Running slower, loving deeper: A reflection on aging with Parkinson’s

We all age, but some of us — human or not — seem to do it a little faster.

Our dog, Jax, turned 10 this year. He’s a cockapoo mix with an easy smile and a heart big enough to stretch across our entire household. For most of his life, he was a ball of kinetic joy, bounding through the yard, chasing squirrels, and leaping into lakes without hesitation. He was tireless, loyal, fierce in play, and gentle in quiet moments.

Lately, though, Jax has slowed down. There’s a stiffness in his back legs when he gets up. Sometimes he hesitates before climbing the stairs. The fetch game now ends sooner, not because we take the ball away, but because he walks back with it and lies down beside us, resting his chin on our feet. His once endless energy is now rationed, conserved for only the best moments.

We’re watching him grow old. And it hurts more than I expected.

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What I didn’t anticipate, though, was how closely Jax’s aging would mirror something far more personal: my own experience with Parkinson’s disease. In some strange and bittersweet way, we are growing old together. He just has the excuse of being a dog. I’m only in my early 50s.

When I was diagnosed, the language was clinical: “neurodegenerative,” “progressive,” “dopaminergic pathways.” But no one prepared me for what it would feel like to seem older than I am. To notice the slowing of once automatic things. The quiet shuffle replacing a stride. The stiffness greeting me each morning. The sense that gravity has grown a little stronger overnight.

It’s not unlike what Jax seems to be feeling now. The ache in his joints. The calculation before motion. The reliance on family just to navigate the day.

My wife sees it, too. She has always been our emotional compass, and her heart is particularly tender when it comes to Jax. I catch her watching him from the kitchen window, studying the way he lowers himself gently onto the porch, as if it’s not so easy anymore. I imagine she watches me the same way when I’m not looking.

Provided by Doc Irish

At 10, Jax is slowing down. (Photo by Doc Irish)

Our four kids are starting to notice, too, each in their own way. They’ve grown up with Jax as their playmate, protector, and constant companion. Now they’re asking why he doesn’t run like he used to. Why he sleeps so much. They hug him more now, instinctively. Just like they’ve grown more gentle with me, somehow sensing what can’t always be explained.

What I find most humbling — what sneaks up on me when I least expect it — is the silent understanding between me and Jax. We don’t talk, obviously, but there’s a shared rhythm now. When I move slowly, so does he. When I sit outside in the sun to stretch out the tightness in my limbs, he comes and lies beside me with a sigh. Two old souls trying to squeeze every last drop of comfort and presence from the day.

In this way, Jax is teaching me how to age with grace.

He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t resent the body that’s changed on him. He simply adjusts. He finds new ways to enjoy the world: longer naps, shorter walks, more moments just lying close to the people he loves.

That’s the hardest lesson for me: accepting that slowing down doesn’t mean stopping. That I am still me, even if I move differently. That I still have purpose, still give comfort, still receive love — perhaps even more richly now than before.

Jax isn’t less of a dog because he can’t run full speed anymore. If anything, he seems more himself these days. More focused on connection than chaos. More attuned to the quiet joys of just being near those he loves. Maybe that’s what aging really is: a return to essence.

There are days I fear what lies ahead for both of us. But I also know that in this shared space of change and loss, there is also great beauty. We are living the hard parts together. And somehow, that makes it more bearable.

When I reach for Jax and run my hand along his brown fur, I think of how our bodies may be betraying us, but our spirits are holding firm. I think of how aging may be faster for us than for others. But love, thankfully, has its own timeline.

And for now, love is enough.

Note: Parkinson’s News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or another qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Parkinson’s News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to Parkinson’s disease.