A friend of mine asked me if I had seen early signs that she and her long-term partner weren’t a good fit for one another from the start. Knowing that she and her partner had struggled for years, I had to think back to nearly 20 years ago, when two kids, barely old enough to legally drink, fell in love and had been doing their very best ever since to live this thing called life. But over time, they both changed, and for the past several years, they had managed to live more as best friends than lovers. But there had never been any early signs. “Sometimes we just… change,” I stated calmly, as if this were some profound knowledge only I was privy to.

I thought about my bland statement a few hours later, knowing it offered little comfort. And while it was hardly profound, it was a simple truth. A truth that coats every layer, every fiber, every breathable second of our existence. We change. The ticking of the clock echoes how we constantly learn from our experiences, whether or not they are within our control, whether or not we realize the lessons unfolding right in front of us.

Lately, I’ve struggled with what my purpose is. I’m good at practicing gratitude, to the point it has become second nature. And I worked hard to train my mindset to be this way. I’m constantly aware of the importance of “seeing the other side of the coin,” of recognizing what is going well and what I have to be thankful for. I understand how sometimes we need the dark in order to see the light. I continue to mold myself into this new person that Parkinson’s disease is “creating” rather than eroding away. But being thankful does not equate to knowing what my purpose is.

I had big dreams, goals, and ambitions, all with a fixed point in my mind. My very own North Star, pointing me toward where I needed to be and who I would become. And especially within the last 10 months, I have come to the realization that most of what I had envisioned as my future purpose needs to change.

I had spent years seeing myself as a mother, steadily climbing the ladder at work, and managing my OCD symptoms to the point that I was always in the driver’s seat, never letting it control my thoughts or feelings again. I saw myself getting back into playing guitar and trying out an open mic night in my new neighborhood. My husband and I were going to travel to a different country every year. We would travel the world, too, like so many of my family members and friends.

Most of this is lost to me now. Parkinson’s wreaks havoc on my OCD on a monthly basis, leading to medication adjustments and forcing me to relearn old coping skills or develop new ones. My hands tremble and have grown weaker, so on the days I can play my guitar, the sessions are short. My vocal cords can no longer produce the charmingly sweet notes that once came so naturally to me it had become second nature.

I have accepted that I have climbed as far up the ladder at work as I am able to go, and am now satisfied knowing that I work in a supportive environment, one that still allows me to grow and thrive, even if a promotion is no longer a goal. I have mourned the loss of knowing that I will never be called “Mom.”

There has been so much profound change. So much loss. And the progressive nature of this disease ensures that “turning back the clock” will not be an option. I have spent many nights out on my porch, sipping cheap white wine from a red plastic cup and fuming while staring up at the stars that had denied me my wishes. Wishes that I was willing to work hard for and put in the effort to achieve… yet still, I am denied. By all of them.

“Sometimes we just… change” has come back to me more and more lately. It is happening whether I want it to or not. My mind and body are changing, and I’m the one living through this experience. I’m the one seeing and learning about the world through this lens. No one else has to face my challenges. Only me. And it is up to me whether I become worried or wise. Whether I become stuck or motivated. Whether I pursue passion and purpose or dwell on what was once so closely within my grasp (and now literally lacks the strength to hold on to).

Honestly, I’m not sure where I go from here. I’m sure there will be more nights with a dry white wine in a plastic cup, trying to make sense of life’s mysteries and the “why” behind them.
But I do know this. I’m the one who has to live in this brain. And you bet I’m going to make it sparkle. If my purpose is nothing more than telling Parkinson’s disease to kick rocks because I will still shine, then I know I have chosen the right path.

Even if it is one slow step at a time, the fact that I’m still moving forward matters, no matter how slowly that might be.

I’m willing to walk a new path with a new purpose, even if I’m not yet sure what that purpose is. To walk into a future that is unknown and daunting. To be brave in the face of uncertainty… and that alone, for now, is purpose enough.