🎙️ “You’re Not Broken, You’re Just Shaped Different”

🎧 “You’re Not Broken, You’re Just Shaped Different”

From Richie — Creator of Voice Unshaken

Hey friends,

Let’s get something out in the open: I have Parkinson’s. Been living with it for 33 years. Diagnosed at 24. Now 57. Still shaking, still standing, still forgetting why I walked into the kitchen.

But lately, I’ve been tired. Not just physically—though let’s be honest, stairs feel personal these days—but tired of the act.

The smiling. The inspiring. The "wow you’re so brave" B.S. from strangers at CVS who think I’m doing an interpretive dance next to the toothpaste.

So, I wrote something. Not a TED Talk. Not a tragedy. Not a coffee-mug quote.

It’s called "You’re Not Broken, You’re Just Shaped Different."

It’s a short, funny, honest piece for the square pegs. The ones who’ve been told to "be positive," "be grateful," "be smaller," or "just be normal" for the love of God, Karen.

Spoiler: there is no normal.

This isn’t a memoir. It’s not a guide. It’s a permission slip. To be weird. Messy. Complicated. And unapologetically shaped like you.

You might laugh. You might cry. You might snort-laugh and cry at the same time (my favorite combo).

And I hope, maybe, you’ll see yourself in it. Or someone you love.

Here’s the twist: I want you to help me shape what this becomes. A show? A podcast? A whole damn movement?

Take 2 minutes and let me know what hit, what missed, and what you want more of:

🖍️ Survey link: https://forms.gle/zgMZXRrsSZaq1yeG8

I’m not building a brand. I’m building a place. For square pegs. For shaky folks. For those shaped different.

Still shaking. Still building. Still belonging.

—Richie

You’re Not Broken, You’re Just Shaped Different

A Mini Manifesto for Anyone Who’s Tired of Pretending They Fit

Dear Fellow Square Peg,

Let’s just be real—this ain’t one of those "you got this!" speeches you slap on a coffee mug and hand out at a support group.

I’m not here to sprinkle inspiration glitter on your crap day. I’m not going to tell you there’s a higher purpose for your pain or that the universe only gives its toughest battles to its strongest warriors. I mean… if that were true, I’d like to politely return my badge and speak to the manager of the universe.

I’ve been living with Parkinson’s for 33 years. Diagnosed at 24. Now I’m 57. Still shaking. Still standing (on a good day). Still showing up—though usually fashionably late and slightly off balance.

And truthfully? Most days, I’ve felt like a square peg being pounded into a round hole with a rubber mallet. Too emotional for doctors, too raw for the polite disability brochures, too shaky to be taken seriously—and too damn stubborn to vanish quietly.

This isn’t a book about Parkinson’s. It’s about people—real, messy, gloriously complicated people. People who are sick of being told how to behave, how to feel, or how to squeeze themselves into a box labeled “acceptable.”

So let me say this as plain as I can: You’re not broken. You’re just shaped different.

And guess what? That shape isn’t a flaw. It’s a design. A remix of human geometry the world hasn’t caught up to yet.

Well, screw the mold.

This is our weird, wobbly, wonderful corner now. We’re not shrinking to fit. Let the world adjust to us for once.

If you’re done pretending? You just found your people.

—Richie

🗎️ The Square Peg Rules:

A No-B.S. Manifesto for Misfits, Shakers, and the Beautifully Offbeat

Let’s set the record straight. If you’ve ever felt like you’re being asked to smile while you’re crumbling, blend in when you were clearly born to stand out, or pretend you’re "fine" when your body, mind, or spirit is screaming otherwise—then these rules are for you.

They’re not instructions. They’re not a recovery plan. They’re not sugar-coated with optimism or wrapped in inspirational Pinterest quotes.

They’re a survival kit for anyone who’s tired of pretending they fit in a world that was never shaped for them to begin with.

So whether you’ve got a condition, a diagnosis, a long-ass history, or just a gut feeling that you were built differently—welcome home.

Let’s break some rules.

Rule #1: You Don’t Owe Anyone an Inspiring Version of Your Story

There’s this messed-up expectation that if you’re going through something hard, you better make it poetic. Like your pain should come with a moral. Like your struggle should serve someone else’s comfort.

Let’s be real: I’ve made people laugh while actively falling apart. I’ve written books, given talks, made jokes about tremors. But I’ve also wept in public over a pharmacy screw-up and lost days to brain fog and apathy.

You are not a walking TED Talk.

Existing, in and of itself, is enough. Especially when it's hard.

Rule #2: You Are Not Your Diagnosis

I’ve had Parkinson’s longer than some of my friends have had marriages. But I’m not Parkinson’s. I’m Richie. I’m a smartass with heart. I’m flawed, funny, fired up, and definitely more than a box on a chart.

Your diagnosis may shape your reality, but it doesn’t shape you.

You are not here to be reduced. You are here to unfold.

Rule #3: You Don’t Have to Fit In. Ever.

I used to contort myself to seem "less sick," "more stable," or just less me. News flash: it never worked. The cheese tray still felt awkward. I still felt off.

Fitting in is a full-time job with no retirement benefits.

Belonging? That’s where the good stuff is. And it starts with letting yourself exist without needing to contort into something smoother or shinier.

Rule #4: You’re Allowed to Be a Paradox

You can be both exhausted and grateful. Both hopeful and pissed off. You can want to change the world and also want to binge-watch 17 episodes of a show you don’t even like.

Life isn’t black and white. Neither are you.

Stop editing yourself down to a single mood. You’re not a headline. You’re a damn novel.

Rule #5: Your Pain Is Not a Punchline—But It Can Be Hilarious

I joke about Parkinson’s not to minimize it, but because sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps me from screaming into the void.

That time I accidentally karate chopped my neurologist trying to button my jacket? That was comedy.

But behind that laugh is grief, fatigue, and navigating a world that doesn’t always get it. And that’s okay.

Humor doesn’t erase pain. It reclaims it.

Rule #6: You’re Not Too Emotional. You’re Just Finally Being Honest

People love you when you’re polished. Calm. Manageable.

But the minute you start talking about rage, despair, or grief that overstays its welcome—they flinch.

Screw that.

You’re not "too much." You’re just the full version. And full is powerful.

Rule #7: Rest Is Not Laziness. It’s Rebellion.

In a world that worships productivity, resting is revolutionary.

If you need a nap, take one. If you need to step away, do it. The system doesn’t deserve to run on your burnout.

Rest isn’t giving up. It’s gathering your power.

Rule #8: You Get to Take Up Space

Even if your body doesn’t cooperate. Even if your brain needs more time. Even if you feel invisible.

You’re not a burden. You’re a whole-ass human being. Take up the space your soul requires. No shrinking necessary.

Rule #9: You Don’t Need to Be "Fixed" to Be Worth Loving

You don’t need to wait until you’re better, calmer, more stable, less whatever, to deserve connection.

You’re not an appliance with a warranty. You’re a person.

And the people who matter? They’ll meet you in the mess, not just the moments that look good on Instagram.

Rule #10: If You’re Still Here, You’re Already Strong as Hell

There are no trophies for what you’ve survived. No badges. No parade.

But let me say this: If you got up today? If you chose to stay? If you’re doing this life thing in a body or brain that doesn’t always play fair?

You’re already a goddamn champion.

Still shaky. Still standing. Still showing up. And that, my friend, is power.

—Richie

🎭 Comic Relief: Real Life in All Its Shaky Glory

Sometimes, the only way to stay standing is to laugh so hard you almost fall over—then blame it on your Parkinson’s.

Before we wrap this thing up, I wanted to slide in a quick story. A real one. No edits, no filters. Just a moment in my life that captures what it’s like trying to pass as "normal" in a world that still thinks that word means something.

This story is 100% true, 98% ridiculous, and 110% proof that pretending to be someone you’re not is exhausting—and pretty funny in hindsight.

🎭 The One Where I Tried to Be Normal

(Spoiler: Normal and I broke up halfway through the appetizer.)

There was a time—brief, naive, full of misguided optimism—when I thought: You know what? I bet I could fake being normal for one night.

So I dressed the part. Clean jeans, a button-down shirt (with only minor tremor-related splash damage), and shoes that matched. I mean, right there? That’s a personal best.

I was heading to a dinner party. One of those “let’s network and pretend we aren’t all mildly uncomfortable” events. Fancy lighting. Fancy small talk. People who say "charcuterie" like it’s a personality trait.

In the parking lot, I did a quick pregame routine: practiced my "firm-but-not-creepy" handshake, adjusted my smile to say “I’m thriving,” and gave myself a pep talk like a quarterback on a fourth down.

Then came Karen. Not her real name. But you already know the type.

She leaned in, with that syrupy mix of concern and superiority, and said:

“Oh wow. You’re so brave to be out like this.”

As if I’d just repelled from a helicopter into an active volcano instead of, you know, pulling up to a Red Lobster.

I smiled, tilted my head, and went for the jugular—in my nicest voice:

“Thanks! I figured if I’m going to be stared at, it might as well be under mood lighting and endless biscuits.”

Silence. Not the good kind. The is-he-allowed-to-say-that? kind. Someone sipped their drink too fast. Someone else choked on a shrimp.

Then I picked up my water, tried to take a sip… and nailed my shirt instead. Dead center. Front row splash zone.

I looked down. Then looked up. Then just started laughing.

Because sometimes, when your body won’t cooperate and the world hands you awkward silence—you don’t apologize. You just hand it back with a punchline.

That night, I learned something.

"Normal" is overrated. But real? Real is funny. Real is brave. Real is mine.

And for the record, breadsticks are surprisingly absorbent.

—Richie

🫂 You’re Not Alone in This Shape. This ain’t a grand finale. It’s a cracked door. Just wide enough to let the next brave voice sneak in.

If you made it this far, maybe something I said sounded a little too familiar. Or maybe it reminded you of someone you love who’s been duct-taping their edges to fit into places they were never built for. Either way—I hope it didn’t try to fix you. Or pump you up with that sugar-coated motivation that melts the second real life hits.

Nah. This was just me reaching out in the most unpolished way I know how. To say: You’re not alone in this shape. Not in your weirdness. Not in your contradictions. Not in your tremors—literal or emotional. Not in that gut-punch loneliness that hits when you realize you’re not who the world expected, and probably never will be.

And you know what? That’s our superpower. The world didn’t leave much room for people like us. So we’re gonna make our own damn room. One laugh. One truth. One “Did he just say that?” moment at a time.

I don’t know what shape your life took. What diagnosis or divorce or disability or disappointment bent your edges or shattered your frame. But I do know this: You’re not here to shrink. You’re not here to edit yourself for comfort. You’re not here to apologize for being the full, unfiltered version of you.

Because the world? It doesn’t need more polished people. It needs more of us. The real. The messy. The slightly-too-much. The gloriously undone.

And if any of that sounds like you—then welcome. You found your people. I’m one of ‘em. And this little book? It’s just the opening crack.

A podcast? A show? A group of us misfits telling the truth and laughing through the hard parts? Could be. But only if it’s what you want too.

So I’m asking: Will you take 2 minutes to tell me what hit, what missed, and what you want more of? Not for the algorithm. For the revolution.

🔗 Take the survey here: https://forms.gle/zgMZXRrsSZaq1yeG8

Let’s shape what comes next—loud, real, and together.

Still shaking. Still building. Still belonging. —Richie