You Can Name It Parkinson’s—But You Can’t Name My Limit

The moment of diagnosis doesn’t just put a name to what’s been happening in your body—it rewrites your entire world in an instant. For me, “Parkinson’s Disease” wasn’t just a medical term; it was the sound of a thousand doors quietly closing. This chapter captures the emotional fallout—the numbness, the confusion, and the quiet shift into survival mode. It’s not just about what the doctor said. It’s about what it meant. The grief that follows isn’t only for what you’ve lost, but for the future you thought you had. This is the chapter where denial gives way to reality, and the real fight begins.

Chapter 4:

EFFECTS OF DIAGNOSIS

2025 Reflection:

This chapter feels like the moment the walls started closing in. Before this, there was still denial, still some distance between me and the worst-case scenario. But after that neurologist visit, there was no more pretending.

I remember looking at my mom while the words “Parkinson’s Disease” rang in the air like a sentence. Her eyes were full of terror, like she’d just watched me get hit by a truck she couldn’t stop. And I felt… numb. Not sad. Not angry. Just numb.

What nobody tells you is that sometimes the scariest part of a diagnosis isn’t the label—it’s the way the world suddenly shifts around it. Your future gets edited in real-time. All the stuff you thought was certain—gone.

But rereading this now, what surprises me most is how quickly I shifted into survival mode. I didn’t fall apart then. That came later. What came first was a quiet, stubborn vow: I’m going to outlast this. Somehow.

And I’m proud to say—I still am.

Letter #4:

"Grieving What Hasn't Happened: The Unseen Weight of a Diagnosis"

Dear Reader,

When people talk about getting diagnosed with a life-altering condition, they often focus on the moment itself—the word, the silence, the shock.

But what hit me hardest wasn’t hearing “Parkinson’s.” It was watching everything I thought my life would be start slipping through my fingers like sand.

No one prepares you for that part.

No one tells you that your relationships, your dreams, your sense of self… they all get rewritten the second a diagnosis enters the room.

You start grieving things that haven’t even happened yet.

If you’re in that place—just beginning to wrap your head around a new diagnosis—I want you to know: it’s okay if you feel like the walls are closing in. It’s okay if you don’t cry, or scream, or fall apart. Numb is normal. So is fear. So is guilt.

But please hear this: you are not broken.

This isn’t the end of your story. It’s a painful page, yes. But there are more chapters ahead.

Right now, just focus on breathing. On showing up. On holding space for the people around you who may not know what to say, but love you more than you’ll ever realize.

You won’t have all the answers today. You’re not supposed to.

But if you’re reading this… you’re already doing the hardest part:

You’re facing it.

And that makes you braver than you know.

Still here,
Richie