When Parkinson’s disease took hold, the hardest part to bear was the loss of control over my body. As a Chinese literature teacher with 30 years of experience, I once wielded the chalk freely on the blackboard, each stroke neat and full of strength. But now, my hands trembled so violently that I could barely hold a glass of warm water without spilling it.

 

I was terrified of the strange glances from others, so I locked myself away at home. I couldn’t bring myself to accept that the hands that had once carried my professional dignity and passion had become a symbol of my “loss of control.” During that time, my mind was consumed by self-reproach: “I'm useless.” “I can’t even master my own hands.” This internal struggle drained me entirely. I felt like my life was steadily declining, and even my breathing felt tight with helplessness.

 

It was my daughter who brought me to Amy’s Women Empowerment. She said there was light here that could guide me, and she was right. I still remember the volunteers here helped me come to terms with my trembling hands and used an ingenious yet simple method to reshape my perception of myself. They asked: “You’re a Chinese teacher who’s spent a lifetime with words and images. Could you try describing the trembling of your hands with a gentle metaphor?”

 

Their words were like a key, unlocking my tightly shut heart. I paused for a long while, letting go of self-blame and truly observing my trembling hands: were they not akin to willow branches swaying gently in the spring breeze? Like the deliberate pauses I used when teaching students to write, to emphasize the nuances of tone? Or the soft rocking motion as I patted my granddaughter to sleep in her childhood? When these warm images replaced the labels of “flaw” and “incompetence” I had long attached to myself, the tension in my heart eased. My prolonged internal battle finally came to a quiet end.

 

With the companionship of Amy’s Women Empowerment, I picked up the brush once more. No longer fixated on whether my handwriting was neat, I simply let my trembling hands pour my innermost thoughts onto the paper. Those crooked strokes held the secret of my reconciliation with myself. This experience made me deeply realize: Illness can alter the rhythm of the body, but it cannot take away our courage to perceive beauty and embrace life. Just as I used to teach my students that viewing a poem from a different perspective yields new insights, I, too, looked at my body through a new lens and found beauty within its imperfections.