The Train Is Coming

There’s a moment in Stand By Me that never lets go of you. Four boys. A narrow, rickety railroad bridge. Water over a hundred feet below. Nowhere to step off. When’s the next train coming? Nobody knows. But we have to go. There’s no going around. On to the bridge. No turning back. 

And then, out on the bridge and fully exposed, there’s a distant warning call from a bird of prey. The kind of sound that doesn’t ask, it tells. The rails begin to hum. Thick, charging, black smoke belches above the tree line. A low vibration turns into a roar. The wood beneath their feet feels less like structure and more like a question.

And suddenly, it’s not a question anymore: TRAIN!!!

Parkinson’s can feel like that. Not all at once. Not always loudly. Sometimes it’s subtle at first; a tremor, a stiffness, a whisper of something changing. But then there are moments when you feel it in your bones: The rumble, the inevitability, the sense that something powerful is moving toward you and it will not stop.

You can run. You can try to outpace it. You can look for somewhere to step off the tracks. But like that train, Parkinson’s is an indomitable force. 

So what do we do?

This is the question that sits at the center of so many lives. Because here’s the hard truth that can help set you free: We don’t beat Parkinson’s. Not today. There is no cure - not yet. The moment we release the idea that we’re supposed to defeat it… something shifts.

Acceptance isn’t surrender. It’s clarity and focus. It’s recognizing: This train exists and runs on its own schedule. It’s coming whether I like it or not. And now that I accept that’s true, how do I want to live on these tracks? Denying we’re on them means not learning to dodge artfully when the train comes. If we want to move forward, toward greater connection, meaning, purpose, and joy in our lives, we have to learn to walk the bridge, rickety planks and all.

Yes, take the medication. Yes, move your body. Exercise is more than medicine; it’s a kind of rebellion, a declaration: I’m still here and I can do this. But after that, what’s next?

What do you do with this hour? This day? This life that is still very much yours?

Maybe it’s choosing presence over panic. Maybe it’s finding joy not because things are easy, but because they are still possible. Maybe it’s gratitude, not as a cliché, but as a practice of noticing what remains, what grows, what connects.

And most importantly: You don’t do it alone.

Because on that bridge, the boys didn’t make it by strength alone. They made it because they were together. Because someone yelled. Because someone pushed. Because someone refused to leave the other behind.

This is where the real work and opportunity lies Not in defeating Parkinson’s, but in living with it in the ways that matter: In story, laughter, and shared moments that say: this is still a life that matters.

That’s the heart behind everything we do at Yes, And…eXercise.

In Cinema Therapy, we step off the clinical tracks for a moment and into the story. We learn to  see ourselves from a safe distance, reshaping meaning, and remembering that we are more than a diagnosis.

In the Jam for Joy, we play, laugh, and improvise. We say “yes, and…” to whatever shows up. In doing so, we reclaim something Parkinson’s can’t take: our ability to connect, create, and be alive in the moment. And we instantly remember the incredible healing power of laughter. 

The train is coming. It always is. But here’s the quiet truth we don’t talk about enough: So are we. We are still moving forward. Still crossing bridges. Still choosing how we show up. Not to stop the train, but to live, fully and fiercely, while it runs.

Join us for our next Cinema Therapy class.