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