REROUTING THE SIGNALS A ROAD TO RECOVERY Whatever you think you know about Parkinson's throw it in the bin and start again There is an alternative pathway to recovery which doesn't involve medication. What would you think if someone told you that what you believe to be Parkinson’s disease might actually be a case of having too much adrenaline coursing through your body? That you might be able to recover if you could just find a different way to handle your stress? This idea struck me as nothing short of mind-blowing when I first heard it. It challenged everything I had been told and believed about my condition. I was introduced to this radical new perspective by Lilian Sjoberg, a Danish biologist and therapist, who was willing to help me explore an alternative approach to dealing with the stress-related issues that had taken over my life. When she first suggested I might not have Parkinson’s — but rather, that my body was overwhelmed by adrenaline — I could hardly process it. The notion seemed almost too simple, too impossible, yet strangely compelling. I remember sitting there, trying to rationalise such a seemingly wild idea, weighing its logic against the fear I had internalised for months. But I had to admit something deep down: The medical world prefers to label unexplained or complex symptoms as Parkinson’s because it’s easier to manage on a large scale. It provides a clear-cut diagnosis that encompasses most of the symptoms. Yet, beneath that label, there might be a different truth altogether. Finding an initial starting point was not easy. We had to dig deep into my past, trying to trace the roots of my stress and anxiety. I realised how far back the patterns stretched — to childhood, even before I was aware of what I was feeling. The very first memory I have of experiencing stress was when I was just ten years old. I was in junior school, standing at the start line of a boys’ running race during a school sports day. I believed, as I was taught, that winning was everything and losing was a crushing failure. That belief became ingrained in me. Before the race even began, I felt my stomach tighten, my hands tremble, my heart pounding faster and faster. The pressure built up so much inside that I was almost paralyzed by it. That early experience stayed with me. I remember vividly how anxious I felt, how I convinced myself that if I didn’t win, I’d be a complete failure. I pushed so hard to perform perfectly, yet my nerves betrayed me. I ended up finishing second — a result that, at the time, felt like a catastrophic defeat. That moment set the pattern for many years to come. Over time, I learned that my mind reacted to stress as if it were a threat to my very identity. The anxiety grew worse, feeding into itself like a vicious cycle, making it harder and harder to cope with even minor worries. Looking back now, I see how those childhood experiences planted the seeds for my ongoing struggles with stress and anxiety. Each new challenge felt like an insurmountable obstacle. The fear of failing or making mistakes — reinforced through repeated failures in school, sports, and social situations — amplified my internal tension. The more I tried to suppress or ignore these feelings, the more they seemed to take hold. By the time I reached adulthood, this pattern had become deeply rooted — a chronic state of hypervigilance that affected my body and mind. It’s no wonder I was overwhelmed, feeling like I was constantly on the edge. The trouble begins when you go through life with that kind of thinking. Every small setback, every little hurdle, suddenly feels like an insurmountable obstacle. It’s like carrying a heavy weight that you refuse to let go of, making every part of your day drag on and feel worse than it should. A perfect example from my own life happened when I had to sit my eleven-plus exam. I was already nervous about it, but instead of just seeing it as a normal test, I turned it into a huge ordeal. I put so much pressure on myself that I started to believe it was the most important thing in the world. When I failed again, it felt like a disaster. But in reality, it was just a test, a small step that I should have taken easily. Instead, I turned what should have been simple into a mountain I couldn’t climb. That added stress was like instant fuel for anxiety and fear, making everything seem so much worse. What I didn’t see at the time was that I was creating a dangerous cycle. The constant pressure and worry overloaded my young brain. It’s not just about feeling anxious; it’s about how that anxiety affects your body. My mind’s stress caused physical symptoms I couldn’t understand then—shaking, fatigue, and other health issues. It was as if my body was trying to tell me something was wrong, but I couldn’t see it clearly. That’s when what some call Parkinson’s started to show up in me. It’s a strange way to explain it, but my body was reacting to the mental chaos inside. My brain’s stress levels had risen so high that they actually affected my physical self. My muscles trembled, and I felt unsteady, not because I had Parkinson’s, but because I had created an environment that pushed my body and mind beyond their limits. That’s a powerful reminder that our mental state can have a direct impact on our physical health. What’s often missed in cases like mine is that many serious health conditions don’t come out of nowhere. They often start with a tiny switch being flipped—a small change in how you handle stress, diet, sleep, or even how you think about yourself. If enough of these switches are turned on at the right time, they build up into larger problems down the line. Think of it like a row of switches in a control panel. If you turn on a few of the right switches, suddenly a whole system changes. And that’s usually how illnesses develop—gradually, without anyone noticing the warning signs. The tricky part is that many of these early signs could be fixed if caught early enough. The problem is, we tend to ignore or dismiss them. We don’t want to believe that something small can turn into something serious, so we often act as if everything is fine until it’s too late. There’s a bitter irony in this situation. The very real risk of serious health issues could often be avoided if we paid attention to early signals. But society has made it easier to ignore them because facing these small problems head-on can be uncomfortable. There’s no profit in preventing illness, so health systems and industries often focus on treating symptoms after they become severe. That’s why so many diseases are grouped under broad labels like Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, or Dementia. Labeling makes it easier to deal with the problem as a fixed point, rather than trying to understand what caused it in the first place. It’s simpler to say, “You have Parkinson’s,” than to ask why the body and mind are breaking down. What many people don’t know is that beneath those labels are often treatable issues. If we look deeper, we find that a lot of symptoms can be managed or even eliminated without drugs. The key is to identify the root cause early. Sometimes, the answer isn’t to take medication but to change habits—reduce stress, improve sleep, adjust diet, or work on mental health. These small steps, if taken early, can stop some conditions from developing or worsening. But that requires awareness, and most of us aren’t paying close enough attention. We tend to wait until symptoms are obvious and then seek help, often too late. The barrier is that no one is incentivised to find or fix the root causes before they become problems. It’s easier to label a disease, give some medication, and forget about it. The truth is, we often overlook the potential for healing naturally. Many symptoms we think of as permanent or unchangeable are actually reversible—if only we can get to the root. Drugs are helpful, but they usually only mask the problem. If we could see what’s happening under the surface, many cases of chronic conditions could be avoided. That’s the real challenge: learning to listen to our bodies and minds. Recognising early signs, understanding their significance, and acting on them before they spiral into something more serious. It’s a matter of awareness and willingness to change, but most people aren’t told this. Instead, we get the broad labels, the quick fixes, and a focus on managing the symptoms rather than the causes. That’s why prevention and early intervention are so crucial—before the damage becomes irreversible. This backstory is crucial because it illustrates that my issues weren’t just physical but deeply psychological. The nervous system, when constantly flooded with adrenaline, can produce symptoms that mimic neurological conditions like Parkinson’s. My body had become a battleground for stress that I didn’t fully understand. Recognising this was a turning point. It opened the door to exploring new ways of feeling better, ways that didn’t simply revolve around medication or symptom management but aimed at addressing the root cause. Understanding where this pattern originated from made me more determined to try Lilian’s approach. It’s not easy to change years of conditioning and ingrained habits, especially when the medical system prefers a straightforward diagnosis. But I began to see that my body’s “fight-or-flight” response had been overstimulated for too long. If I could learn to quiet that response, I might regain control. That possibility kept me going when things felt overwhelming. I knew that my first step was acknowledging the early triggers — like that childhood race — and the way my mind had learned to react to stress. From there, I could begin to untangle the knots and find healthier ways to deal with the pressures of life. All this laid the groundwork for my journey of recovery. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the simplest explanation — adrenaline rather than Parkinson’s — can hold the key to healing. And it shows how much our childhood experiences shape the way we handle stress later in life. Recognising these links was a vital part of my path toward better health and a different understanding of what my body was trying to tell me. I have reached a critical point in my journey, a moment where I must make a decision about the direction I want to take. It’s a crossroads that forces me to look deep into my beliefs and fears. Do I continue down the familiar path of traditional medical treatment, accepting the routine of taking pills that seem to work for a time but eventually lose their power? Do I keep increasing the dosage, hoping that more medication will hold back the symptoms, even as I know that someday, it will all stop working? This path feels like walking a tightrope, knowing that eventually, the drugs will cease to help, and the disease will take over completely. The thought of that inevitability is frightening. But is there another way? Choosing to explore options outside mainstream medicine is a radical step. It involves stepping into unknown territory, facing fears I never expected to confront. Doing something so unconventional stirs a wide array of emotions — hope, doubt, uncertainty, and sometimes even fear. It’s like opening a door I had kept closed for years, fearing what I might find on the other side. Facing those inner demons, the fears and memories I'd hoped to forget, is not easy. They appear suddenly, standing there, laughing at me as they did all those years ago. But strangely enough, this time, their laughter doesn't shake me. It’s as if I’ve grown stronger because of the process. Slowly, my body begins to settle. That restless movement — the tremors, spasms, the constant jostling — starts to ease. A wave of calm washes over me, a sense of peace I can barely remember experiencing before. It’s a strange, rare feeling, like discovering a quiet place inside myself I didn’t know existed. For a moment, I stand still and breathe, feeling lighter and more hopeful than I have in years. This point — when the traditional way of treating Parkinson’s feels like hitting a brick wall — is where many are forced to stop. They face an end where no other options seem to exist. I did not want to fall into that trap. That’s why I turned to Lilian Sjoberg’s theory. Her ideas made sense to me because they questioned everything I had been told about the disease. Why should Parkinson’s be accepted as just a disease with no cure? Why do so many believe that medication and surgery are the only answers? The truth is, I think we’re told that to make it easier for the system to profit. It’s no secret that the big pharmaceutical companies prefer to keep us on pills. They make billions from people with chronic conditions like Parkinson’s. It’s easier for hospitals and clinics to perform surgeries than to look for underlying causes. Finding a cure doesn’t make money. Preventing or reversing the disease would cut into profits. That’s why nothing is done to really stop Parkinson’s before it starts, or to find a way to cure it once and for all. They just keep rolling along, focusing on managing symptoms rather than eliminating the root cause. This realisation fuels my drive to seek another way. If there’s even the smallest chance of beating this disease without surrendering to the current system, I want to take it. I want to believe that there’s more to health than just masking symptoms, that real healing is possible. That belief is what keeps me going, even in moments of doubt. It’s been hard to ignore the voices that say I’m wasting my time, that old habits die hard. But I know my body, my mind, and my spirit are telling me something different. I can’t accept the notion that Parkinson’s is the end. I refuse to think of it as an incurable disease. The more I explore, the more I see that the current medical system simply isn’t set up to solve this problem permanently. It’s designed to keep us hooked on treatments that bring in money but never truly heal. My hope is that through patience, perseverance, and alternative approaches, I can find a different path. One where the goal isn’t just to survive with medication but to restore health and balance. That’s what drives me now — a hope for something better, a belief that I don’t have to accept the limits others have set. When deciding to take this new path, it’s essential to understand that there’s no room for doing things halfway. This isn’t something you can dabble in or try half-heartedly. If you want to find an alternative approach, you have to commit fully. That means being willing to make big changes—altering your medication, changing your daily habits, and even adjusting your mindset. It’s a complete overhaul of your routine, and it will push you out of your comfort zone. There will be discomfort, no way around it. You might feel irritable, anxious, or overwhelmed as you make these shifts. It’s a tough process because, for a long time, I had never truly committed myself to anything similar. Commitment is a new territory for me, and I had doubts about whether I could handle the challenge. But I learned that when something feels truly right, it’s worth the effort. That gut feeling, the sense that this new way might be for me, gave me the push I needed. I realised that you don’t settle for a half measure when it comes to significant changes affecting your health. Either you dive in completely, or you stay where you are. There’s no middle ground. It’s a matter of choosing to change for the better, even when that means dealing with bits of pain and discomfort along the way. The biggest challenge I face now is dealing with dyskinesia, a side effect I experience. It’s caused partly by the medication I take, Madopar, which helps manage my symptoms, but also by adrenaline surges that make my body go into overdrive. When my adrenaline kicks in, my muscles twitch and jerk involuntarily, and I feel out of control. It’s exhausting and unsettling. As we approached the end of one of our therapy sessions, Lilian, my therapist, started teaching me ways to relax my body when I felt tense or nervous. She explained that those skills will be vital later on, especially when I begin reducing my medication. Learning to stay calm becomes a practical tool to handle the symptoms that might flare up. Honestly, I feel quite uneasy about dropping my medication. There’s a fear inside me that things will become worse, that I might lose some of the stability I’ve found. It’s natural to feel unsure when facing such big changes, but I also understand that it’s necessary. We can’t keep going the same way indefinitely. During a recent session, I became very emotional. Lilian guided me through a visualization exercise, and that’s when she took me back to where my trauma first began—back to that place I’d tried to forget. It was a heavy moment. I felt vulnerable, vulnerable enough to cry. That process pulled out a lot of feelings I’d buried deep inside, and it made me realise how much fear and pain I carry with me. Despite all the uncertainty, I know I must keep moving forward. The process is not just about medication or therapy; it’s about confronting those old wounds, learning new ways to cope, and building strength from within. It’s a difficult journey, but I believe I am on the right path. The discomfort, the fear, and the tears are all part of the process. I understand now that you have to really commit if you want change—it’s the only way to challenge the status quo and find a better way to live. The reality hit me hard the very next morning. I could feel it creeping in again—like an uninvited guest mocking my efforts to stay calm. The familiar wave of nausea washed over me, making me feel like I might vomit at any moment. It was as if my stomach had turned inside out, and I could almost taste that bitter uneasy feeling in my throat. Those childhood anxieties—fear of failing, worries over what others thought, the endless voice inside my head that told me I wasn’t good enough—came crashing back, flooding my mind with chaos. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by panic, even over trivial things that normally wouldn’t bother me. A tiny, almost insignificant thought spiralled into full-blown anxiety—my heart pounding, my palms sweating, my head spinning. I told myself repeatedly that the sun would still shine and the moon would still rise, that the world outside wouldn’t stop spinning, but at that moment, those reassurances felt hollow. Nothing could seem to calm the storm inside me. In that chaos, I knew I needed help, quick. I reached for my medication early—something I’d been prescribed to manage anxiety and keep my stress levels in check. As I took those pills, I hoped they would work faster than usual because I truly felt I was losing control. It took some time, but gradually, the medication began to soften the edges of my panic. My breathing slowed, my shaking lessened, and the fog in my mind started to lift. Slowly, I began to feel normal again, or at least a version of what I consider normal. But this experience left a bitter reminder—stress-related illnesses can mimic the worst symptoms of neurological conditions like Parkinson’s disease. They can cause tremors, shaking, and confusion, making it hard to tell what’s what sometimes. I’ve seen how anxiety can make the body shake because of shock levels of fear or trauma, but that’s not Parkinson’s disease. It’s simply stress and emotional trauma affecting the nervous system. In my view, this distinction is vital. When I was first diagnosed long ago, the understanding of these issues was different. Back then, doctors didn’t have the knowledge they do now. Looking back, I realise that I should have been treated for mental health challenges from the very start. Instead, I was pegged with a neurological diagnosis, which was a mistake. Stress and anxiety do not cause the same long-term damage as neurological conditions, but they can dominate your life and mimic serious illness. These episodes can be confusing, especially when the symptoms overlap—shaking, difficulty moving, even a sluggish gait—yet they are rooted in different causes. These misinterpretations can lead to years of unnecessary medication or, worse, a misunderstanding of what’s really happening inside my body. Despite all that, I also understand that stress and anxiety are complex. They can change how your brain chemistry works, making adrenaline surge uncontrollably. To get through these episodes, I’ve learned I need to lower that adrenaline rush. That usually means burning off the excess energy through exercise. Moving helps, it really does. The day before, I pushed myself a little more, and I felt better — calmer, more in control. Exercise clears the mind, boosts endorphins, and helps to counteract the storm of stress inside. But reducing my medication levels is a gamble. It’s tricky because I worry about triggering another episode or tipping the balance too far. Still, I know that finding ways to manage my adrenaline, rather than overly suppressing it, is key to long-term health. I keep thinking about how that stress-related episode snuck up on me. It was almost like I wasn’t prepared for how quickly my body could switch into that reaction. I think it’s telling that when I push myself physically, I feel more in control. Exercise isn’t just about staying fit; it’s about calming the mind and reducing the surge of adrenaline that spikes during anxious moments. The tricky part is, for someone like me, the day after a good session isn’t as straightforward as just feeling good — lowering the medication too much can bring back those nerves and tremors. It’s a balancing act, trying to stay active without overdoing it, and knowing when to pull back and rest. The lessons from all this are clear. Stress truly affects the body in profound ways, often mimicking real neurological issues but not being the same at all. Understanding the difference could save someone years of confusion or unnecessary treatment. Stress-related affect can be intense and real, but they don’t mean the same damage or deterioration. I have to keep reminding myself that my body responds to stress in ways that aren’t always visible or straightforward. The key for me is learning how to control those adrenaline surges — to burn them off, to find relief in movement, and to know my limits. It’s a constant balancing act, but one I believe is worth mastering. Because at the core, this isn’t just about managing physical symptoms; it’s about managing the mind as well. And that, I’ve discovered, is what makes all the difference. The only way I could move forward seemed possible if I managed to reduce the high levels of dopamine flooding through my body. But it was clear that this wouldn’t happen overnight. I knew the process would be painfully slow. My adrenaline and dopamine were working together in a dangerous way. The combination was like a toxic cocktail that was wrecking my body from the inside out. My legs, in particular, kept spasming uncontrollably, twisting into dyskinetic movements that I couldn’t control. These spasms only made me more anxious, creating a cycle I couldn’t seem to break. Every time I thought I was making progress, the anxiety kicked in again, making my muscles tense and spasms worse. It was as if I was stuck in a never-ending loop that spun faster and faster, dragging me down. I knew I had to find a way to pull myself out of it, but I also understood that I couldn’t rush this process. I had to be patient. I faced the harsh reality that I would need to confront my problems alone, to really face the demons from my past that haunted me. Digging into memories from my childhood—traumas I’d buried deep—brought on a wave of intense feelings. I became overwhelmed with emotion, but it was necessary. It surfaced all the insecurities I had tried so hard to hide. I understood that pushing myself too fast would only cause more damage. Little steps in the right direction seemed safest. Sometimes, I’d choose to pause, breathe, and reflect before moving further. Through all of this, I was grateful to have Lilian by my side. Her advice was like a guiding light, helping me stay grounded when I felt I might crumble. It was comforting to know I had someone I could trust to give me wise words, especially when I doubted myself. The journey ahead was painfully slow, but with her support, I felt a little stronger, a little more able to face whatever came next. I have never truly felt at ease with the idea that I might be living with Parkinson’s disease. It’s a label that sat heavy on my mind, filling me with doubt and confusion. Sometimes, a quiet voice inside would whisper that I might not actually have the illness. That might sound crazy to some people after I’ve suffered for over forty-seven years, yet that feeling persisted. It was as if I was carrying a weight, yet still unsure whether I fully belonged to that diagnosis. My journey changed after I met Lilian Sjoberg, a woman whose insights opened my eyes wider than I ever thought possible. Her perspective shifted everything I believed about my condition. She made me see that what they call Parkinson’s isn’t really just one disease at all. It’s more of a label, a collection of many different illnesses grouped together because they share similar symptoms. Most often, what we think of as Parkinson’s stems from stress disorders deeply rooted in life’s traumatic events or intense stress episodes. These trauma incidents can trigger a chain reaction in the body, leading to long-term health problems. That’s what many doctors are now recognising—that this so-called Parkinson's is often a manifestation of something entirely different, often linked to stress and emotional trauma. The disorder’s symptoms — tremors, stiffness, slow movements — are symptoms that can surface from chaos in the mind and body, not necessarily from a degenerative disease. In many cases, these symptoms can be eased or even reversed without heavy reliance on medication. It’s more about addressing the root causes, not just suppressing the symptoms. This realisation prompted me to make a life-changing decision: I am determined to prove that this condition isn’t always the disease it appears to be. I want to demonstrate that a lot of these symptoms are treatable, often without the need for strong drugs. That doesn’t mean I am rejecting medication altogether — I accept that I still live with something that can be quite debilitating. But I believe there’s a better way. I want to find a balance in my treatment that considers both medication and alternative approaches. Approaching this as if I have Parkinson’s — as if it’s just that disease — isn’t right for me anymore. My struggles with severe dyskinesia — those involuntary, jerky movements — seem to come from just one thing: too much adrenaline flooding through my body. It’s like my nervous system is stuck in overdrive. To manage that, I need to burn it off through exercise. Regular movement helps release the excess energy and calms my mind. I’ve also been on a drug called Madopar, which contains Levodopa. It’s a common medication for Parkinson’s symptoms, but I’ve learned that when taken in high doses, it can actually make my dyskinesia worse. I’ve experienced how the medication, when misjudged, causes my legs to jerk uncontrollably. That’s where Lilian’s guidance becomes invaluable. She helps me fine-tune my approach, adjusting my medication and combining it with natural methods. We are working on finding that delicate balance where I can keep my symptoms manageable without suffering from the sudden, severe dyskinesia. It’s not just about reducing pills; it’s about understanding my body’s signals and responding differently. Deep down, I am convinced that my condition is not purely Parkinson’s. It seems more like a form of post-traumatic stress disorder that has manifested physically, changing the way my brain and body behave. This might sound unusual, even radical, to some. But I’ve seen the patterns. I’ve studied the long history of stress-related illnesses and how trauma can shape us in ways many doctors overlook. My years of suffering have convinced me that the power of the mind and body is underestimated. I am not rejecting the fact that I need help. I just refuse to accept that fleeting relief from medication alone is my only path. I want to challenge that notion. I believe that with proper understanding, therapy, lifestyle changes, and a focus on healing the underlying trauma, I can gain control over my symptoms and perhaps improve my overall health. Ultimately, my goal is not just to treat my condition but to change the way we see illnesses like this. I want to show that a person’s mind, past experiences, and emotional health play a bigger role than most realise. I know I still have a long road ahead, but I also know I have the strength, with Lilian’s help, to prove that healing is possible beyond just drugs. My journey isn’t about giving up on medication, but about rethinking how I approach my health, how I listen to my body, and how I understand what is truly making me ill. It’s about taking back control, piece by piece, and opening my eyes to a different kind of hope. Sometimes, you just have to trust your gut. You need to listen to what your instincts are telling you, even when the world around you seems to expect something different. For a long time, I also believed I was suffering from a serious neurological condition. I had convinced myself I was slowly losing control of my body because I showed so many signs of Parkinson’s disease. My tremors, stiffness, slow movements, and difficulty with coordination clearly pointed in that direction. It felt as if my body was betraying me. I kept asking myself: why am I still healthy after all these years? Why do I appear almost normal, despite experiencing what seem to be textbook symptoms? I knew that the diagnosis of Parkinson’s was the common explanation. Yet, something inside me kept whispering that this wasn’t quite right, that I might be missing something important. There was this small voice at the back of my mind—a feeling that something was wrong, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Over the years, I wondered why I remained relatively in good health, despite the severity of the symptoms that seemed to match Parkinson’s. How could I possibly stay healthy with such a diagnosis looming over me? Every time I saw a new doctor or specialist, I would listen carefully to what they said. Yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. Everything about my condition seemed off — the timing, the way symptoms fluctuated, even my reaction to medication. It all felt out of place, almost inconsistent. I’d read stories of people truly debilitated by Parkinson’s, yet I didn’t see the same level of decline in myself. This contradiction gnawed at me, pushing me to look deeper. Then, by chance, I came across Lilian Sjoberg. She’s a biologist and a therapist—someone with a keen eye for details that others might overlook. Our first conversation was enough to change everything. She saw something about me that no one else had. It wasn’t just a typical neurological issue. It wasn’t Parkinson’s. She looked at my behaviour, my responses, how I carried myself, and made a simple but profound observation. She realised I had too much adrenaline pumping through my system. This excess adrenaline was likely causing my symptoms. It was making my condition worse, especially when mixed with the synthetic dopamine I was taking as medication. Lilian explained that adrenaline could mimic some Parkinson’s symptoms, making my body react as if it was in a constant state of stress or fight-or-flight. What happened next was nothing short of a breakthrough. We sat down for just one session. It wasn’t a long session, but it was enough to unlock the door to the real cause. During that session, we uncovered a story I’d buried deep inside. A story of stress, trauma, and anxiety from my childhood. I recalled the many exams I pushed myself through as a child, the pressure I put on myself to succeed, and how I tried so hard to meet expectations that seemed impossible to reach. I’d been unknowingly creating a storm within my own mind, a storm I didn’t understand at the time. My constant worry, my overthinking, my perfectionism—all of these had contributed to building a mountain of stress that I carried every day. I was actively making myself ill by obsessing over my health and pushing myself too far. In fact, I was living in a state of silent trauma, which was mistaken for a neurological disorder. I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The symptoms that looked like Parkinson’s — trembling, rigidity, slow movements — were actually signs of my body responding to unresolved trauma and constant stress. It was as if my mind and body had become trapped in a cycle of fear and anxiety, which was then misdiagnosed as a neurological disease. This revelation was both shocking and relieving all at once. Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle snapped into place. Although I still exhibit many Parkinson’s-like symptoms, I no longer believe that’s what I am battling. I don’t see Parkinson’s as my true condition. My diagnosis was wrong, and that changes everything for me. I am convinced that the medication I am currently taking is doing more harm than good. It’s only adding to my stress, increasing adrenaline levels, and making me feel worse. I know I need to cut back, to lower the dosage as quickly as possible, to give my body a chance to heal. This doesn’t mean I will suddenly regain full health, but it does give me hope. Hope that I can face the future with a clearer mind and a better understanding of my body. I feel grateful that I’ve uncovered this truth, that I now know what I am truly dealing with. It’s an empowering feeling, and it’s opened the door to new possibilities. I finally see light at the end of the tunnel, and for the first time in a long while, I am optimistic about my future. When I said I didn’t have Parkinson’s, I wasn’t denying I was seriously ill. I was simply questioning the outlook that was given to me. People around me could see the pattern clearly. The cause of my long illness is rooted in the intense stress and pressure of modern life. I’ve realised that I’ve made myself sick by worrying too much, overthinking every little problem, and letting anxiety take over. It’s easy to overlook how damaging constant stress can be, especially for young people. The message in all of this is a warning. If I could develop Parkinson’s symptoms as a teenager, purely from stress and worry, then how many other long-term health issues are caused by similar factors? That’s a powerful and worrying thought. It makes us ask: how many illnesses aren’t just about genetics or accidents but about how much stress we carry inside? There’s a bigger point here too. We need places like The Real Life Community. Having somewhere to turn to, where you can switch off and forget your worries for a little while, is vital. It provides relief and a space for people to let out their stress. Whether it’s talking to others who understand or simply sharing a moment of calm, these groups can save lives. They give us a chance to step back from the chaos each day throws at us. Without that kind of support, I don’t believe I could have kept fighting for so long. It’s incredibly important to have somewhere or someone that helps you manage your mental health. For me, going public with my illness was a tough choice. It’s been the biggest challenge I’ve ever faced. Sharing my story meant facing questions and doubts, but it also brought awareness. I went through a difficult process of reflection and self-discovery. I had to piece together what led me to this point. It was eye-opening to see how much stress had played a role—how it had quietly chipped away at my health. In that process, I realised how dangerous unchecked worry and tension are for everyone. It’s not just about me—it’s a warning to others. We need communities like The Real Life Community to remind us that we’re not alone. That there's help, understanding, and hope. Looking back, I see how much I’ve learned through all of this. I’ve found that facing your problems head-on, even the most uncomfortable ones, is the only true way to understand them. My illness, though serious, has become a symbol of something bigger. It’s a sign that stress can do terrible things if left unchecked. I believe everyone should see the importance of having a safe space, where worries don’t overflow and don’t control your life. And I’m grateful I did, because sharing my story has shown me how urgent our need is for real support networks. It’s about stopping the cycle of stress before it turns into something worse—before it’s too late. The biggest problem I have ever had in my life is that I have always tried to suppress my emotions. From a young age, I believed that showing how I felt was a sign of weakness. When I was upset, anxious, or even overwhelmed, I made a conscious effort to hide those feelings deep inside. I thought if I kept everything bottled up, I could appear stronger, more in control. I thought of emotions as something you should avoid because they made you vulnerable. This mindset shaped who I was for many years. I had this idea that being emotional was a flaw, so I kept everything to myself, convinced that if I didn't acknowledge these feelings out loud, they would somehow hurt me less. But in doing this, I was only internalising something that could be both useful and dangerous, depending on how it was handled. While suppressing emotions may seem like a good idea at first, especially in moments where vulnerability feels uncomfortable or unneeded, it can have serious consequences. It’s like stuffing a growing balloon into a small box. It’s possible for a while, but eventually, the pressure becomes too much. When emotions are internalised instead of released, they don’t disappear—they build up. If the feelings are intense enough, they can become unmanageable. This was true in my case, particularly with fear. I was always taught that fear was a weakness, something to hide or ignore. As a result, I tried to push it aside and pretend it didn’t exist. But that only made my fear worse. I kept telling myself I should be brave, that feeling scared was unacceptable, so I buried that fear deep down. Every time I faced an exam, for example, I would become overwhelmed with anxiety. The fear of failing gnawed at me constantly. I would spend days obsessing over the worst possible outcomes, imagining all the ways I could trip up or be humiliated. With each exam, my fears intensified. I convinced myself that if I didn’t think about failing, I could somehow avoid feeling scared. Yet, that avoidance only built irrational fears that grew each time I faced a new challenge. By the time I reached adulthood, those fears had become more than just mental worries—they started manifesting physically. I developed symptoms that looked like Parkinson’s disease, with tremors, stiffness, and a shaky voice. It was not a neurological disorder. It was my body reacting to that powerful emotion I had tried to suppress. My body was warning me that I couldn’t keep ignoring what I felt. The more I fought to keep my emotions hidden, the more they fought back in unexpected ways. Suppressed fears, anxieties, and feelings of inadequacy didn’t just stay inside—they pushed their way out. They appeared in physical symptoms, in illness, in exhaustion I couldn't explain. It wasn’t limited to just one part of my life. This internal battle affected my relationships, my job, and my overall well-being. Over time, I noticed I was worrying about things before they even happened. I would start fretting about an upcoming meeting or a difficult conversation long before I even entered the room. This pre-emptive worry put my body under constant stress, leaving me tired and on edge. That stress had a cost. It drained my energy, made my mind work overtime, and as the years passed, it created health problems I couldn’t ignore anymore. By the time I reached middle age, this pattern had become a core part of who I was. The constant fear, the anxiety, the need to hide even the smallest emotion—it all shaped my daily life. I was living in a state of perpetual worry, which added layers of tension deep into my body and mind. I didn’t just worry about specific events; I worried about things that hadn’t even happened. This created a cycle of stress that fed itself, making everything feel more intense and overwhelming. It was as if I had built a prison inside myself, where negative emotions were locked away, but every now and then they would break free. The physical symptoms that appeared, the worries that wouldn’t leave my mind, all stemmed from that internal struggle to hide my emotions, especially my fears. Looking back, I see how this constant internal suppression did more harm than good. It kept me from facing my feelings head-on, and that only made them grow stronger. Suppressing emotions might seem like a way to stay in control, but it can actually turn into a trap. It creates a cycle where the more you try to hide how you feel, the harder those feelings push back in ways you never expected. My experience serves as a reminder that emotions are part of being human. Trying to deny them doesn’t make them disappear; it often makes them worse. My body and mind paid the price for my refusal to acknowledge what I truly felt. Now, I understand that embracing those feelings, even the uncomfortable ones, is the only way to really heal and move forward. I can’t quite explain what’s happening to me right now, but I feel something shift deep inside. Yesterday, my mind was a storm cloud filled with swirling demons—thoughts that haunted me and made it hard to breathe. They circled endlessly, chaining my worries and fears. Today, those same voices have completely vanished. It’s like a heavy cloud has lifted, leaving me with a sense of calm and clarity I haven't felt in a long time. The feeling is hard to put into words. It’s as if I’ve unlocked a secret code to peace, right within myself. The strange part is, I haven’t changed physically. My medication remains the same, yet I feel like a different person—lighter, freer, and more at ease. What’s extraordinary is how simple this breakthrough seemed. I didn’t need a magic pill or a dramatic change in my routine. All I did was face those fears I’d been avoiding for years. I looked them straight in the eye, acknowledged their presence, and realised they were just fears—nothing more than feelings, nothing to run from. That confrontation was enough to dissolve the power those fears held over me. It’s almost as if I banished the demons by simply not letting them control my mind anymore. This shift has turned my world upside down in a wonderful way. Previously, I felt weighed down by anxiety, doubts, and emotional baggage. Now, I feel as if I’ve left all of that behind me. The heaviness I carried for so long has melted away. I can sense it because I feel lighter, more myself, yet I am aware that I haven’t done anything drastic. My medication is the same. Yet, I’ve shed the mental and emotional burdens that kept me tethered to fear. I’m no longer haunted by my old worries or the doubts that used to immobilise me. It’s like I’ve been able to let go of the things that once held me prisoners just by truly facing what terrified me the most. Looking back, I see how fear was my biggest obstacle all those years. It’s such a natural feeling—an instinct that’s embedded deep in every living creature. When faced with danger or uncertainty, we freeze, shake, or run. I remember how I froze back then, when I was just a young kid, overwhelmed by exam stress. I made myself sick over nothing, convinced I’d failed when I really hadn’t. I wish I could have understood earlier that how I fared in those early tests didn’t define me or my future. If I had, I might have spared myself the years of suffering and self-doubt. Despite all that, I now find myself in a very good place. I honestly wouldn’t want to go back and change anything. Those tough experiences had to happen for me to find who I really am. The pain, the sleepless nights, the moments of despair—they all shaped me into someone who can now stand tall. I feel so happy knowing I’ve been through that dark tunnel and come out on the other side. It takes that kind of struggle to truly discover your strength and your true self. I am thankful for every moment that pushed me to confront my fears because I couldn’t have gotten here without them. I can now look forward to the road ahead without any worries or worries of what might go wrong. No more trepidation about what the future holds. I have learned what it means to live authentically—to truly be present in each moment. Recently, I took a step that signifies my new beginning. I went for a swim in the pool of honesty, and the feeling was extraordinary. I felt pure and refreshed, as if I’d scrubbed away layers of doubt and shame. It’s hard to fully express how freeing that moment was. I emerged feeling completely clean inside, as if a burden had been lifted from my soul. That cloudy specter, the Parkinson’s that once loomed over me like a dark storm, doesn’t matter anymore. It no longer holds the same power over me. It’s as if I woke up from a long, turbulent dream and finally started to live again. I’m now appreciating the people around me—their kindness, their warmth, their simple presence. Things that once seemed ordinary now feel precious. I see the beauty in everyday life—the colour of the sky, the music that moves me, the art that speaks to my soul. The world outside is bursting with life, and I can finally truly enjoy it. You see, if you spend your life obsessing over every little worry or mistake, you risk losing yourself inside that constant fear. I’ve been down that lonely corridor, the long dark tunnel of anxiety and despair, but I’ve come out the other end. Now, I see the sunlight—the bright, warm light of hope, love, and new beginnings. Life outside feels vibrant and full of possibilities. It’s like I’ve rediscovered colours I never knew existed. It’s a feeling that never fades because I’ve learned that these moments are what truly matter. Understanding who I am now has been a journey. I’ve found myself hidden beneath layers of fear and regret. That discovery brought tears—emotional tears that come from real happiness. I never thought I’d reach this point, but I am grateful beyond words. I feel so much happier, so much more complete. The experience has changed me in ways I never expected. It’s a gift I’ll carry with me always. And I owe a part of this transformation to Lilian Sjoberg. She showed me how to face my fears and find my way back to myself. Her guidance, her kindness—they lit a spark inside me. I will be forever thankful for that. Her help was the turning point—an anchor that kept me steady when I needed it most. Thanks to her, I’ve discovered the strength I never knew I had, and I am now living with an open heart, eager to see what comes next. The core problem is that we rarely see things for what they really are. We tend to distort or exaggerate the truth, making a mess of situations that could have been simple. I’ve spent most of my life chasing after peace and quiet. I wanted to feel truly calm again, to find that stillness inside where nothing moves, where my mind and body can just rest. I longed to float effortlessly on the breeze and experience happiness without the weight of worries pressing down. But that kind of peace didn't come easily. It seemed like the stars had to align just perfectly for me to find that calm; I believed I needed luck, that the universe had to be perfectly in tune. For many years, I struggled to get there. It felt as if I was constantly missing out or waiting for some grand moment that never arrived. But recently, I’ve started to sense that I am on the right path, and things are beginning to change for me. The secret to feeling good—really good—comes down to one simple idea: destress as much as you can. You see, life is full of stressors, and if we don’t learn how to manage them, they can quietly take a toll on our health. I’ve come to understand that too much stress doesn’t just make you feel anxious; it can make you physically ill. It can harm your body, weaken your immune system, and leave you vulnerable. The problem is that modern life is designed to be overwhelming. We’re constantly connected, bombarded with noise, deadlines, comparisons, and worries. It’s like toxic fumes billowing around us, but we don’t see the danger because there's no warning sign. We accept it as part of everyday life, thinking stress is inevitable and just something we have to live with. But that’s a dangerous lie. Stress is a silent killer that can strike at any given moment if we’re not careful. Too much of it can cause real damage, just like I experienced many years ago, when I pushed myself too far and ended up unwell. A lot of the health issues we face might be preventable if we only recognised stress for what it truly is: a threat we need to take seriously. This journey has not been easy. To understand myself better, I decided to open up on social media and share my struggles honestly. It was a tough step—exposing my innermost fears and anxieties for the world to see. I felt I owed it to myself and others to show what has truly caused my illness. And I am certain now that what I suffer from is linked to stress. It’s not Parkinson’s disease, even though my symptoms resemble it. It’s very similar but not the same. My condition involves elements of Parkinsonism, which refers to symptoms like tremors or sluggish movement, but it isn’t the disease itself. What I now understand is that my symptoms were fuelled by anxiety—an irrational fear of failing or not being enough. That fear became a heavy burden, one I carried deep inside. I know all this now because, in 1987, I was misdiagnosed. Back then, doctors thought I had Parkinson’s, and I carried that label with me for years. I had no way to fight it back then because I believed what I was told. Looking back, I realise that I’ve been like a wild animal caught in a trap. Shaking, scared, unable to escape from my own fears. It’s an image that sticks with me—frozen in place, trembling because of the overwhelming dread I carried. The diagnosis I received was wrong, but it shaped my entire understanding of myself. For years, I believed I had a serious neurological disorder, when all along, it was my anxiety and irrational fears that caused my problems. I buried my fears deep inside. I never knew how to talk about them. They grew into a monster, controlling my life and making me sick. But now that I have finally faced what’s really behind my struggles, I feel a sense of relief. I’ve acknowledged the root cause, and that’s a big step forward. I want to fix the damage I’ve done—to myself and my life. I can’t change the past, but I can try to heal the pain I’ve lived with for so long. It’s a slow process. It requires patience, effort, and time. I know that. But for the first time, I feel motivated to move ahead—step by step—toward better health and peace of mind. Even if the road is long and difficult, I believe it’s worth it. There’s a part of me that feels optimistic now, knowing that I’ve taken the first real step in understanding and facing my inner world. This whole experience has revealed something else to me. Throughout life, I played two very different roles. There was the outgoing, confident side—Rob Keene—the one who loves attention, who’s personable and carefree. People saw me as someone who had no worries, who was easy to talk to and quick to smile. But behind that, there was another side—my true self—an introvert, full of doubts, insecurities, and worries. That version of me was constantly anxious, obsessing over the smallest thing that could go wrong. Unfortunately, that anxious Rob Keene gradually became my dominant personality—a side I believed I had to hide from the world because it was too fragile. In an odd way, sharing all this publicly has done me a favour. Putting my fears, flaws, and truths out into the open has lifted a huge weight. I no longer need to hide behind the facade. It’s a relief to get it all out, to show the world what has been hiding inside me. But I also know that recovery will take time. My journey to healing isn’t quick. It’s a slow, steady process of understanding myself better, forgiving myself, and learning how to live with what I now know. Still, opening up has given me hope. I feel lighter, more honest. And somehow, that honesty is the first step toward full recovery—step by step—until I can finally reclaim my peace. You can believe whatever you like, but in my world, this is what I believe. I’ve created a story in my mind — an illusion — that I am chronically ill, and somehow, that has become my reality. I convinced myself that I was sick, that something was fundamentally wrong with me. The truth is, the only real problem was the way I was thinking about my body and my health. Nothing was physically broken or damaged, but I was caught in a cycle of negative thoughts that drained my energy and clouded my view of life. It’s as simple as that. Yet, I understand how difficult it can be to get your head around it because these thoughts feel so real, so practical. That’s why I want you to understand what I’m really saying — because your mindset can shape your life far more than you might think. If you believe you are ill, if you focus on your symptoms constantly, you are inadvertently making yourself worse. It’s just a matter of flipping the switch in your mind. Think differently, and you can change your experience. It’s all about simple mindset shifts. But this isn’t about blame. It’s not our fault that our minds fall into these traps. When we go to the hospital with worries and fears, it’s easy for the doctors to confirm them because it aligns with what they expect and what is in their interest to support. Telling someone “you’re sick” feels tangible, real, and easily accepted, especially when it’s backed up by medical tests and professionals. And once that label sticks, it’s easy to believe it’s true. Sadly, this cycle fuels the illness, locking us into a narrative that’s hard to escape. It’s strange how our lives can take such a turn because of this. Most of my life, I was haunted by fear of failure. I worried I wouldn’t succeed, and that worry grew so loud I stopped enjoying the present. Instead, I always looked ahead with anxiety, afraid that everything would fall apart. It’s a negative way to think — and that constant fear creates problems I could have easily avoided. It’s only when you go through hard times that you really understand how precious your life is. You learn to see what truly matters. Wasting energy on worries that keep you trapped can mean missing out on the joys around you. When I finally realised this, I started to see my life differently. I stopped spending so much time fixating on what could go wrong. I realised how much power I had over my own mind, even if it seemed impossible at first. Those realizations began to shift everything. Then, something unexpected happened. Lilian Sjoberg reached out to me. She arranged a Zoom call the very next day, and that conversation eased my fears about reducing my medication, particularly Madopar. I felt a weight lift because I now understood that I had to change. I couldn’t keep doing the same thing and expect different results. I knew that lowering my medication might initially make things feel worse, but I was prepared for that. I was ready to face a short-term dip if it meant I could truly begin to heal. I could see that Lilian’s approach made sense — a way to explore what was really underneath the symptoms instead of just masking them. During our session, she used visualizations of my past, guiding me to understand the root causes of my anxieties. It was incredibly calming — like peeling back layers of Fear and doubt. For the first time, I had tools to steer myself away from anxious feelings rather than getting overwhelmed by them. Those calming techniques became vital, because they gave me a sense of control I hadn’t had before. I knew I had to gradually get my dopamine levels down, so I could see what was hidden beneath the surface. It was clear that this process would take time, but it also became clear that there was a method to it. I started to see the logic behind Lilian’s plan, and that boosted my confidence. Still, the first step was the hardest — leaving behind old habits and routines. Little by little, I told myself that small roads lead to big highways. Making tiny changes would help me find my direction. It became clear that I had to take that first step or nothing would change at all. Until then, I remained stuck in familiar patterns. But now, I believed I could find my way. I felt reassured by Lilian’s confidence — she knew what she was doing. That confident feeling made me trust her, and that trust was crucial. If you look at how we treat conditions like Parkinson’s now, it’s apparent to me that the old methods are all wrong. The way medicine is packaged and sold — one pill after another — isn’t sustainable. We need a fresh approach, one that looks at the person as a whole, not just a set of symptoms. We’re moving too slow with this pill society, and it’s exhausting. There has to be a better way, a way that respects the complexity of the human mind and body. Most people only see the negative side of Parkinson’s. They focus on the daily grind — the endless medication routine, the struggle to stay independent. But just beneath that surface, there’s a different story. Over time, many discover a positive side of this condition — a side that sparks creativity and new ways of thinking. Yes, it might take away some physical function, but it opens new pathways in the brain. The mind finds ways around the blocks, rerouting signals, giving rise to fresh ideas and perspectives. When you look at your life differently, some of those symptoms seem to fade, like shadows in the corner of a room. I had a moment of clarity, a flash of insight that felt like a quick flick of the hand sweeping my Parkinson’s symptoms aside. It was almost as if I dismissed them completely, pushing them into the far corner of my mind. I told myself, “That’s enough,” and made the decision to focus on the good parts of my day. It wasn’t perfect; nothing ever is. But it was enough. It was enough because I chose to see the positives instead of dwelling on the negatives. That shift — that moment — felt like I had turned a corner. I felt as if I had gained control over my life again. Smiling to myself, I realised I had found the power to change my outlook, to loosen the grip of fear and doubt. That small act — just a simple choice — made all the difference. Now, I believe that the mind is more powerful than we give it credit for. Our thoughts shape our experiences, and if we change how we think, we can change our lives.

RECOVERY Today, I made a choice that changed everything. I decided to step back from the busy, modern world I've been living in. It hit me hard how much this constant rush, the endless stream of information and demands, was slowly making me sick. Not just physically, but emotionally and mentally too. It became clear that this unending pressure isn't just affecting me—it's harming all of us, often without us even realising it. The danger lies in how invisible these threats are. We don't see stress and anxiety building their walls inside us. They creep in quietly, eating away at our well-being. Stress and anxiety are like silent killers, sneaking into our lives and causing harm over time. They're not just feelings they're biological stressors that can damage our health. To me, it's obvious they are not good for anyone—no matter how strong we think we are. They wear us down gradually, affecting our minds and bodies. I've come to see how these feelings can be a root cause for many serious diseases, including Parkinson's. I'm convinced that prolonged stress, and the anxiety it creates, have played a part in my struggle with Parkinson's disease. I do not doubt that connection. Picture the human brain as a computer. When overloaded, it crashes, and that's exactly what I believe happened to me. My brain had become a cluttered mess of negative thoughts, fears, and too much information coming from every direction. Constant news updates, social media feed after social media feed, the fear-mongering headlines—each one adds to the overload. It's like pouring hot oil on a machine that wasn't designed to handle that level of traffic. Over time, the system slows, then stalls. My mental processor crashed, and that's when I believe the symptoms of Parkinson's started. The good news is that organic life is resilient. The human body and mind have an amazing ability to heal when given the right conditions. However, this healing requires addressing the root of the problem. That's why I decided to change my habits. I took smart steps, like removing social media from my phone. Now, my phone doesn't bombard me with endless news and fear-driven messages. It's just a tool to stay connected, nothing more. No more feeds that fill my head with useless panic about the possibility of World War Three. Because if it happens, it happens. Worrying about it every time I check my phone won't change the outcome. It only adds to my stress. I want to focus on the present moment. Today is what I have, and I refuse to waste it on worries about things beyond my control. If the weather turns bad, I accept it. There's no point in obsessing over what I can't change. Rain or shine, it's just weather. The same goes for my health. Parkinson's is a part of my life now, but worrying about it all the time won't help. I can't undo what's already happened. I can only choose how I respond. So I choose to enjoy today. I choose to live in the now. This shift in mindset isn't easy. It takes discipline to step away from the constant stream of bad news and negativity. But it's necessary. I believe that focusing on what I can control, and letting go of what I can't, is my best shot at healing. It's about acceptance and making space for peace. We spend so much time chasing control and avoiding uncertainty that we forget the simple truth: life is unpredictable. But in that unpredictability lies our greatest freedom. By choosing not to fill my mind with fear and chaos, I reclaim a sense of calm. I find strength in acceptance. Ultimately, this isn't just about me. It's about understanding how the demands of modern life wear us out. It's about recognising that burnout, stress, and anxiety are real danger signals. They threaten our health and happiness in ways most people ignore. But we don't have to accept them as normal. We can make changes. Small ones. Big ones. Like turning off the endless notifications, taking time to breathe, and choosing what we let into our minds. That's how we regain control. That's how we start to heal. Because life, no matter how shaky, is worth living fully—day by day, moment by moment. Robert James Keene

D.I.Y. Conductive Education has its roots in Hungary and is known as a practical, hands-on approach to learning. It is designed with real-life applications in mind to help individuals living with neurological disorders regain control over their movements. The process focuses on teaching people how to move differently, how to perform everyday tasks in new ways, and how to improve their overall mobility. Understanding one’s abilities is vital in this journey. It’s not just about doing things the same way, but about learning new techniques and skills that can make daily life easier and less frustrating. The goal is to help individuals discover that they can learn new skills, even when it seems like their old ones are slipping away. My first experience with Conductive Education came in the 1990s. At the time, I was driven by a simple yet powerful desire: to walk better. I wanted to find a way to improve my mobility, so I decided to spend a week at the Peto Institute in Birmingham. My condition had been gradually worsening. My steps became smaller and less confident. I often experienced freezing episodes, especially in narrow spaces like doorways. My balance was never steady, and I would frequently stumble or fall off pavements when walking outside. Every day felt like an uphill climb just to get through it. Relying on a wheelchair started to seem like the most practical option, as it provided a safe and easier way to get around. It gave me a sense of security, letting me move at my own pace without the worry of falling. It would have been easy to focus only on the negative side of my situation. To dwell on what I was losing. But that wasn’t the full story. I found ways to stay positive. Writing became my escape, a way to process emotions I couldn’t put into words. Putting pen to paper helped me make sense of what I was going through. My belief in myself became my strongest tool. Despite the challenges of Parkinson’s, I refused to let it defeat me. I learned to look for hope, to fight for small victories each day. Living with Parkinson’s is full of challenges, but it’s not all bleak. There are moments of strength, moments of happiness, even moments that bring laughter. At first, I didn’t spend much time worrying about what the future might hold. I focused on living each day as it came. Parkinson’s tends to change slowly over time. That gives us some time to adapt. It depends on how well we take care of ourselves. Staying fit and active makes a big difference. I played sports for as long as I could, pushing my body to the limit. Later, I took up cycling. Surprisingly, I found I could cycle better than I could walk. Once I was on the bike, I felt a sense of freedom I hadn’t experienced in years. But getting on and off that bike was tricky. My balance issues made it difficult. I had to find ways to manage those problems. I started practising specific exercises. I learned how to get on the bike safely, like steadying myself on a wall or asking someone to hold the bike. Cycling became a lifeline, allowing me to move freely for years. It kept me active and positive, even as walking grew more difficult. But eventually, I had to switch to a wheelchair for longer outings. Walking became less of a routine, more of an effort. Using a wheelchair turned out to be a double-edged sword. It seemed like the right choice at first — fewer falls, less pain, more safety. Yet it also made me rely on it too much. The more I used the wheelchair, the less I walked on my own. Over time, my walking worsened. The muscles and reflexes that helped me walk began to weaken further. Some days, I would freeze in place, losing confidence entirely. I’d freeze in doorways or lose balance trying to step off a kerb. I couldn’t understand why I could still cycle but not walk smoothly. For nearly ten years, I relied heavily on the wheelchair. I deliberately walked less and less. With each passing day, my confidence evaporated. I wondered if this was my new normal—what I would be limited to from now on. My brain seemed to forget how to walk without overthinking every step. I started freezing up more often, which made me anxious and scared of falling. Throughout this difficult period, I remained positive. I refused to accept defeat. I looked for solutions, ways to regain my movement. I realised I couldn’t just expect my legs to move automatically anymore. Instead, I decided I would give them clear instructions. I started telling my legs exactly what to do, step by step. I insisted on giving simple commands, repeating them often. Slowly, my brain learned to reroute the faulty signals that were causing my problems. Instead of relying on automatic movements, I trained myself to control my legs manually. It wasn’t easy. It took time and patience. But it worked. I began to regain confidence. I started walking again, even if it was just short distances at first. Each successful step made me feel a little stronger. Eventually, movement became more natural. I didn’t have to think so hard about every step. My signals had been rerouted, my confidence rebuilt. I learned how to move again, on my own terms. This journey proved how much can be achieved with determination and new approaches. It showed that even when Parkinson’s seems to take away your ability to move automatically, it is possible to retrain your brain and your body. By understanding that some movements are controlled consciously rather than automatically, I could regain my independence. Rebuilding that connection, re-routing signals from automatic to manual, became my way forward. Every small success reinforced my belief that mobility is not lost forever. It’s something you can work to recover, even in the face of growing difficulties. Moving again with confidence gave me hope, and it’s a reminder that persistence and understanding can turn the tide against Parkinson’s. For ten long years, my entire world was confined to a small space between two wheels. My life shrank to the size of my wheelchair. Everything I used to do—walking, moving around freely, even simple tasks—became distant memories. My confidence in myself and my abilities faded away. I listened to others’ advice, advice that painted a picture of safety and security. They told me that staying in the wheelchair was the best choice to keep me safe from falls or injuries. Over time, I started depending on the wheelchair for just about everything. I believed it was the only way to live comfortably. But as I relied more and more on it, I began to ask myself: best for whom? Was this really the life I wanted, or just the safest and easiest option in my mind? Then, one day, it hit me hard, like running headfirst into a brick wall at full speed. The realisation slapped me with full force. I saw that I had been brainwashed into thinking I couldn’t function without my wheelchair. It was as if I was slowly becoming an institutionalised person—someone stuck so deeply in a routine that they no longer saw other possibilities. My ability to walk had diminished gradually over time. I noticed that I was losing strength in my legs, and soon enough, I feared I might never walk again. It wasn’t that anyone had intentionally planned this for me. No sinister plot was behind it. But when we face health problems, it’s common to follow familiar paths. We are taught that if walking is difficult, we should use aids like crutches or a wheelchair. Society often treats those with mobility challenges as candidates for assistive devices, and over time, it becomes the default solution. This approach, though practical, is really just a mental shortcut. When you do something repeatedly, your brain starts accepting it as normal. If you keep using a wheelchair for years—perhaps even most of your adult life—you start to believe that is the only way. It’s a form of conditioning, a kind of brainwashing. The mind can’t easily imagine a different outcome, especially after such long dependence. I looked at the options plainly in front of me and wondered: why not start walking again? Why do I assume I’ll always need the wheelchair? Was I just accepting it because it was easier for those around me? Or was I afraid to face the struggle of trying to walk without support? I reached that same tough wall again—only this time, I refused to hit it blindly. It became clear that relying on the wheelchair wasn’t just about safety or convenience; it was about giving up part of my independence. Using it all the time made me less free, limited my steps, and kept me from accessing many places. I realised that it was making my world smaller. That was the moment I made a firm decision: I would stop using the wheelchair. I would push myself, even if it meant discomfort or setbacks. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I understood deep down that it was the right move. So, I set out to do what I feared most—walking without my wheels. The journey was hard, and progress was slow, but I stuck with it. Over time, I learned to walk again, step by step. It was a difficult process filled with moments of doubt and frustration, but the victories—no matter how small—brought joy and a new sense of strength. In the end, making sure you can stand and move on your own becomes a vital part of life. For me, especially during the 1990s, when I was raising a young family, it was even more important. I knew I had to manage, no matter how tough things got. Every stumble or fall reminded me just how much I depended on my persistence and determination. Around then, I started to notice balance becoming an issue. I’d trip or slip, even fall, more often than I liked. Healthcare professionals recommended using walking sticks or settling into the wheelchair more consistently. We tried it all—initially, the wheelchair helped me stay mobile. But relying on it too much created new problems. We had to lift the cumbersome chair in and out of the car, making outings more stressful. Leisure activities, even simple walks, became awkward. I often needed someone to push me, which made independence seem even more distant. Apart from the wheelchair, I found ways to stay mobile with other devices—my road bike and a battery-powered scooter. These helped me travel much more easily over longer distances, even when walking was difficult. They provided a sense of freedom I desperately needed. Many people asked how I managed to ride a bike with my balance issues. Honestly, I didn’t have a good answer. Usually, I’d stop pedalling to prevent falls, often ending up leaning too far or falling sideways. But I still loved cycling with my family. Those holidays on bikes became some of the happiest moments of my life. They let us explore far-off places that cars couldn’t reach. Riding together brought us closer. Despite my challenges, these trips filled my days with joy and made our struggles easier to bear. Over time, I was lucky enough to regain my ability to walk confidently again. It took a lot of effort, and I had to push myself constantly. But it paid off. Gaining the ability to walk enabled me to reclaim a sense of freedom I thought was lost forever. I could now join my family in once impossible activities—playing with my children, shopping without help, or just strolling through the park. Those small victories, one after another, built my confidence and reminded me that change is always possible. The path to recovery wasn’t quick or easy. It was filled with setbacks, tears, and hard work. But in the end, the sense of achievement made every sacrifice worthwhile. Every step forward gave me reason to keep going. I learned that, sometimes, what seems impossible just takes determination, patience, and a refusal to give up. Robert James Keene 2025

RISE AND FALL I've had a lot of time to sit and reflect on what Parkinson's disease means for me, both in my body and mind. It's a heavy burden to carry. I think about what might come next, what the future holds. Sadly, the outlook isn't good. The truth is, my health is only going to get worse. Certain symptoms will grow stronger, my body will continue to weaken, and the things I used to do easily will become more difficult or even impossible. The future, as I once imagined it, no longer exists. It has disappeared behind a wall of fear and uncertainty. When I received the diagnosis, I sat down and stared at a blank page—my mind froze. I couldn't see a clear path forward. All I could see was a future filled with struggle and decline. Because of this bleak outlook, I spent ten long years living heavily reliant on a wheelchair. It felt like I was being pushed around, forced to accept that my body was giving up on me. I believed what I was told about Parkinson's disease—that it was a lifelong disability that would only get worse. I convinced myself that there was no hope for a change. The doctors described the progression as relentless, as if I were doomed to a slow decline with little I could do about it. I remember reading about how long people could expect to live with Parkinson's and the kinds of symptoms they would experience—tremors, stiffness, difficulty walking, and problems with balance. These descriptions sounded frightening, almost like a guide to my demise. They painted a bleak picture that made me feel even more helpless. As I read and absorbed these stories, I saw how others with Parkinson's often ended up confined to wheelchairs. It seemed like a sensible choice—a way to avoid falling or freezing in place. Many people use wheelchairs to prevent themselves from losing their balance unexpectedly or from collapsing because their muscles no longer respond. The fear of falling became a powerful motivator. Falling meant injury, pain, and more loss of independence. Sitting in a wheelchair felt like a safe option, a way to wrap me in cotton wool, to protect me from the worst. It seemed the only sensible answer. If I sat in a wheelchair all day, I wouldn't risk falling and hurting myself. It looked like the safest choice to live with as my health gradually deteriorated. Yet, in that moment, I didn't think about what I might be losing. I only saw safety. I believed that staying in that chair was the only way to survive. I told myself that this was life now—that I had no other choice. Over time, I thought this was just how things would be forever. The bright future I once imagined was replaced by endless days in a wheelchair, filled with fear of falling, freezing, and losing more control. I was afraid to push further, afraid to move beyond the boundaries that seemed set in stone. It felt like giving up, giving in to the disease. That's why I accepted the idea that this was just my new reality—the slow, certain decline. Looking back now, I can see how that belief held me hostage. It put me into a downward spiral of fear and doubt, making me believe my body's decline was inevitable. I started to see my health as a ticking clock, convinced that each day brought me closer to total loss of control. That mindset shaped every decision I made, guiding me to choose the safest route — even if that meant giving up more than I should have. I read countless stories about Parkinson's, and they all painted a bleak picture. The warnings, the statistics, the long lists of symptoms — they all seemed to close any door to hope. When I looked at images of people living with the disease, I saw only progressions and darker futures. These images confirmed what I feared — that I was heading toward a life filled with limitation and despair. I let those stories and pictures become my reality, convincing myself that a wheelchair was the only answer. It felt like my only escape from injury, embarrassment and falling further behind. In my mind, I was cornered. The constant barrage of what I was told by doctors, the stories I absorbed from others living with Parkinson's, and the worsening symptoms I saw in others made me feel powerless. It was as if the disease had an iron grip on me, one that I couldn't, and wouldn't, break free from. I believed there was no way out, no chance to fight back or take back control of my life. I thought surrender was the only option. It made me feel helpless and resigned. That was the moment I let those stories shape my world — a world where hope dimmed and surrender seemed inevitable. Then, there was boredom. A deep feeling of waiting, of watching life pass me by. I sat in the wheelchair, much like Michael J Fox does now. My mind constantly urged me to stand up, to move, to break out of that prison. I knew I had to act before I lost my ability to walk altogether. I remember times when I would try to stand, wobbling, unsteady, but determined. I worried that if I fell and hurt myself, it would be because I truly tried — and not because Parkinson's was winning. To me, sitting there in that wheelchair felt like giving in, like surrendering to a fate I didn't want. It wasn't who I was. I felt that if I just pushed myself a little more, tried a little harder, I could escape that dark place. That's what kept me going — that hope that I wasn't doomed. But deep down, I also knew it was risky. Still, giving in without a fight felt like giving up. A part of me refused to accept that I was completely beaten. I didn't want Parkinson's to take away who I was or strip me of my sense of self. Deep down, I felt a strange mixture of frustration and stubbornness. I knew that surrendering to the disease wasn't an option. There was a fire inside me that pushed against the idea of giving in. I fought the shadow of fear and doubt that tried to cloud my mind, the feelings of helplessness that came with realising how much Parkinson's could change my life. Every day, I faced a mental battle, asking myself, What if I fall while trying to stand? What if I stumble and hurt myself trying to move? Those questions haunted me, yet I also understood that doing nothing meant accepting defeat. Sitting still in that wheelchair wasn't who I wanted to be, not after all I had been through. I refused to let Parkinson's win. I was determined to fight for control and keep my independence, no matter how tough the going got. This wasn't just about holding on to my mobility. It was about holding onto the person I used to be. Each small victory, every step taken, was like reclaiming a piece of myself. I knew it wouldn't be easy. Some days, my legs felt like they no longer belonged to me. Sometimes, I doubted if I could push through the exhaustion that muscle weakness brought. But I also knew that giving up wouldn't bring me peace, either. It was about proving that I still had strength within, even when my body seemed to betray me. Every time I pushed past my limitations, I was telling myself that I was still fighting for my life. I wasn't just battling symptoms I was trying to hold onto hope, to stay connected to the person I was before Parkinson's came into my life. That fight was about more than action — it was about purpose. About refusing to let the disease write my story for me. I remember days when I looked insecure walking down the corridor or trembling as I reached for a glass. At those moments, I felt fear. I feared that this disease was stealing my future. But I also felt the undeniable courage grow within me. I knew I couldn't let fear rule my mind entirely. So I kept trying. Tried to stand tall, to keep moving, to stay strong. There were times I fell, both physically and mentally. But those falls didn't break me. They pushed me to get up again, to fight harder. I clung to the hope that I could find a way to manage this challenge, that I could carve out moments of normalcy in a life that often felt unpredictable. Every step forward was a victory, no matter how small. It was a reminder that I still had control, that I wasn't yet defeated. I had to believe in my strength, even when my body betrayed me. Because fighting, in the end, isn't just about resisting symptoms. It's about refusing to let the disease define who I am. It's about reclaiming my voice, my choices, and my hopes. That stubborn part of me continues to push back against defeat, holding on to the belief that I can find new ways to adapt, to keep moving forward. This fight isn't easy, but it's mine. And I'm not ready to give up just yet.

MARATHON Living with Parkinson's over the years tests your mind and body, no matter how strong you feel. I've seen many ups and downs through my experience, but I've always tried to stay mentally tough. Fitness is important, but it doesn't fix the emptiness that hits sometimes. Parkinson's is a long race that drains you physically and mentally, but I believe it's a race you can still win. I've felt every emotion that comes with it, sometimes more than once, but I've kept moving forward. I refuse to let my symptoms stop my thoughts or dreams. Those dark, desperate moments are part of the journey, but they don't last. There's always another day to face, another reason to hope. The hardest part after all these years is accepting the long-term toll on my body. The freezing, the falls, the constant pain from my limbs losing coordination—it's all part of living with Parkinson's. I've lost weight from shaking and dyskinesia, but I've learned to accept it. As I grow older with this condition, I have less energy. Overdoing it tires me out quickly, so I have to be careful. The relentless physicality does not stop. Every morning, the body reminds you. A new stiffness. A fresh ache. Looking out the kitchen window, watching the sunrise paint the familiar backyard trees, I often think about the energy I used to take for granted. The simple act of pouring coffee can feel like a feat of balance and coordination. But the sun always rises. That's a fact. That another day is not just about survival. It is about redefining what a good day means. It is finding small victories. Maybe it is managing to tie shoelaces without a stumble. Perhaps it is a clear conversation with a loved one. The mind is a powerful tool. It shapes your world. It decides what wins. I used to think winning the race meant beating the disease. Now, I see it differently. The race is daily. It is about persistent effort. It is about not letting the bad moments define the whole journey. This is where connection matters. Talking with others who understand. Sharing struggles, yes, but also sharing strategies for coping. A shared laugh can push back the darkness better than any medicine. The physical pain, the constant tremors, they are my unwanted companions. But they do not own my mind. I practice focusing on what my body can still do. A gentle walk in the park, even if it is slow. A few stretches that bring a fleeting moment of ease. It is about making peace with the new normal, not fighting it. Acceptance clears a path for hope. This marathon is not about speed. It is about endurance. It is about changing your pace when needed. Sometimes you walk, sometimes you crawl. But you keep moving. The quiet of my living room, the familiar chair by the window, these places have become my personal training ground. Here, I reset. I breathe. I plan the next small step. The finish line isn't a cure; it is a life lived with purpose, despite everything. It is about finding pockets of joy. It is about the strength found in vulnerability. The race is indeed there to be won. Not by escaping Parkinson's, but by finding your way to thrive within its boundaries. It is a win measured in resilience, in the light found even in the deepest shadows. Robert James Keene 2025

LAMENT. To truly be true to yourself, it's essential to have a clear understanding of who you are. This notion became particularly clear to me during a memorable trip to the Scottish Highlands a few years back. My wife and I decided to spend our wedding anniversary in a special place that held significant meaning for both of us. We returned to the grand hotel where we had said our vows twenty years prior. This hotel is not just a building it is a treasure trove of memories for us. Each corner seems to whisper stories of romantic dinners, where we shared sumptuous meals and made heartfelt toasts long, deep conversations that lasted for hours, filled with dreams and laughter that still echoes within those nostalgic walls. I was especially motivated to pick this particular location because of my family ties to a Scottish clan. The thought of wandering through the same landscapes where my ancestors once walked stirred something profound within me. Those rolling hills and rugged terrains carry an essence that speaks to my heritage, creating an irresistible pull to explore the paths that my forebears might have trodden centuries ago. As we strolled hand in hand, surrounded by the breathtaking beauty of the Highlands, I felt a deep connection to my roots. It was a powerful reminder of who I am, where I come from, and why it is so important to stay true to oneself. One crisp morning, the kind where the air feels fresh and invigorating, I set off on my own adventure into the mountains. The sunlight filtered gently through the vibrant green leaves, creating a lovely dappled pattern on the ground. My wife chose to stay behind, relishing a leisurely breakfast filled with the scents of toast and coffee. Meanwhile, I was eager for the highland air and the sweeping views that are unique to the enchanting Scottish hills. As I climbed higher, the exhilaration of being surrounded by nature mixed with a deep sense of tranquillity. Each step I took made me more aware of the rich layer of history that surrounded me, a history told by the ancient rocks and the whispers of the wind. However, just as I reached a spectacular viewpoint that took my breath away, the weather shifted unexpectedly. The sky, which had seemed so clear just moments before, rapidly darkened. Rain came tumbling down the mountainside like a thick blanket, enveloping me in a sudden deluge. One moment I was lost in the beauty of the landscape, gazing out at rolling hills and valleys the next, visibility shrank to just a few feet. The scene was eerily beautiful, with the rain creating a mist that made everything appear surreal, yet it left me feeling disoriented and unsure of my surroundings. Rather than turning back, I felt an urge to continue my walk, seeking refuge from the storm. As I made my way through the rain-soaked terrain, I stumbled upon a large, gnarled old oak tree. It stood there like a guardian of the forest, having seen better days but still holding firm against the elements. It looked like the perfect spot to huddle and wait out the downpour, offering some shelter from the relentless rain. As I approached the tree, a brief flash of light caught my attention, something glinting on the ground. My curiosity took over, and I bent down to see what it was. To my surprise, I found a ring, its surface tarnished and worn by the passage of time, yet still undeniably beautiful. A chill ran through me—not from the cold, but from the sense of mystery that enveloped this small piece of metal. It felt as if this ring had a story to tell, a piece of someone's past that had somehow managed to cross paths with my present. After the rain finally began to ease, allowing the rugged terrain to emerge once more, I carefully pocketed the ring. With a mix of excitement and wonder, I started my descent down the mountain, feeling as if I had just experienced a slice of history waiting to be uncovered. After returning to the hotel, I felt a strong urge to do the right thing. I came across a lovely piece of jewellery that didn't belong to me, and even though I had no idea who it might have belonged to, I knew I couldn't just keep it. It seemed only fair to hand it over to the reception desk. I hoped that maybe, just maybe, it belonged to another guest who shared my love for adventure and exploration. I imagined someone else who might be searching for it, feeling anxious and disappointed. I didn't think too much about it after that moment. I felt a sense of relief and satisfaction, knowing that I might have saved someone from returning home feeling upset and wondering where their special piece of jewellery had gone. As the day approached when we would check out of the hotel and start our long journey back home, we were packing our bags and getting ready to leave. Suddenly, there was a knock on our hotel room door. I opened it, and to my absolute astonishment, I found myself face to face with a jeweller and his wife. Their eyes were wide with disbelief as they stood before me, holding the very ring that I had found. At that moment, I was completely caught off guard. I had half-expected them to embrace me and shower me with thanks for doing the right thing. Instead, I was met with a surprise that I couldn't have predicted. The joy of returning the lost item was about to become a whole new experience in ways I hadn't imagined. The couple shared an astonishing story about a unique ring that they had found. This was not just any ordinary piece of jewellery it was over four hundred years old and carried a significant piece of history. The ring originally belonged to a clansman who had been part of the infamous Battle of Culloden, a conflict that had deep and lasting effects on Scotland. Their account revealed that, during the chaos of the battle, this particular clansman had to make a quick decision to flee from the oncoming danger of English soldiers. In his haste, he carefully hid the ring beneath a large tree, hoping that after the fight, when things calmed down, he could come back and retrieve it along with his other belongings. The man was terrified for his life and wanted to protect his treasures, believing that there might still be a chance to return to them one day when the threat had passed. Unfortunately, fate was not kind to him. The man was unable to return because the English had strict orders to take no prisoners. This meant that the ring, along with the clansman's hopes and dreams of returning to his former life, remained hidden beneath the tree, locked away and forgotten as the years went by. It lay there, buried in layers of history, waiting silently until my innocent curiosity led me to accidentally unearth it while shifting the earth around the tree's base. As I picked up the ring, a whirlwind of thoughts began to fill my mind. Was it just a coincidence that I stumbled upon this piece of jewellery? Or could it be something deeper, something that felt like destiny? It seemed as if the universe had brought our paths together in a peculiar yet beautiful manner. This chance encounter felt like a connection to a sad chapter in Scottish history, a part of the past that had long been hidden and needed to be brought back to life. The jeweller shared stories of how this ring had nearly been lost forever, buried in the mists of time, unseen and forgotten. As I listened, I felt a heavy weight settle on me, a mix of awe and responsibility. I realised that I had to return the ring—not just in a symbolic sense, but truly, exactly where it had rested for so many centuries. The thought of keeping it felt wrong. I was merely a visitor in this place I didn't belong to its history. The ring had a rightful home, lying beneath that rock, a silent witness to the bravery and struggles of my ancestors. It felt right to return it, to honour its story and the lives that had intertwined with it. This wasn't just a piece of jewellery it was a link to a past that deserved to be remembered. I decided to give the ring back, not because I felt I had to, but as a way to honour the lives that were connected to that beautiful piece of jewellery. It felt right for the ring to find its way back to its hidden resting place, away from the prying eyes of the outside world. After all, it had so much history tied to it, stories waiting to be uncovered by anyone with a sense of adventure. I imagined someone else walking down that same path in the future, perhaps unaware of the treasure lying just beneath the surface, ready to be discovered. This little piece of history deserved to be kept safe until that moment came when another curious person would find it and start to unravel the tales woven into its past. Returning to the mountains, I paused at the same spot where I had once encountered a magnificent oak tree. The sky was dark and heavy with storm clouds, and I found myself standing in front of this ancient tree during a fierce thunderstorm. I was soaked to the skin from the pouring rain, yet strangely, I couldn't feel it drenching me. The cold drops seemed to pass over me, and at that moment, I was completely numb to the world around me. The tree had somehow transported me to a different place, a world where everything else faded away. Most people, faced with such a relentless downpour, would have looked for shelter, seeking refuge from the storm. But I felt an unexplainable pull to remain right where I was. It seemed vital for me to stand there and show respect to this glorious oak that had weathered countless storms long before I was born and would continue to stand long after I was gone. So, I stood there for what felt like hours, maybe two, completely transfixed by the sight of this tree. I marvelled at its strength and presence, feeling small in comparison. The oak had witnessed generations, and in its silence, it held secrets and stories that I could only imagine. Amid the storm, I began to understand something profound. This tree was like a storybook, filled with knowledge and history that I could never fully grasp. I felt like a baby, cradled in the arms of this solid oak, overwhelmed by its wisdom. The experience was humbling. As the rain continued to fall around me, I found myself kneeling on the ground. With care and reverence, I laid the wedding ring back at the foot of the oak. At that moment, I felt a wave of closure wash over me as if the act of returning the ring was a way of honouring not just the tree, but also the love story it had witnessed. The rain seemed to intensify as if acknowledging my act of remembrance, and in that fleeting moment, I realised I was part of something much larger than myself. It was a connection that spanned centuries, a whisper of fate that tied me to a deeper history. A wedding ring is not just a piece of jewellery; it is sacred, symbolising an eternal bond between two people. On that fateful day when William gave the ring to Agnes Stewart beneath the boughs of this big, old oak tree, it set into motion a story that would never truly end. The love shared under that tree was timeless, and in my small way, I had joined that ongoing tale, forever linked to the past and the promise of love. As the days slip swiftly into the embrace of autumn and winter, I find myself reflecting on the ephemeral nature of time and its transformative power on both the seasons and the people who experience them. One serene afternoon, I settled into our back garden, the sun casting a gentle warmth on my skin, and gazed up at the sky. What struck me was its extraordinary hue—a deep, vibrant blue that seemed to cradle the world. It was a blue I had never truly noticed before, one that felt rich with promise and possibility. In that moment of stillness, a wave of realization washed over me: this was my life, unfolding right here and now. I felt a profound gratitude for simply being alive, for the air filling my lungs, for the sunlight warming my face. I thought back on my journey, recognizing that while life could have presented me with simpler paths, the experiences I have chosen have shaped me into who I am today. Each day is a canvas painted with unique colours and textures, and even the smallest joys—like the rustling of leaves or the distant laughter of children—are treasures waiting to be discovered. In our fast-paced world, it's far too easy to overlook these gifts. We often take for granted the act of breathing, the beauty of a blooming flower, or the laughter shared with a loved one. The hurried lifestyle we inhabit can dull our senses, making us blind to the natural wonders that surround us. But if you take a moment to step away from the relentless rush, to slow down and breathe in the world around you, you'll find an abundance of beauty that is simply waiting to be appreciated. As I stood there, seemingly motionless while the world whirled around me, I realized that my ability to savour the azure sky above was a luxury few others could afford in their frantic chase for tomorrow. It's in these quiet moments that I feel truly alive, able to drink in the serenity that the present offers. So, I invite you—to take a breath, pause, and soak in the beauty that surrounds you. You might just find that the world is bursting with rewards you never noticed before, waiting for you to embrace them.