Sometimes, I know I’m a bad friend. I flake on plans, ignore texts and calls, and I can feel myself pulling away when I should be reaching out. It’s not because I don’t care; I care deeply. But I think it goes back to all those years I spent living in the closet, unsure of who I was, hiding parts of myself even from the people closest to me. I got used to isolation, to keeping secrets, to staying guarded so no one could get too close. And now, with the anxiety that comes with Parkinson’s, that instinct to retreat is even stronger. There’s this urge to manage it alone, to shield others from what I’m going through, and I find myself falling back into old patterns—patterns of avoiding, of shrinking away instead of letting people in.
It’s hard to unlearn that. It’s hard to remember that I don’t need to hide anymore when I’ve spent so much of my life in hiding. It’s like my first instinct, the one I’ve practiced for years, is to keep people at a distance rather than risk feeling exposed or vulnerable. And that anxiety led instinct means I don’t show up the way I want to. I avoid social situations because I don’t want to feel uncomfortable or out of place, but then I end up feeling guilty, knowing I’ve let people down. I know I’m being a bad friend, but sometimes it feels like the safer option—the easier option—than exposing myself.
I’m 30. The prime of my life. And that makes me the most angry. That maybe these won’t be the best years of my life but at some point I have to stop feeling sorry for myself. I want to build deeper relationships. I want to go out for drinks, to celebrate milestones, to travel and see the world, to share stories and memories with the people who matter most. Parkinson’s doesn’t change that. It doesn’t change my need for connection, my hunger for experiences that remind me I’m still here, still part of the world, still capable of living fully—even if it looks a little different than I imagined.
It’s uncomfortable, sure. There’s no denying that. But what’s even more uncomfortable is the thought of looking back, years from now, and realizing I let my fear keep me from living. That I stayed home because it was easier to avoid the discomfort than to embrace life with all its unpredictability. So, I’m trying. I’m trying to show up more because I know that people want me there. I just need to get out of my own way.
The truth is, I’m still learning how to be honest—not just with others, but with myself. Honest about what I need, what I feel, and how to stay connected even when it feels like the hardest thing to do. I’m still trying to figure out what it means to be a good friend, to be present, to show up fully as I am—without hiding, without retreating into that old familiar shell. It’s uncomfortable work, and I’m not there yet. But I’m trying, even if I still get it wrong sometimes.