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