Parkinson’s, the Unpaid Roommate
Parkinson’s has a talent for showing up early and acting like it owns the place. Some mornings it’s a small tremor in your hand, like you’re auditioning to be a human maraca. Other mornings it’s your foot, glued to the floor, as if the kitchen tiles filed a restraining order. You used to think your body and you were a team. Now it can feel like you’re living with an unpaid roommate who moves your keys, eats your patience, and leaves socks in the middle of the hallway.
The strange part is the surprise element. People pay good money for mystery boxes. You get one every day, delivered straight to your nervous system. Will your fingers behave when you button a shirt, or will they pinch the fabric like they’ve never met cotton before? Will your voice come out strong, or soft and scratchy, like a radio station that can’t hold a signal? You don’t wake up wondering what kind of person you’ll be. You wake up wondering what kind of body you’ll be issued.
The changes don’t always come with an announcement. A new symptom can slip in like a cat through a cracked door. One week you’re fine walking down the driveway. The next week your balance feels off, like the ground has a tilt nobody told you about. Sometimes it’s stiffness that makes your shoulders feel bolted on. Sometimes it’s fatigue that drops on you like a wet blanket, heavy and rude. Then there are the non-motor surprises, the ones people can’t see. Sleep gets strange. Anxiety can show up without a reason you can name. Your brain, which used to feel like a neat desk, turns into a junk drawer.
So you adjust. Not in a big movie-montage way. You adjust in small, ordinary ways, the way people do when life won’t stay neat. You set out clothes the night before, because mornings aren’t the time for a wrestling match with socks. You give yourself extra time to get out the door, because rushing invites your feet to freeze. You use a cane on days when your balance feels like a prank. You don’t treat it like defeat. It’s a tool, like glasses or a seatbelt, simple and smart.
You also make deals with your brain. When your hand shakes while you pour coffee, you don’t call it failure. You call it a cue to slow down. You learn tricks that sound silly until they work. You count your steps when your feet stick. You hum a beat to get moving, because rhythm can coax your body into playing along. You keep the floor clear of clutter, because your balance doesn’t need extra drama. You laugh when you can, because humor gives you room to breathe.
Still, you won’t pretend it’s all punchlines and quick comebacks. There are moments when you sit on the edge of the bed and feel the weight of it. The loss of ease. The loss of trust. The way simple tasks take extra effort, like your body is charging a toll. Some days you miss the old automatic you, the one who didn’t think about walking. The one who carried a plate of food without focusing like it was a high-stakes job.
And there’s fear too, quiet but real. What comes next? How much will change? Will people still see you, or only your symptoms? You learn that courage isn’t always loud. Sometimes it looks like asking for help. Sometimes it looks like saying, “I need to sit down,” before you topple, even if pride wants you to stay standing. Sometimes it looks like letting someone else carry the bag, then reminding yourself that letting go of a task isn’t the same as letting go of your dignity.
You become a student of small wins. You celebrate the mornings when you move well. You celebrate the afternoons when you rest without guilt. You celebrate your stubborn choice to keep showing up in your own life, even when it’s messy. If you drop a fork, you pick it up, or you ask someone to. If your handwriting turns into a shaky scribble, you sign anyway, because your name still belongs to you.
People talk about bravery like it always needs a big speech. But what about the quiet courage of adapting, again and again, without applause? What about the courage of staying kind to yourself when your body changes the rules mid-game? What about the courage of finding a way to laugh, not because it’s easy, but because it helps keep your heart open?
You didn’t choose Parkinson’s. You didn’t apply for it, and you sure didn’t invite it to rearrange your furniture. But you choose what you do with the days you’re given. You choose patience when you can. You choose humor when it fits. You choose honesty, even when it stings. And when you change course, use a tool, slow down, or ask for a hand, you’re not giving up. You’re showing strength in its most human form, the kind that says, “This is hard, and I’m still here.”
