The first thing that comes to mind: I am strong. There have been way too many times when I tell myself “suck it up, buttercup,” and I would’ve sucked it up. I’ll face everything and anything, and most of all: I’ve learned to not care.

There was a period of time in middle school that really changed me. All of a sudden, I, a girl, was hanging out every day with 3 guys. It wasn’t supposed to be that way, but due to some not-so-complicated reasons, that’s what happened. I knew every eye was on me, and I knew for sure that there was gossip behind my back. I would try to steer my guy friends and me from the spots at school with the most people, making any attempt to cut down the number of people staring at me. I wasn’t popular, but enough people knew me to notice that I was the only girl in that group. I think that was when I realized those eyes, those voices, don’t matter. They don’t know the story, and many of them most definitely don’t know me. I could’ve easily joined another group of girls, left these guy friends behind. But I didn’t want to, because they were my friends. They didn’t judge me, even though we were in the most judgey place of all: middle school. Even though the situation was different, I was happy, and that was all that mattered.

Since that moment, I haven’t cared about social status, gossip, or popularity. Even though I am no longer in middle school, I learned so much from that experience. I realized that the only person I need to care about is myself, and those who’ve stood by me.

What else is there to know about me? Oh, I am smart! I get A’s, and people know it. Studying isn’t a burden for me, because I value education, and I work hard for it.

I am social! I love a big crowd around me, full of people I know. I love to walk down a hallway at school and wave to my friends, start conversations that switch into other conversations, turn in any direction and see a familiar face. I want to be in a room full of people and know at least one person, and then end up knowing the entire room.

I have so much energy. I can talk, and talk, and TALK, and I wouldn’t want to stop. I like to think I am funny sometimes, but that can also transition into seeming weird, but again, I don’t care; that’s me, and I feel happy surrounded by people who know that.

I love to laugh. I love my family. I love not-so-niche things, and a conversation about it. I tease my friends a lot, which could result in me saying something extreme and then regretting it, but trust me, I apologize and am trying to hold back!

I am honest and sharp. I know it can hurt people sometimes, so I hold back when I need to. I am also practical and efficient, which doesn’t always make me the most likeable person in the room, but definitely the fairest.

I don’t like ambiguity. If you are going to do something or say something that’s gonna affect me, and I care about you, say it. If you don’t say it, I am going to be mad, and you are going to know it. I like to think I am a good friend, but if you don’t think so, let me know and tell me why; I want to improve!

My pet peeve is when someone takes my hair tie and doesn’t give it back. Two people have done that so far: one in October 2023, and another in March 2025. And I will never forget them. If you’re one of them: Watch. Your. Back. 👀

In this moment, as I am writing this, this is who I am. Self-awareness is really important, and without it, your mental health tanks; trust me, I’ve witnessed it. If you’re not fully sure, that’s okay, but remember to take the time to understand yourself, and not be defined fully by your surroundings. I know who I am; do you?

PS: If you took my hair tie: GIVE. IT. BACK.

A Harvard Medical School study analyzes this incredibly. They state that dance has such beneficial effects on the brain that it is now being used to treat people with Parkinson’s disease, a progressive neurological movement disorder. “There’s no question, anecdotally at least, that music has a very stimulating effect on physical activity,” says Daniel Tarsy, MD, an HMS professor of neurology and director of the Parkinson’s Disease and Movement Disorders Center at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center. “And I think that applies to dance, as well.”

Scientists gave little thought to the neurological effects of dance until relatively recently, when researchers began to investigate the complex mental coordination that dance requires. Music stimulates the brain’s reward centers, while dance activates its sensory and motor circuits, making dancing an all-around healthy activation of the brain. Dance has also been found to be therapeutic for patients with Parkinson’s disease (PD). More than one million people in this country are living with Parkinson’s disease, and, according to the Parkinson’s Disease Foundation, each year another 60,000 are diagnosed with the disease. With dance, many of the motor symptoms that are core to PD are alleviated.

Various institutions are promoting dance therapy for Parkinson’s and other motor diseases, revolutionizing Parkinson’s care as we know it, and opening doors to not only novel treatments, but also helping millions of people move through life more easily mentally and physically, all because of dance.

So next time you hear some music, dance! Who knows how much good it’ll bring?

I’m a teenager, and that automatically means one thing: feelings UNLEASHED. My fellow teenagers would (hopefully) agree. Like how television and media like to portray it, your teenage years most likely involve arguments with your parents. This could go from little things about what you wear to school, to feeling like your parents are suppressing self-expression and enforcing conservative values that should not apply to you. You get the point.

But are those constant arguments worth it? I mean, isn’t it bad to raise your voice and shut the door on people who are only trying to take care of you? Well, in part, yes, in a way, those fights might have better benefits than you may think.

The Harvard Graduate School of Education reports in an article about how “Interplay between parents and children ignites the brain and boosts its response to language, spurring lasting literacy skills.” It explains how research has proven that parents speaking with their child, not just to them, can generate otherworldly benefits.

This brings us to the part of the argument that’s tricky. Constantly yelling at each other doesn’t yield benefits, but using that common tension to explain your thoughts and help the other person understand what you’re going through will. According to experts on platforms like Psychology Today, arguments improve mental health by preventing pent-up frustration and help you build deeper connections through clear communication, problem-solving, and mutual understanding.

So next time you’re thinking about starting a difficult conversation, just do it, and know that if done healthily, it can only go in the right direction, for yourself, for others, and your brain.

A week before my grandmother passed away from Parkinson’s, I was ironically awaiting the opportunity to volunteer for one of the Parkinson’s Foundation’s events. I had looked forward to it, but at the time was still wary of the possible boredom that usually comes with volunteering.

On the day, my dad drove me there at 6 AM on a Saturday morning, just as passionate about and supportive of Parkinson’s as I am. Upon reaching and finding the event tents, I was welcomed with a hug. Then another. Smiles and greetings filled the air. These people are so nice, I thought. I was pulled into friendly conversations while helping to set up for the event, and as if it couldn’t get any better, there were donuts!

Slowly, event participants trickled in. My role was to hand them T-shirts, and each passing set of hands instilled a warmth within me. Soon music filled the air, mixing with the welcome sound of laughter. I moved between event booths, handing out supplies, guiding participants, and cheering them on. Then, before I knew it, the event was over. That’s when I realized: volunteering is more than a checkbox, it is giving, caring, laughing, doing whatever you can to make someone’s day better, someone who needs it.

After that day, I eagerly told my grandfather about the experience, and despite the fact that my grandmother’s death a week later hit me hard, knowing that I was able to do something toward Parkinson’s, for her, slowly eased the pain.

It has long been a goal of mine to become more spiritual. My father, in his early years in America, an Indian man out of his water, came across a spiritual group in his quest to find his people in a new country. Over time, his connection gently grew, and his new wife, then new family, joined in on spiritual events whenever they could. These little connections gave me a peek into the spiritual world, and what interested me the most was people’s eyes.

When you think of spirituality, you automatically refer to meditation. But I started to think, what is meditation really? Is it just breathing with your eyes closed? Is it completely leaving yourself without any thoughts for a few minutes? If so, how do you discover more of yourself when you’re meditating if you’re not thinking about anything? And most of all, what is spirituality?

To answer all these questions, I did something groundbreaking: I googled it! I know, crazy, right? To spare you from going through this same excruciating process, here are the definitions:

As you can see, the word meditate has a LOT of meanings. But I believe this shows that meditation can take many forms. Through any of the definitions above, you can learn more about yourself and your surroundings, from your career choices to your love for chocolate cake. Meditation is one of the many roads to spirituality, and through it, you learn about the roots of your interests, emotions, and the world around you.

I learned that spirituality is not required to lead a good life, but it sure does help. Spirituality and neurology intersect in the emerging, interdisciplinary field of neurotheology. This science explores how spiritual and transcendent experiences correlate with distinct brain states and neural networks. Practices like meditation physically alter brain function, fostering well-being, empathy, and a reduced sense of self. The neurological study of spirituality reveals that transcendent and mystical experiences are tied to activity in specific regions of the human brain that create feelings of “oneness,” self-awareness, concentration, clarity, peace, and so much more.

So is my quest for spirituality worth it? Well, I like to think so, and I hope others might too.

Japan is a global powerhouse in neurological and neurosurgical research, driven by its aging population. Those grandmas I saw on the subway in Japan wearing high fashion, well, they mean more to neurological research than you would think. They are the driving force behind Japan’s neurological research, inspiring researchers to develop innovative therapies and uncover remarkable facts about the human brain. The National Center of Neurology and Psychiatry in Japan has done ground-breaking research on various neurological diseases, including Multiple Sclerosis, muscular dystrophy, and more. Some Japanese organizations have discovered novel therapies that reverse early-stage Alzheimer’s in preclinical models.

In addition, clinical trials at institutions like Keio University have achieved milestones such as using lab-grown neural stem cells to restore standing ability in patients paralyzed from the neck down. In Tokyo, researchers are engineering 3D brain-like tissues from stem cells to model complex circuitry and diseases like schizophrenia. The list goes on.

The University of Tokyo is often considered the #1 neurological university in Asia. But what does this mean for the future? Can Japan’s talented researchers and physicians find cures to diseases and solve neurological mysteries that have been plaguing millions of people around the globe? Well, I guess time will tell.

My mom has had many more of these experiences with my grandmother than I could have had, and I think my grandma’s disease took a bigger toll on her than it did on me. She had been able to cook with my grandma, spend long hours gossiping with her, laughing, loving every moment, before Parkinson’s began to affect my grandmother further. Usually, a mother-in-law-daughter-in-law relationship is never close to nice, but they were never like that. Half the food my mom makes was from my grandma’s recipes, and the first time my mom ever cooked was with her. When Parkinson’s slowly tore those memories from their hands, what would my mom have to hold on to?

I wish I could have done those things with my grandmother, and I always think about how it would have played out: me entering the kitchen, asking her what she’s doing, her allowing me to watch, showing me, teaching me. I used to watch this show, Just Add Magic, where the entire first season was about one of the main characters trying to save her grandmother through cooking, which was one of their favorite memories together. Whenever I watched it, I would always think about what it would have been like to cook with my grandmother, have such deep memories cooking with her that I would spend so much effort trying to bring those memories back. What kind of food would we have made? Would we discover new recipes together? Fail miserably at making them? Or succeed?

My maternal grandmother and I are incredibly close, and she has more than made up for these questions through each moment we spend together. She cares for me deeply, and like most grandmothers, is always on my side (something that comes in handy whenever I fight with my brother). But the pressure of making up for those moments I lost with my other grandmother is resting on her shoulders, and is something I find incredibly unfair. But, the world is an unfair place.

So, I wonder…

What would it have been like to see my paternal grandmother sitting at the dining table and chatting with my family? What would it have been like if she could have climbed the stairs and visited me in my room? What would it have been like if she had yelled at my brother for fighting with me? What would it have been like?

There are so many things I wonder about, and many more things I won’t get answers for. Parkinson’s left my grandmother within the confines of her home, then her wheelchair, then her bed. Like me, I imagine so many other grandchildren pondering how their visits to their grandparents would have turned out if their grandparents didn’t have Parkinson’s, or even any other disease. But, well, I guess the world is an unfair place.

One of the other things that makes Thor so cool is not just the character, but the actor themselves: Chris Hemsworth. He’s been in countless movies and documentaries, including his most recent one, Chris Hemsworth: A Road Trip to Remember. In it, Hemsworth turns the spotlight away from himself and toward his father, Craig, who was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s; Chris designs a road trip back in time, revisiting key places from their past to explore how their social connection can influence Chris’ father’s life-changing condition.

Because Chris Hemsworth is a pretty mainstream actor, the documentary took care to show the disease through a deeper lens, and its impacts truly hit home. Alzheimer’s is one of the more well-known neurodegenerative diseases, and a quick Google search can get you countless links and therapy options.

Even with this, it doesn’t have a cure.🙄

But techniques to diagnose the disease have vastly increased, as it used to be found in the past only after a patient literally died from it. Now, through brain imaging and various tests, healthcare professionals and researchers are able to diagnose Alzheimer’s disease during life with more certainty.

In Chris Hemsworth’s documentary, you can see how his father, Craig, forgets important details, is unable to remember close friends, and loses valuable memories. It hurts both Craig and his family to see essential moments slip away from beneath his feet. Alzheimer’s disease also contains a genetic component, heightening the chances of others in the family also developing it and facing its challenges.

Alzheimer’s brings with it not only memory loss, but uncertainty about what the next day holds for the patient, and those around them. Every day, patients wonder whether they will be able to move forward when doubt and confusion follow them in every step. Now with countless organizations and intense research toward the disease, people can only hope that the 6.9 million individuals with Alzheimer’s, and those around them, will face another day with a little more certainty than the day before.

After reading it, I compellingly wanted to tell Paul what it meant to me. Although his physical self is no longer here, I believe he still lives on through his book and its readers. So, this letter is dedicated to Paul:

Dear Paul,

Thank you. While reading your book, I never cried. I got close, though, when I read your wife’s epilogue. While writing this right now, I am.

Thank you for shedding light not only on what death can or will mean, but on time. Becoming a doctor in America is a long journey, but many who want to be doctors, like me, often forgo it in hopes of the rewards we reap after earning each degree, whether that be compassion, learning, or money. Your book gave me the sharp, agonizing reality that we may never reap those rewards at the end, and that we must still strive to be compassionate and do our best to be a good doctor in every moment along the journey. This time-consuming path to becoming a doctor is a true testament to one’s love for the profession, and you say when becoming a neurosurgeon, “People often ask if it is a calling, and my answer is always yes. You can’t see it as a job, because if it’s a job, it’s one of the worst jobs there is.” That right there hit me; this profession’s not easy, and it never will be. It also hit me that you would have been, no, you are one of the best neurosurgeons ever.

Also, thank you for your bravery. Leaving behind one’s life, or anything for that matter, is not easy. My first thought reading the description of When Breath Becomes Air was how agonizing it must have been to leave behind over 10 years of studying, but your book was never about that. It was about purpose. It was about the definition of death in terms of yourself, legacy, and philosophy. You strived to do your best in every waking moment, and it was clear to me with each word on that page. Your book awakened in me the message that this wasn’t about living life to the fullest, but about living life so you could just look back and say: It was a good, good run.

Thank you, most of all, for opening my eyes. To resilience, to intellect, and to love. These three things filled every one of your actions, and now they influence me to fill them in mine. I read, but it seemed like I watched, how you navigated through medicine from the books to the flesh, then to the care. In your book, you reflect on who you are after each moment of your life, and it has now pushed me to do the same. You opened my eyes to the courage we have within us to face every and any situation, but also the care and obligation we hold to treat those around us well.

Thank you for bringing me near tears, not just because of your situation, but because neurology patients will never be under your care, although they will know you, look up to you—like me—because of this book.

Sincerely,

Aishwarya Kadavil

Full disclaimer: my interpretation of this book might be vastly different than others; When Breath Becomes Air is deep and philosophical in a way, so to see if my thoughts align with yours, give it a read!

- the jokes were mid

- The comedian stood in one place and just talked, and talked, and talked

- They wouldn’t really do anything with their hands or body other than lean forward and then lean back

- They weren’t exactly engaging and clear

So throughout our discussion of these things, I kept nodding along with my family. And then I remembered the comedian mentioning that she had MS, or multiple sclerosis. Before I tell you what MS is, let me just tell you that 3/4 of the observations I talked about are related to symptoms of multiple sclerosis.

MS is

a disease that causes breakdown of the protective covering of nerves. Multiple sclerosis can cause numbness, weakness, trouble walking, vision changes and other symptoms. (Mayo Clinic)

Multiple sclerosis is also a disease known as an auto-immune disorder, meaning that our immune system that normally helps us and does good stuff, now mistakenly attacks healthy cells; not great. But MS affects people differently. Some people barely experience symptoms, others have worsening conditions over time.

And only 0.04% of the population has multiple sclerosis. 0.04 percent people. If you didn’t notice already, that’s not a lot. This means that the small percentage of people who experience it, they themselves experience it differently. Multiple sclerosis has different types, symptoms, and severity based on each person, and if you want to study the disease, it’s like looking into a pool of fish but finding out that the only 4 fish in there are all different types, shapes, and sizes; so what do you research?

This is why neurodegenerative diseases are so hard to find cures for because of their complexity. Although I only gave a short description of MS, you can see why that comedian I saw can do nothing about her disease, and have to keep going on with her job. Most of the audience at that comedy show probably don’t know what MS is, and like my family, immediately blame the comedian’s performance on their skill. She may have been incredibly funny in her career, but due to her disease, the audience perceives her differently, you become a whole different person in their eyes just because of two letters: MS.

We’ve all had, or heard of, family recipes. Secret mixtures that have been in your family for decades. It’s something that you have exclusive access to solely because you’re in that family, and you know more about it than anyone else outside. I know my family probably has some sort of family recipe, but I think Parkinson’s disease can count as one, too. Since I am a part of the glorious Kadavil family, we all know a little too much about Parkinson’s Disease. My grandma’s had it for a long time, and with time comes a lot of learning. So today, I’m going to share this family recipe with all of you; many facts you might or most probably might not know about Parkinson’s disease, like it’s a cake.

Fact 1: Parkinson’s is very, very slow baking. I realized that my grandma has had it for over 20 years, but she didn’t even start exhibiting symptoms until I was a toddler, so 3-5 years into the disease. And even the symptoms are slow baking. The earliest sign — remember, I was just a kid, and my observation skills weren’t that great — I noticed was my grandma’s inability to walk. Because Parkinson’s disease makes you unable to produce enough dopamine in brain cells, you’ll face severe motor dysfunction. And this symptom was practically all I could notice for years.

Fact 2: MEDICINES. I later learned that one of the reasons I only noticed my grandma’s inability to walk as her sole obvious symptom of the disease was because my grandfather would give her medicines, and medicines, and medicines to slow the other symptoms. I still don’t know what most of them are for, and I heard my grandfather once say this story of how the cashier at a medical store shockingly found out that all the medicines my grandfather was buying for my grandma were for one person.

Fact 3: Parkinson’s disease makes everyone feel helpless. It’s like looking at a dish that went wrong, but you don’t know what to do about it. Once you progress into the disease further, the other symptoms show, and they’re just as rough on the Parkinson’s patient’s family as much as the patient themselves. Over time, my grandma became unable to eat and swallow food, but since Parkinson’s doesn’t have a cure (just make one already!), there’s not much we can do about it. So all we could do was keep on telling her “eat,” “swallow,” and “drink”; not to much effect. And my grandma couldn’t eat because she didn’t want to, but because her motor function had affected her ability to swallow.

Fact 4: It is very important to be organized if you’re caring for a Parkinson’s patient. Constant medications, meal times, more medications, and basic caretaking can all jumble up and become hard to stay on top of. My grandfather is the primary caretaker for my grandma, and he is literally the most organized person I know, which is probably why my grandma hadn’t faced severe symptoms until much later than doctors predicted.

Fact 5: If you get any other injuries while having Parkinson’s disease, it’s gonna be really bad. Parkinson’s slows your immunity down, and patients become bedridden, which increases the chances of bed sores. And if you develop a sore, it gets hard to get rid of it. Your healing process slows, but the pain increases. My family literally had to get a routine nurse to come over to our house to dress and clean my grandma’s wounds every week.

Fact 6: This will be the final unknown ingredient I’m sharing today: It hurts. Everything hurts. People seeing the Parkinson’s patient, the patient themselves; the pain they face extends to those they care about. When my grandmother passed away, it was incredibly difficult to cope with her death, and my only thought was not now, it shouldn’t have been right now, it wasn’t supposed to be right now. Living around a Parkinson’s patient means being constantly reminded of this impending doom, but it never makes you ready for it when it finally arrives.

So, I hope you all were able to learn something new about these ingredients in this family recipe, despite how intense they are, because, well, Parkinson’s is like that. Our family will always have a reality check, but still stay positive, still hope for the better, and I hope you can too.

For as long as I can remember, she has been facing Parkinson’s disease. But she would still speak with me, still eat well, still laugh. But that summer, she had what my uncle called her “on” and “off” moments, where she is either as alert as ever, or unresponsive and unaffected by anything around her. Spoiler alert, she’s mostly in the “off” stage. My grandma had Parkinson’s disease for over 25 years, and that summer she could barely stay alert or recognize me. But whenever she’s “on,” she acts like she normally does, happy, engaging, fun. But whether she’s “on” or “off,” I always smile at her, say hi, and touch her shoulder every time I pass. And one morning I did this, getting ready to pass her on my way to play with my cousin. But this time, she turned, she smiled. She was back.

I stopped, not wanting to go play with my cousin now. This was the first time that summer that she was “on” when I was there, and I wanted to spend these moments with her. My family was having trouble making her eat, as her motor functions were so taken over by Parkinson’s that it was difficult for her to open her mouth or swallow. When my grandfather saw she was alert, he handed me a plate of idlis, round steamed rice cakes, so I could feed her. These moments were precious, because Parkinson’s is still such a mystery that we have no idea when she will become “on” again, so she should eat.

I pulled a chair, and began breaking down the idlis, to make them easy to eat, as my grandma and I talked. She asked me about school, how long I’m staying in India, my hobbies. I told her all about them, including my garden back home. For some reason, I’m still not sure why, she took interest in it. We talked all about the plants I grew there: tomatoes, hibiscus, mint, lemon, potatoes. “Potatoes?” she asked. “Yeah, potatoes. They grow very well and very fast, and taste good too.” I told her. She asked me more questions while I fed her bits of idli in between. With each bite of idli I gave her, I felt a burst of warmth within me. I was aware of my brother and cousin playing on the verandah, but I didn’t want to leave, I was having too much fun. My grandma and I laughed, ate, talked about potatoes. We had been sitting there for so long that she ended up finishing all the idlis, and I began to give her tea and cookies. At one point, she slowly lost her alertness, shifting to “off” mode. I felt tears fill my eyes, but I was smiling.

Throughout the rest of my vacation, I wasn’t able to share any moments that were as precious as this one. What I didn’t realize until later was that this was the last time I could ever share any memories with her. She is getting more sick day by day from Parkinson’s, and I don’t think many people know how it feels for those around Parkinson’s patients every day; their hope, care, and connection with another person relying on those “on” moments.

Even when I called my grandfather after that summer, he said whenever my grandma was alert she would tell him and anyone else around to plant potatoes, about how “fast and well they would grow,” more than 9 months later from that vacation.

The day after my grandma passed away, I planted a potato.