Living with Essential Tremors.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wrestled with a persistent and unsettling question: What is wrong with me? It started with subtle remarks from friends, usually after noticing that my hands were trembling for no obvious reason. At first, I shrugged it off or blamed it on nerves or being tired. But over time, those comments started to wear on me. The questions people asked weren’t meant to be cruel, but they left me feeling exposed. I didn’t have an answer, and not knowing why this was happening made it harder to talk about.

What began as occasional curiosity from others gradually grew into a personal source of discomfort. I became overly aware of my own movements, watching myself the way I imagined others might be. The tremors turned into a symbol of something I couldn’t control—something that didn’t fit into the way I wanted to move through the world. It created a quiet insecurity, especially in moments that required precision or confidence.

Eventually, I decided to find out more. I spent hours reading, researching, and trying to put a name to what I was experiencing. That process led me to understand the different types of tremors—and I discovered that what I had was consistent with mild essential tremor, a neurological condition characterized by rhythmic, involuntary shaking, most often in the hands. Learning the term itself brought some relief. It gave a name to something that had lingered in the background of my life for years.

Essential tremor, I found, isn’t caused by Parkinson’s disease—something many people confuse it with. That distinction mattered to me. There’s still a lot that science doesn’t understand about why essential tremor occurs, but it often runs in families. In my case, it seems to follow that pattern, which gave me some clarity. There was no single trigger, no defining event. Just a quiet genetic thread weaving through the background of my life.

Knowing the condition’s name didn’t solve everything, but it gave me a sense of direction. I began to understand what might make the tremors worse—like stress, fatigue, or stimulants—and what I could do to minimize them. I also learned about treatment options, though I’ve chosen for now not to take medication. The side effects don’t feel worth it for the level of tremor I experience. Instead, I’ve focused on learning how to work with it, rather than against it.

There are still days that test me. Simple actions can be unexpectedly frustrating. Dropping objects, struggling to write neatly, or not being able to grip something as steadily as I want to—these moments can accumulate and wear on my patience. It’s not just the action itself that’s frustrating; it’s the feeling of being off balance in a way that others might not see but that I constantly notice.

Over time, I’ve learned to adjust how I approach certain tasks. I pace myself differently. I use tools that offer more control, and I take breaks when things start to feel overwhelming. These aren’t drastic changes, but they help maintain a sense of calm when my hands feel less steady. I’ve also learned to plan around the tremors, making space in my routine for flexibility rather than pushing through when things become physically challenging.

In social settings, I sometimes find myself wondering if people notice the tremor. While it’s mild, it’s still visible at times. I don’t always address it unless someone asks, but I do feel that quiet awareness of being observed. Most people are kind, and many don’t say anything at all. Still, the thought lingers. I’ve come to realize that much of that discomfort comes from me—my own inner dialogue, shaped by years of trying to appear unaffected.

Emotionally, living with essential tremor has been a balancing act. There are moments of acceptance, but also moments of discouragement. On bad days, it can feel like even basic tasks are working against me. On good days, I barely notice the tremor at all. These fluctuations have taught me that it’s not just the condition itself, but my mindset that determines how I experience it.

Over the years, I’ve learned how important it is to speak kindly to myself. When something slips out of my hand or when my handwriting turns messy, I remind myself that this doesn’t define my value or capability. I’ve had to unlearn the habit of being overly critical and replace it with patience. That shift has been one of the hardest parts of this journey—but also the most rewarding.

Through research and reflection, I’ve come to see essential tremor as something I live with, not something I live under. It has shaped parts of my experience, but it hasn’t taken over my life. I've found new ways to express creativity and to stay engaged in activities I enjoy, even if they require more planning or adaptation than they used to.

I’ve also come across stories from others who share this condition, and reading their experiences has been a powerful reminder that I’m not alone. There’s something comforting in knowing that others are navigating the same frustrations, fears, and victories. That connection, even from a distance, has helped normalize something that once felt isolating.

Ultimately, essential tremor has taught me to rethink my relationship with control. There will always be aspects of life that I can’t fully manage, and this condition has made that reality more visible. But it has also shown me that adapting isn’t a weakness—it’s a form of strength. Choosing to carry on, to show up for my life, and to keep doing what matters to me despite discomfort is its own kind of resilience.

While essential tremor is part of my reality, it doesn’t overshadow everything else I am. I am still capable, still creative, still learning. I've stopped trying to hide or ignore the tremor. Instead, I work alongside it, accepting that it will ebb and flow. What matters most is that I continue living my life with intention and self-respect—regardless of the shake in my hands.