WHAT TREMORS DON’T SAY ABOUT ME - PART II
I’ve always been self-aware that my hand tremors are sometimes noticed before my words are heard, my actions observed, or my focus recognized. Ironically, the person most distracted by them has almost always been me.
What many people don’t realize is that tremors are a common part of cerebral palsy—especially for those of us with involvement that affects muscle tone and motor control. My brain sends the message clearly; my muscles just don’t always agree on how to receive it. The result is involuntary movement—not because I’m nervous, unfocused, or unsure, but because my nervous system processes movement differently.
I’m so hyperaware of my hands that my concentration has practically synchronized with their rhythm—like my brain and my tremors are trapped in an unplanned group project. The more I try to ignore them, the more they seem to announce, Hi, we’re here. And the more I focus on controlling them, the more determined they become to steal the spotlight.
That’s the funny—and frustrating—part about tremors. They’re often misunderstood as a lack of control, when in reality they’re the byproduct of too much muscle activation. My muscles are working overtime, firing when they don’t need to, overlapping signals that were never invited to the party. Meanwhile, my mind is calm, focused, and fully engaged.
Take tying my shoes, for example. Shoelaces are my tremors’ greatest nemesis. The moment I see them, my first thought is, Do I have an extra five minutes for this? quickly followed by wondering how many brand-new curse words I might invent along the way.
Now imagine trying to tie your shoes while an invisible force has your hands doing the mamba at an impressive pace. Not just your hands—your entire arm. When I concentrate on steadying my fingers, my forearm decides it wants the spotlight and starts shaking instead. If I shift my focus to my forearm, the tremors bounce right back to my hands.
And if, by some miracle, I manage to focus on both at once, the tremors travel north—up through my shoulder—where they inconveniently catch, sending my entire arm into a brief numb timeout that lasts about a minute.
That sensation is called catching, and it’s common in people with cerebral palsy who have very loose ligaments and fluctuating muscle tone. When muscles tighten suddenly or joints momentarily lock, movement pauses—not because the body is weak, but because it’s trying to stabilize itself.
One day, my daughter asked me if there was anything that helps calm the tremors so I can finish even the most mundane tasks. It was a surprising and profound question—not because she noticed my tremors, but because I realized she was watching how I respond to them.
I pulled her onto my lap and answered honestly.
“Patience.”
Because tremors don’t mean I’m incapable. They don’t signal distraction. They don’t define my intelligence, my productivity, or my presence. They’re simply part of how my body moves through the world.
And while my hands may shake, my focus remains steady. My work gets done. My daughters are raised. My life keeps moving—adaptable, active, and full.
My hands shake.
My life doesn’t.
