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.