I boarded the plane with that all-too-familiar feeling: the subtle yet growing sense of anxiety that comes with navigating something as simple as overhead bins. You know the drill. It’s a strange kind of dance, this ritual of claiming space in a tiny metal tube, and one that always seems to heighten the awkwardness in me. I made my way down the aisle, eyes scanning for a spot for my overstuffed duffle bag. “Ah, there’s one—” But just as I made my move, someone swooped in and claimed it. Okay, no problem, I thought, another one will come up. “Right there!” I spotted an empty space just ahead. But, of course, someone else beat me to it.
It went on like this, a slow dance of missed opportunities, until I found myself standing at the back of the plane, fifteen rows past my seat, trying to wedge my bag into an overhead bin that was clearly not made for this kind of disaster. The bag wasn’t just full; it was overfull—a bulging, defiant thing that refused to conform to the polite laws of luggage storage. And yet, there I was, attempting the impossible.
I could feel the tension rising, my heart rate picking up. It was only half-panic, but the embarrassment was already setting in. People were starting to shift behind me, the restless energy of a plane full of strangers building in the quiet hum of impatience. My shoulders tightened. I could hear the murmurs of frustration behind me, the subtle shifting of people who had somewhere to be, and I was just… stuck. And then the flight attendant, her voice sharp and cutting through the quiet, said, “Sir, please stow your bag and take your seat.”
I probably cursed her out under my breath as if that was not what I was trying to do. I took a breath, and prepared my walk of shame back to my seat, bag still with me. Looking back towards my seat I realized the impossible obstacle of people I would have had to navigate through, mostly due to the fact that everyone else was now having their turn with the luggage dance.
So instead, I found an empty seat. Of course, it was as far from my seat as possible but I just needed a spot to get out of my own way for a minute while divulging an escape plan. I lowered myself into it, bag still on my lap, trying to make myself as small as possible. There I sat for a full thirty seconds, holding the bag in front of me like some kind of shield, pretending that if I just stayed still enough, the chaos might stop spinning around me. But of course, it didn’t.
The rightful owner of the seat arrived. I stood up quickly, doing my best not to knock over anyone in the process.
As I shuffled back toward my assigned seat, still clutching the bag like it was my only lifeline, I could feel the eyes on me—sharp, unamused glances that made me wish I’d just left the thing in the Uber we took to the airport and walked away from the whole trip.
I finally made it back to my seat, now only half shaking.
“Excuse me,” I said to the flight attendant, holding the bag out in front of me like a small, pathetic offering. “Can you please help me find a spot for this?”
With a look that I can only describe as a mixture of pity and practiced patience, she took the duffle bag from me and, without so much as a blink, found a space for it within seconds. The kind of easy resolution that comes when someone else does the hard work for you.
I sat down in my seat, the tremors fully taking hold now, my body vibrating in sync with the rhythm of the plane. And yet, as the plane began to taxi down the runway, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I hadn’t just been struggling with the bag. But the real struggle had been with myself. The parts of me that felt overwhelmed by the smallest of things, that couldn’t always keep it together.
It’s funny how the smallest things can become huge obstacles when having Parkinson’s. There was a time when a situation like this—nothing more than a brief moment of stress, a bit of inconvenience—would have rolled off me without a second thought. I’d have handled it, shrugged it off, maybe even laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. But now… now, it’s different.
The tremors are always there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest spark of anxiety to send them into overdrive. What used to be a minor annoyance—just another small hiccup in a normal day—has become this thing, this weight, this nightmare. I can feel my hands start to shake just from the buildup of frustration, the pressure of a situation spiraling in slow motion. It doesn’t help that I’m so damn aware of it, of every little tremor, of every slight quiver in my fingers, as though they’re on display for everyone to see.
It’s hard to ignore the way people look at you in those moments, like they feel sorry for you. And I hate that feeling. I hate the pity in their eyes. It’s not the sympathy I mind—it’s the assumption that you need help, or worse, that you’re somehow fragile. As a younger person, I wonder what people assume when they see my tremors, not to mention a full on body tremor. I can sense it before it even registers on their faces. I can feel them sizing me up in that moment, trying to figure out if I’m okay, or if I need someone to come in and fix things for me. And there’s a part of me that just wants to tell them that I have Parkinson’s and it is just the symptoms you are seeing and that deep down I truly am fine, that I don’t need help or pity. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I can’t always deal with it myself anymore.
And that’s the hardest pill to swallow: how much I want to maintain control, how much I want to keep things together, not wanting to ask for help as if that would be another battle lost to Parkinson’s.