When Parkinson’s Makes You Lose Your Sense of Identity: Learning to Recognize Yourself Again

Between the Lines of Parkinson’s: Recognizing Oneself Differently

Many people living with Parkinson’s tell us that they no longer truly recognize themselves.
Not in their memories, but in their own bodies.
They say: “It’s not that I don’t love myself anymore, it’s that I no longer find myself.”
The same words come back with quiet modesty: the changing face, the weaker voice, the slower gestures, the hesitant walk.
Things that seem trivial at first, a glance in the mirror, a shirt button, a recent photo, suddenly become reminders of a new distance from oneself.

One day, someone confided this to us:
“When I walk down the street and see my reflection in a shop window, I catch myself thinking: that’s not me. And then I realize that yes, it is me. Just different.”
This slow shift between the old and the new self can be deeply unsettling.
The body, once familiar, becomes shifting ground.
Automatic movements become rare, gestures demand attention.
And gradually, the entire relationship with oneself changes: the way we speak, stand, dress, and are seen.
We discover that identity, long taken for granted, is built upon countless small and silent markers: the tone of the voice, the pace of the walk, the flexibility of the face.

When these markers fade, a question emerges: without them, am I still myself?

This question has no simple answer.
It does not seek a solution.
It seeks meaning.
And often, it is in the words of those who live through it that we find traces of a quiet wisdom.
Another person told us:
“I no longer recognized myself in the mirror, so I stopped running away from it. I learned to look at myself differently. I stopped searching for the old me and began welcoming the person I am becoming.”
Perhaps this is where reconciliation begins.
Not a breakthrough, but a calm acceptance.
Learning to rediscover oneself in a resistant body, to find fragments of self again, to love oneself without comparison.
Human beings are ever-changing, shaped by life, by loss, by renewal.
And in this movement lies something profoundly beautiful: the quiet strength of learning to know oneself again.

It is not always easy to reach that point.
Sometimes, in the course of a single day, one moves between anger, frustration, and the question “why me?”
Why does this image no longer resemble me?

And yet, anger is not illegitimate.
It simply reflects the intensity of what one is going through, the fatigue of being strong, the weariness of constantly having to adapt, and sometimes, the instinct to let that tension spill over onto loved ones — a partner, a family member.

It is often difficult to feel that broken link between who we were and the deep desire to feel whole again.
But recognizing that fracture is already the beginning of reconciliation.

Peace that returns and anger that persists do not cancel each other out.
They coexist, follow one another, and sometimes blend within a single day.
One soothes, the other stirs, yet both bear witness to the same truth: a fidelity to oneself despite a changing body.

Many of those who write to us say that what helps them is returning to a simple gesture, a ritual that reminds them of their inner continuity.
For one, it is putting on perfume each morning, even if the motions are slower.
For another, it is humming softly, just to feel the breath vibrate in the chest.
Others speak of walking without purpose, simply to feel the sensation of existing within movement.
“When I walk, I become myself again, even if only for ten minutes,” someone confided to us.

It is not a loss. It is a transformation.
Because if the body changes, the essence remains.
It shifts, sometimes hides, but never disappears.
It lives in patience, tenderness, and in that nearly invisible courage to keep beginning again.

Yes, the reflection in the mirror may seem unfamiliar.
But behind that face, the same story continues — that of a person who, despite everything, strives to recognize themselves anew, slowly, with respect for the difficult path they keep walking despite the obstacles.

Perhaps it helps not to compare oneself to who one used to be, but to look at the present with as much kindness as possible.
You are still here.
And in that presence lies all the victory.

Every journey is unique, with good days and harder days.
What we hope, through these words gathered from the people we help, is simply to remind you that you are not alone in this dialogue with yourself.
Thank you for allowing us to accompany you, even just a little, on this path.

The Atremo.info Team