April 14th, 2026

My Parkinson's and My Identity

According to researchers, most people fear public speaking more than death. That statistic has always felt surprising that me—because standing in front of a crowd is exactly what many overachievers like myself are drawn to. It’s where our identity is built. It’s where our confidence is reinforced. It’s where our purpose feels loud, clear, and undeniable.

Until it isn’t.

For those of us who spend our lives achieving, producing, performing, and pushing forward, identity isn’t just something we want—it’s something we need. It’s measured in output, reliability, sharp thinking, quick recall, and the ability to show up at full capacity again and again.

So, what happens when the very tools that built our identity begin to slip away?

For me, living with Parkinson’s disease has meant slowly being separated from the parts of myself I once depended on without questioning my identity. The quick retrieval of words. The mental stamina to write for hours. The energy to push through fatigue without negative consequences.

Now, everything feels like a negotiation of one body part or another. There’s a constant, underlying question:

Will I have enough energy today?
Will my mind keep up with my thoughts?
How long before even the simplest tasks become complicated?

Beneath those questions is a deeper truth. The kind I don’t say out loud very often:

Who am I if I can’t do the things that once defined me?

That’s the identity crisis no one prepares high achievers for. Because when you’ve spent a lifetime being capable, independent, productive and resilient, losing pieces of that ability isn’t just inconvenient—it feels like losing oneself. 

There are moments where fear creeps in about the future, my autonomy, the day when dressing myself or feeding myself might not be automatic. I don’t let those thoughts linger too long, or they will literally destroy me. Sadly, they visit often enough to remind me that this journey is not just physical, it’s deeply psychological.

I choose to fight against this disease sometimes loudly and other times, quietly as I think to myself I “can do this. I just have to try.” 

I choose to focus on what I can do instead of what I’ve lost. I know it is a cliché, but it’s one that helps me get through the tougher days. And most importantly, I choose to write.

Writing has always been my best friend—it’s how I process my thoughts and make sense of the unfamiliar. It is my safe space and a huge part of my identity.
It is the one thing I can count on that still makes me feel me.

Thanks to AI, I now find comfort in that I have another set of eyes to check my spelling and grammar. It’s not the perfect system but I am grateful for the help. 
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In today’s world where so much feels uncertain, I am grateful to still be able to express myself and connect with others.  If sharing the most intimate parts of this journey helps even one person feel less alone, then I still have purpose. It is a reminder to me that even as parts of my life shift, I am not without value.

At the end of the day, we all need to feel valued—to feel seen, heard, and understood. Your voice matters more than you think. Your story has the power to reach someone in a way nothing else can. And if you’re still searching for what brings you joy, meaning, or even just a small sense of peace, I invite you to explore it with me. You can learn more in my book, A Recipe for a Happier Life, here: A Recipe for a Happier Life

A portion of the proceeds from the sale of this book goes to support the nonprofit, Voices for Mental Health, Inc.

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