Larry Linton: Still Living With Parkinson's

Larry Linton: Still Living With Parkinson's Larry Linton
Getting a diagnosis of Parkinson's is hard because it doesn’t answer the question: Now what?

I help you answer that question so that you can move forward with clarity, confidence, and a plan—without having to face the uncertainty alone.

07/18/2026

The View from the Window

Every morning this past week, I have been sitting beside my 93-year-old father-in-law, feeding him his breakfast and, through the large square window in his room, watching the world rush past without us.

Cars surge forward at the lights. Cyclists weave through traffic. People hurry along the pavement, already chasing the next thing.

Inside, everything slows. He eats slowly. After breakfast, we talk a little, or we sit in silence. There is nowhere else to be.

I came to help him after two falls left him injured and hospitalized. My role seemed simple—feed him, spend time with him, be there.

But as the days passed, I began to realize something unexpected.
That window wasn’t just showing me the world outside. It was reminding me of what I had been missing inside.

So much of our lives is spent living somewhere other than where we are. We replayed yesterday. We worry about tomorrow. We think about the next appointment, the next decision, the next milestone.

Only a week earlier, I had been consumed with adjusting my Parkinson’s medication, analyzing every movement, questioning every symptom, and trying to understand what my body was telling me.

Parkinson’s has a way of drawing your attention inward.

You become acutely aware of how you are walking. Whether your medication has started working. How easily you can stand from a chair. Whether your tremor is noticeable. Whether today feels better than yesterday. Living with a chronic condition can become an ongoing conversation with yourself.

Then something unexpected happened this past week. The breakfasts have either been a small bowl of oatmeal or a small helping of scrambled eggs. Nothing extraordinary.

I have been carefully lifting each spoonful, making sure he was comfortable and taking his time eating it.

Then something struck me.

My hands were as steady as a rock. I actually paused.

Not because I was surprised that I could feed him breakfast. But because I hadn’t thought once about whether my hands would shake. For fifteen years, Parkinson’s has made me acutely aware of my own movements. Yet, in that moment, none of those thoughts were there.

My attention wasn’t on my Parkinson’s. It wasn’t on me at all.
It was on a 93-year-old man who simply needed help eating his breakfast. And somehow, in caring for him, I forgot about myself.

I don’t know whether my hands were steady because my medication was working particularly well that morning. Or because, for that hour, my mind wasn’t occupied by Parkinson’s.

Perhaps it was both.

Whatever the reason, it reminded me of something I had forgotten.

Sometimes the greatest relief doesn’t come from thinking less about our illness. It comes from thinking more about someone else.

People often speak about the demands of caregiving. They are real. It requires patience. Time. Energy. Compassion.

But this week I discovered something I hadn’t expected. Caring for another person can also be a gift. It gently shifts the spotlight away from us. For a little while, our own worries become quieter. Not because they no longer exist. But because they no longer occupy centre stage.

There is something deeply human about helping another person eat breakfast. It reminds you that life’s greatest moments are rarely dramatic. They are ordinary. A shared meal. A familiar face. A quiet conversation. A view through a window.

As I looked through that large square window each morning, I realised that everyone outside seemed to be rushing towards the next thing. The next meeting. The next errand. The next destination.

Inside that room, there was nowhere else to be. The present moment was enough. Perhaps that is one of the unexpected lessons that both ageing and chronic illness have to teach us.

Life isn’t always found in movement. Sometimes it is found in stillness. Sometimes it is found in simply sitting beside another person and allowing the world to continue without you for a little while.

A Final Thought

When I first began these morning visits, I thought I was going to help my father-in-law. Perhaps I have. But the truth is, he has helped me too.

He reminded me that while life continues at great speed beyond the window, we don’t always have to chase it. Sometimes the most meaningful part of the day happens in a quiet room, over a bowl of oatmeal and a plate of scrambled eggs.

And, in caring for him, I found something I hadn’t realised I was missing.

The present. Where life resides.

07/10/2026

Back to the Future... Again

For the past three weeks, I felt like I had traveled back in time. Not emotionally. Physically.

It was one of the strangest experiences I have had since being diagnosed with Parkinson's disease.

Three weeks ago, I had walked out of an appointment with a new movement disorders team feeling optimistic. I had gone there expecting to discuss deep brain stimulation.

Instead, the neurologist smiled and said something I never expected to hear.

"You're doing too well."

Not only was DBS not on the agenda, but he suggested that I reduce my levodopa across all my dosages.

I left the clinic thinking that perhaps this was one of those unexpected victories that Parkinson's occasionally allows us to celebrate.

Then I reduced my medication. At first, nothing seemed different.

Then, almost imperceptibly, my body began changing. By the morning of the third day, I was slow and lethargic. When walking—or trying to—I felt like I was in a pool of water up to my neck. My walking was labored, like slow motion.

Days earlier, sitting in a chair in the neurologist's office, I crossed my arms across my chest and stood up. Easily. Now, getting out of a chair required effort. I found myself having to use my arms to push me out of the seat, sometimes falling back two or three times before my legs engaged and lifted me.

Simple movements became conscious movements.

By the middle of the second week, I felt as though I had stepped back fifteen years.

It was unsettling. Not because I had forgotten what those early days felt like. But because I remembered them all too well.

But as difficult as that week was, there was one important difference. Fifteen years ago, I believed that was my future. This time, I knew it was simply my present.

Last week, I increased one of my medication doses again. Gradually, my movement improved. Not dramatically. But enough to remind me that listening to your body is just as important as listening to a treatment plan.

Perhaps Parkinson's had simply given me an opportunity to appreciate how far I have actually come. Because while my body briefly resembled the person I was fifteen years ago, my mind did not.

It made me realize that progress is not measured by one, two, or three difficult weeks. Nor is it measured by one encouraging appointment. Progress is measured by who we become while navigating both.

A Final Thought

Yesterday, three weeks from the appointment, finally feeling myself again, I was waiting in line to pay for some groceries. I glanced at the magazine rack and saw Michael J. Fox looking back at me. He is on the cover of the latest, special edition of People Magazine, celebrating his 65th birthday. But in another sense, he was celebrating me, reminding me of everything that has happened since my diagnosis.

The miles cycled. The finish lines were crossed.
The music played. The friendships formed.
The words were written. The life lived.

Sometimes Parkinson's takes us "back to the future."

Not from diagnosis to today. But from fear to perspective. From uncertainty to experience. From surviving to truly living.

07/10/2026

Back to the Future... Again

For the past three weeks, I felt like I had traveled back in time. Not emotionally. Physically.

It was one of the strangest experiences I have had since being diagnosed with Parkinson's disease.

Three weeks ago, I had walked out of an appointment with a new movement disorders team feeling optimistic. I had gone there expecting to discuss deep brain stimulation.

Instead, the neurologist smiled and said something I never expected to hear.

"You're doing too well."

Not only was DBS not on the agenda, but he suggested that I reduce my levodopa across all my dosages.

I left the clinic thinking that perhaps this was one of those unexpected victories that Parkinson's occasionally allows us to celebrate.

Then I reduced my medication. At first, nothing seemed different.

Then, almost imperceptibly, my body began changing. By the morning of the third day, I was slow and lethargic. When walking—or trying to—I felt like I was in a pool of water up to my neck. My walking was labored, like slow motion.

Days earlier, sitting in a chair in the neurologist's office, I crossed my arms across my chest and stood up. Easily. Now, getting out of a chair required effort. I found myself having to use my arms to push me out of the seat, sometimes falling back two or three times before my legs engaged and lifted me.

Simple movements became conscious movements.

By the middle of the second week, I felt as though I had stepped back fifteen years.

It was unsettling. Not because I had forgotten what those early days felt like. But because I remembered them all too well.

But as difficult as that week was, there was one important difference. Fifteen years ago, I believed that was my future. This time, I knew it was simply my present.

Last week, I increased one of my medication doses again. Gradually, my movement improved. Not dramatically. But enough to remind me that listening to your body is just as important as listening to a treatment plan.

Perhaps Parkinson's had simply given me an opportunity to appreciate how far I have actually come. Because while my body briefly resembled the person I was fifteen years ago, my mind did not.

It made me realize that progress is not measured by one, two, or three difficult weeks. Nor is it measured by one encouraging appointment. Progress is measured by who we become while navigating both.

That is the journey. Not from diagnosis to today.
But from fear to perspective. From uncertainty to experience.

A Final Thought

Yesterday, three weeks from the appointment, finally feeling myself again, I was waiting in line to pay for some groceries. I glanced at the magazine rack and saw Michael J. Fox looking back at me. He is on the cover of the latest, special edition of People Magazine, celebrating his 65th birthday. But in another sense, he was celebrating me, reminding me of everything that has happened since my diagnosis.

The miles cycled. The finish lines were crossed.
The music played. The friendships formed.
The words were written. The life lived.

Sometimes Parkinson's takes us "back to the future."

Not from diagnosis to today. But from fear to perspective. From uncertainty to experience. From surviving to truly living.

06/28/2026

Sometimes the News You Prepare for Never Arrives

On Friday, I met with a new neurologist to discuss something I have been thinking about for quite some time.

Deep Brain Stimulation.

Even writing those three words carries a certain weight. Just like the first three words that I read on the day I was diagnosed: Chronic. Progressive. Incurable.

I had mentally prepared myself for the possibility that DBS might be the next chapter in my journey with Parkinson's disease.

I wasn't hoping for surgery. But I was preparing myself to hear that it was time. Instead, I heard something I wasn't expecting.

"You are doing too well."

In fact, not only was DBS not recommended, the neurologist suggested that I reduce my medication to deal with the dyskinesias that I have been experiencing far more frequently that I like.

I actually laughed.

I walked into the appointment expecting we might discuss brain surgery. I walked out with a new Rx for fewer tablets!

Life has a wonderful way of surprising us.

As I sat on the train ride home, I realized something.

How often do we spend weeks, months, or even years preparing ourselves for futures that never actually arrive?

We rehearse difficult conversations.

Imagine worst-case scenarios.

Convince ourselves that the next chapter has already been written.

Sometimes we suffer twice.

Once in our imagination.

And then again if it actually happens.

Except this time......it didn't.

And that's the lesson: Don't live tomorrow's worries today. Because tomorrow's script may be rewritten.

There is a quote I have always liked:

"We suffer more often in imagination than in reality."

I don't know exactly what the next chapter of my Parkinson's journey will look like.

None of us do.

But Friday's news reminded me of something important. The future deserves our preparation.
It does not deserve our surrender.

And sometimes, just sometimes...

The news we fear most never arrives at all.

06/28/2026

Sometimes the News You Prepare for Never Arrives

On Friday, I met with a new neurologist to discuss something I have been thinking about for quite some time.

Deep Brain Stimulation.

Even writing those three words carries a certain weight. Just like the first three words that I read on the day I was diagnosed: Chronic. Progressive. Incurable.

I had mentally prepared myself for the possibility that DBS might be the next chapter in my journey with Parkinson's disease.

I wasn't hoping for surgery. But I was preparing myself to hear that it was time. Instead, I heard something I wasn't expecting.

"You are doing too well."

In fact, not only was DBS not recommended, the neurologist suggested that I reduce my medication to deal with the dyskinesias that I have been experiencing far more frequently that I like.

I actually laughed.

I walked into the appointment expecting we might discuss brain surgery. I walked out with a new Rx for fewer tablets!

Life has a wonderful way of surprising us.

As I sat on the train ride home, I realized something.

How often do we spend weeks, months, or even years preparing ourselves for futures that never actually arrive?

We rehearse difficult conversations.

Imagine worst-case scenarios.

Convince ourselves that the next chapter has already been written.

Sometimes we suffer twice.

Once in our imagination.

And then again if it actually happens.

Except this time...it didn't.

And that's the lesson: Don't live tomorrow's worries today. Because tomorrow's script may be rewritten.

There is a quote I have always liked:

"We suffer more often in imagination than in reality."

I don't know exactly what the next chapter of my Parkinson's journey will look like.

None of us do.

But Friday's news reminded me of something important. The future deserves our preparation.
It does not deserve our surrender.

And sometimes, just sometimes...

The news we fear most never arrives at all.

06/25/2026

The Things I Worry About Less Now

One of my favourite mantras is

"Don't worry about the things that you can control, because you can control them." And,
"Don't worry about the things you cannot control, because you cannot control them."

One of the unexpected things about living with Parkinson's disease is that it changes not only what you think about but also what you can stop thinking about too.

When I was younger, I worried about many things.

Career progression. Professional success. Deadlines. Performance. What people thought. Whether I was doing enough.
Achieving enough. Moving quickly enough.

Like most of us, I carried around a long list of concerns that seemed tremendously important at the time. Or so I thought. Maybe I just didn't know the difference.

When I was first diagnosed, my worries became even larger.

I worried about my future. My career. My family. My finances. My health. My independence.

I worried about progression. I worried about symptoms. I worried about what people might notice. I worried about what they might think.

At times, I worried about things that had not happened and might never happen.

Fear has a remarkable ability to rob time away from the future.

And for a while, I let it.

Over time, something changed. Not because my life became easier. Not because uncertainty disappeared.

But because my perspective evolved.

I began to notice that many of the things I once devoted enormous energy to had become less important.

There was a time when I cared deeply about how others perceived me.

Did I appear capable? Strong? Successful? Productive?

Now I spend far less energy trying to manage those perceptions.

The people who matter already know who you are.

And the people who don't know you rarely get to define you.

Parkinson's teaches you that perfection is an exhausting goal. And that being in control or thinking that you are in control is wasted energy.

You learn that some days are better than others. Some workouts are stronger than others. Some conversations are easier than others.

And that is perfectly acceptable.

Good enough has become far more valuable than perfect.

For much of my life, I measured progress by speed.

How quickly I could accomplish something.
How much I could fit into a day. How efficiently I could move through life.

Now I understand that pace and progress are not the same thing.

Sometimes slower is simply smarter.

In the early days, I thought strength meant handling everything myself. Not showing fear. Not asking for help. Not admitting vulnerability.

Now I think strength often looks very different.

Honesty. Adaptation. Acceptance. Connection.

Those things require far more courage than pretending everything is fine.

This doesn't mean I no longer worry.

Of course I do. I worry about the people I love. I worry about health. I worry about making the most of the time I have.

I worry about remaining present. Remaining curious. Remaining engaged.

But these worries feel different. They feel more meaningful. More connected to what truly matters.

I would never describe Parkinson's as a gift.

But I will acknowledge that it has sharpened my perspective.

It has forced me to ask the following:

Does this really matter? Is this worthy of my energy? And surprisingly often, the answer is no.

A Final Thought

The older I get, and the longer I live with Parkinson's, the more I realize that life is not simply about adding things.

Sometimes it is about subtracting them.

The unnecessary pressure. The comparisons.
The expectations. The opinions. The urgency.

And what remains often feels surprisingly clear.

Parkinson's has taught me that our energy is precious.

And that perhaps wisdom is simply learning what deserves it.

06/14/2026

The Circumstance That Brought Us Together

It is a strange thing when I stop and think about it.

Many of the people who have become important parts of my life over the past decade would not be in my life today were it not for Parkinson's disease. That is both an uncomfortable truth and a beautiful one.

Let's be honest. None of us would have chosen this.

Given the opportunity, I suspect every person reading this would have happily declined their invitation to Parkinson's. I certainly would have.

When I was diagnosed, my first thoughts were not about community. Or friendship. Or connection. My thoughts were of fear. Uncertainty. Loss of my future. I was focused entirely on what Parkinson's might take from me.

What I could not see at the time was what it would unexpectedly bring.

Over the years, Parkinson's introduced me to people from every walk of life.

Teachers. Lawyers. Physicians. Researchers. Musicians.
Athletes. Care partners. Advocates.

People from different countries, backgrounds, professions, and experiences. The one thing we all had in common was a diagnosis none of us wanted.

And yet somehow, that shared experience created an immediate connection. A level of understanding that often takes years to develop in other relationships.

People were willing to talk honestly. About fear.
About symptoms. About identity. About relationships.
About uncertainty. About hope.

Authenticity.

When I was first diagnosed, I believed Parkinson's would make my world smaller.

In some ways, it did. But in ways I never could have anticipated, it also expanded it.

It introduced me to friendships I never would have formed. Conversations I never would have had. Perspectives I never would have gained.

And a community I never knew existed.

To be clear, I am not grateful for Parkinson's. I would never suggest that. But I am deeply grateful for many of the people Parkinson's brought into my life.

Those are two very different things.

One can acknowledge the hardship without overlooking the humanity that emerged from it.

A Final Thought

As I reflect on my journey to date, I find myself thinking less about the disease and more about the people.

The friendships. The conversations. The encouragement. The shared understanding. The laughter. The support.

The community.

It is an unfortunate circumstance that brought us together. But I am grateful that it did. Because while Parkinson's may be the reason our paths crossed, it is not the reason those relationships matter.

They matter because of the remarkable people behind the diagnosis.

And I consider myself fortunate to know so many of them.

06/12/2026

The Difference Between Being Brave and Being Ready

For much of my life, I believed that courage worked in a defined and predictable order.

First, you become ready. Then, you act.

You start by gathering information. You build up confidence. Develop a plan. Wait until you feel prepared. And only then do you take the next step.

It sounds logical. The problem is that life rarely works that way.

The older I get, the more I realize that many of the most important moments of my life happened long before I felt ready for them.

Emigrating as a young married couple to a country that my wife and I had never visited.

Becoming a parent.

Making difficult decisions.

Navigating uncertainty.

None of those moments arrived with complete confidence. Most came with some degree of doubt.

Yet somehow, life moved forward anyway.

When I was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease, readiness wasn't an option. There was no preparation period. One day I was living my life as I understood it. The next day, I was trying to understand what this diagnosis might mean.

No opportunity to slowly work my way toward acceptance. I wasn't ready. Not even close.

At 49 years old, I was frightened. Confused. Overwhelmed. I worried about my career.
My future. My family. My identity.

And if I am being completely honest, there were times when simply getting through the day felt like enough.

For a while, I believed I needed to feel better before moving forward.

More confident. More certain. More prepared.

I thought courage would arrive first. Then action would follow. But that isn't what happened.

I wasn't ready when I started running again.

I wasn't ready when I got back on my bike.

I wasn't ready when I picked up drumsticks after years away from music.

I wasn't ready when I shared my story publicly.

I wasn't ready when I wrote my first blog.

I certainly wasn't ready when I started writing a book.

In every case, the same pattern emerged.

The action came first. The confidence came later.

Somewhere along the way, I began to understand something important.

Bravery is not the absence of fear. And it is not the presence of readiness.

Bravery is taking the first next step while uncertainty is still sitting beside you. Because if we wait until we feel completely ready, we may spend our lives waiting.

One of the biggest misconceptions about courage is that brave people feel confident.

In my experience, many brave people feel exactly the opposite. They feel uncertain. Vulnerable. Nervous. Apprehensive.

But they move forward anyway. Not because fear disappeared. But because something else became more important than fear.

I continue to meet many remarkable people who embodied this idea.

People living with Parkinson's who had started advocacy initiatives.

Written books. Created support groups. Learned new skills. Traveled the world. Pursued new passions. Faced surgeries. Faced setbacks. Faced uncertainty.

None of them appeared to be waiting until they felt perfectly ready. They were simply continuing to live.

And that, to me, is courage.

A Final Thought

Looking back, I was not ready for Parkinson's.

I was not ready for many of the things that followed either.

But perhaps readiness is overrated. Perhaps courage is not about feeling prepared.

Perhaps courage is about taking the next step and trusting that you will grow into it.

Because some of the most meaningful experiences in my life began with a simple truth:

I wasn't ready.

I was just brave enough to begin.

06/03/2026

What If Nothing Needs to Be Fixed?

When I was first diagnosed with Parkinson's, I approached it the same way I approached most challenges in my life.

I tried to fix it. That sounds reasonable because that's how most of us are wired.

A problem appears. You gather information. Develop a strategy. Work harder. Push through. Find a solution.

That approach had always served me well throughout my life.

Professionally. Personally. Financially.

The approach was simple enough: When something wasn't working, you figured it out. So, I naturally assumed the same rules applied when Parkinson's arrived.

I turned Parkinson's into a project. Another problem to solve. Yet another challenge to overcome. One more puzzle to solve.

In doing every symptom required attention. Every setback demanded action. Every new development triggered another round of research, planning, and analysis.

I was constantly asking:

What should I do next?
What am I missing?
How do I stop this?
How do I get back to where I was?

The assumption behind every question was the same:

Something is broken. And my job is to fix it.

Parkinson's doesn't always cooperate with that mindset. Some things improve. Some things adapt. Some things simply become part of your new reality.

And over time, I began to notice something.

The effort required to constantly "fix" my life was becoming exhausting.

Physically. Emotionally. Every day became a need for fresh evaluation. A new measurement.
A comparison.

Am I worse?
Am I progressing?
Am I declining?
Am I winning?
Am I losing?

Living that way creates a tremendous amount of pressure.

But eventually (and thankfully) the question began to change.

Instead of asking:

"How do I fix this?"

I found myself asking:

"How do I live with this?"

At first, that felt uncomfortable.

Dangerously close to giving up. But equally, dangerously close to acceptance. And at the early stage of my journey, I still confused the two.

But they are not the same thing.

Giving up says:

"There is no point."

Acceptance says:

"This is where I am. Now what?"

One closes the door. The other opens it.

That distinction changed everything.

Because once I stopped trying to repair every aspect of my life, I could finally begin participating in it again.

Ironically, many of the best things that happened after my diagnosis occurred after I stopped obsessing over fixing Parkinson's.

Running.
Cycling.
Returning to drumming.
Reaching the professional milestone of Partner admission.
Writing.
Building friendships.

None of those experiences happened because I overcame or fixed Parkinson's. They happened because I have learned how to live alongside it.

At first, I thought the goal was to eliminate every obstacle. Now I think the goal is to build a meaningful life despite them.

That is a very different objective. And a far more achievable one.

Because life has never required perfection in order to be meaningful.

A Final Thought

I'm not suggesting we stop exercising. Or stop learning. Or stop pursuing treatments, therapies, and opportunities to improve our health.

Far from it.

But perhaps there is freedom in recognizing that not everything needs to be fixed before life can begin again.

Perhaps some things need to be understood.

Adapted to. Worked around. Lived with.

For years, I thought my job was to fix Parkinson's. Now I think my job is something else entirely.

To continue building a life that remains meaningful, purposeful, and rewarding—even in its presence.

And strangely enough, that approach has brought me far more peace than all the years I spent trying to repair what could not be repaired.

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