It seemed trivial at first, no more significant than an eye twitch. It was the slightest shift from the way I had held myself all 34 years of my life. Maybe, I thought, I pulled a calf muscle. Or I'm just out of shape, nothing else. These were plausible excuses once, but not after six months or a year. Don't get me wrong; I wasn't perfect to begin with, but this was something else. The twitch took a toll on me as I tried to come to terms with it.

Then the tremor started, which I dismissed as a tremble. Again, I consistently made excuses for it. Maybe I had too much sugar? Or not enough potassium, magnesium, or vitamin B? Over time, my tremor got worse, and still the doctors couldn't find anything wrong. Each and every appointment felt like a step back, a punch to the gut. Worst of all, whatever the disease or illness was, I knew I would never be the same person again. Someone who played disc golf and went on weekly movie dates, a woman who thought nothing of drawing for hours.

I felt betrayed by my body. Walking across my small apartment became a chore. Taking a shower was like climbing a mountain. Even getting dressed exhausted me. I was suddenly old. I needed an arm to help me off a curb, or a cane to settle my balance. My hands were wracked with bouts of tremor. Before I was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease, I had no idea why I shuffled when I walked. I felt like a character written for comedic relief. Enter with a dramatic step, right leg scraping across the ground. Cue laugh track.

Instead of being relieved, I was shocked by my diagnosis, which took two years. I was 34 and female, so no doctor suspected Parkinson's. Even though the medication was helpful, it was terrifying to watch my body break down and see the concerned faces of my husband, James, and other family members and friends. I was ashamed of my spasms and tremors and embarrassed by my walker and how my hands and fingers curled in. It was easier to stay home. And as much as my husband tried to support and guide me, I still couldn't shake the isolation. I began to have complete breakdowns where I would lie in a fetal position beside the bed or in a closet. I would glance up and see James’ worried face.

I can't help but think how strange my behavior must have looked—and must still look—from James’ side. Is he thinking, “She's not the person I married”? Of course he would never say that, and he most likely doesn't think that. But when I seemingly “wake up” from my position on the floor, protecting my head and face as though it were life and death, my thoughts turn to that. But James has been unwavering, always patient, and never forceful. He extends an arm and reminds me that his love is unconditional.

There are times when I feel closer to the way I felt before my diagnosis. Other days it's hard to move or bend my legs. Or my arms lock up. I'll have moments when I'm overwhelmingly depressed and can't leave my room because I've realized that how I am today is probably the best I will be.

But when the darkness lifts, I remember how lucky I am to be supported by so many. I remember that each day is unknown for most people. I have to embrace my accomplishments, such as going for a walk, cleaning the kitchen, or taking a shower. I can still draw and write. In fact, I just finished a novel. This is enough for now. The best thing I can do is hold on to these successes even if they're as small as an eye twitch.

Audrey Loveland, a pen-and-ink artist and writer, lives with her husband, James, their dog, Eddie, and their cat, Judy, in East Tennessee. She's the author and illustrator of One Magic Night, a children's book about Christmas.