They didn’t make life easier—but they made me ready.
People often assume tremors are a sign of instability—of something unreliable, unfinished, or out of control. What they don’t see is the preparation happening beneath the surface. They don’t see the mental endurance, flexibility, and resilience built through years of navigating a body that refuses to cooperate on command.
What my tremors don’t show is how prepared they’ve made me for life’s unforeseen challenges.
I once met a young man at one of my high school talks who had been newly diagnosed with a disability. Quietly, almost apologetically, he said, “This is hard. I used to be an athlete.”
I didn’t meet him with sadness—he had already heard enough defeating words, whether from others or from himself. Instead, I met him with certainty.
I hugged him and said, “The past is what we used to do. The future is what we still get to become. What will you choose to become?”
I’ve followed his journey since that conversation. Today, he’s coaching, studying sports management, and pursuing a future in sports management with hopes of coaching in the Special Olympics. He didn’t stay in the used to. He created an opportunity—and now he’s living it.
When your body and mind teach you early that control is never guaranteed, you learn something powerful: you stop waiting for perfect conditions to move forward. You learn how to adapt, recalibrate, and keep going when plans shift—because they always do.
My tremors don’t announce the grit it takes to pivot when things don’t go as expected. They don’t reveal the mindset built from years of adjusting on the fly, finding new approaches, and choosing progress over paralysis. That practice doesn’t stay contained to my body—it carries into every curveball life throws my way.
Life rarely asks if we’re ready before it challenges us. But living with tremors taught me this: readiness isn’t about stability—it’s about resilience. It’s about showing up anyway, even when the ground feels unsteady, and trusting that forward motion still counts.
