry us through a particularly heavy season. But it was more than just a fundraiser. It was a gathering woven with empathy and intention, designed not only to raise funds, but to shine a light on what life with MS really feels like.
There were games โ not your usual kind โ but ones that made you stop and feel. Participants tried to walk with one high heel and one flipper, laughing at the absurdity at firstโฆ until the discomfort kicked in. That is when understanding began. Because that is what MS can feel like: off-balance, unnatural, like your body no longer listens to you. It was not about pity; it was about perspective. And in that moment, something shifted. People did not just hear our story โ they felt it.
Needless to say, we are not strangers anymore. She is now part of the tapestry of people who have stood beside us, reminding us that even when life breaks you open, kindness finds a way in. Sometimes in words. Sometimes in donations. And sometimes, in flippers and high heels โ and a room full of people willing to try walking in someone elseโs shoes.
And then there was the gift of a massage chair from a stranger we met at a cousinโs braai. It might sound silly to some, but for Louis, it was a lifeline. His pain is constant โ gnawing, exhausting, unforgiving. But in that chair, for a short while, his body finds relief. I will never forget watching him fall asleep in it the first time, his face softening in a way I had not seen for years. It was not luxury โ it was medicine. A reminder that comfort, even temporary, is something sacred.
At one point, the pharmacy that dispatches his pills even changed his medication without telling us. For months, Louis spiraled into a setback we could not explain โ until we finally learned that the name of the pill had changed. His neurologist had to demand to get him back onto the original medication. Something so small, yet it cost him so much.
So, one day, Louisโs uncle handed him a bucket and a recipe for ciabatta bread. With a smile, he said, โI bless you with this.โ
Those words stayed with Louis. The bucket and the recipe werenโt just tools; they were a gift of hope, something tangible he could build a business with. And so, when he tested it and the first loaves came out of the oven โ golden, warm, and full of possibility โ Louis knew exactly what to call it: Buckets of Blessings.
Add water into the bucket. Mix in the secret ingredients. Let it rise. Bake. Simple steps. But inside that bucket, something beautiful happens: the dough rises against resistance. Slowly, quietly, it grows.
It is more than bread. It is a symbol of us. Of rising, even when life pushes down.
Markets became his lifeline. He shows up, shares his story, hands out samples, and sells buckets. The market community embraced him like family, helping with shade on hot days, setting up stalls when the pain was too much, and sending customers his way.
But it is not without cost. The Lowveld sun is relentless. Market days leave his body wrecked โ sometimes down for days. Yet he gets up again, stubbornly, with a resilience that humbles me every time.
The encouragement of the market community is a balm for his spirit, reminding him that while the journey is tough, he is not walking it alone.
He did not start it to make big money โ and it doesnโt. Not yet, but it gives him something bigger: Purpose. Pride. Connection. Hope.
And every time I see someone buy a bucket, I see so much more than bread. I see resilience. I see healing. I see him choosing to keep going.
His bread now sits on shelves in local shops, and we dream of growing โ one bucket, one conversation, one rising moment at a time. We would love to expand countrywide, sharing not just bread, but a piece of our story, our heart, with every bite. Like the dough in that bucket, we keep rising. Not because itโs easy, but because we must.
We still have hard days. Of course we do. Chronic illness does not magically disappear, and the weight of bills and setbacks lingers. But we also have laughter. We have strength. We have purpose.
And we have buckets and buckets of blessings โ in every sense of the word. Blessings that arrive through community, through strangers, through therapy, through bread.
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Louisโs chapter is not about having it all figured out. It is about choosing to rise anyway. About daring to ask for help, even when it is humbling.
The story is not tidy. It is raw and real. And it keeps teaching us that strength is not about the absence of pain โ itโs about showing up anyway.
This chapter belongs to Louis. To his fight. To his willingness to rise, even when the world feels like it is racing ahead without him. To the truth that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is whisper, โI need helpโ.
And to the miracle that follows when help arrives โ sometimes in the form of anonymously paid school fees, sometimes in a psychologistโs office, and sometimes in buckets of ciabatta dough rising quietly against the odds.
Visit Lize Leonardโs photographic studio Little Miracles Photographyย here. Visit Louis Leonardโs business,ย Buckets of Blessings, contact him onย 072 601 8471ย or send an email toย louis@bucketsofblessings.com.ย Contribute to the family’s BackaBuddy campaign here.
