Mean Girl

Lily is my sweet puppy—an eight-month-old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Somehow, mysteriously, we found one another. She arrived just when I needed her most, as though life had quietly placed a gift in my hands before I even knew to ask for it.

She is soft and snuggly, calm and spirited all at once. And her ears… oh, her ears. Long, silky, wavy things that flop into her water bowl, trail through the grass, and seem forever to be in the way.

Her face is unmistakably Cavalier. Her eyes are impossibly large for such a small face, gentle beyond words. When she looks at me, something inside me melts. My heart opens without my permission.

But there is another part of her expression that fascinates me.

Her mouth.

Unlike so many dogs, Lily doesn’t seem to smile. The corners of her mouth naturally turn downward, giving her the appearance of someone quietly evaluating the world. There is a seriousness to her face. Sometimes even a glare.

She has what I jokingly call a “mean girl” expression.

It’s such a curious contradiction.

Her eyes are pools of tenderness, yet her mouth suggests something altogether different. She can look aloof. Judgmental. Slightly offended by your very existence.

If you didn’t know her, you might hesitate before approaching.

And yet…

She is nothing like the face she wears.

She is warmth wrapped in fur. She delights in every person she meets. She offers affection freely, leans gently into strangers, and lives with uncomplicated joy. Once you know her, her expression no longer fools you. You see what has been there all along.

Love.

As Parkinson’s slowly tightens its grip on my own body, I know I may someday wear a similar expression.

A face that moves less.

A smile that no longer rises as easily.

Eyes that blink less often.

Muscles that stiffen despite my best intentions.

This is one of the quieter losses of Parkinson’s, one that few people talk about. The disease doesn’t simply change how we move. It changes how we are seen.

I watched it happen to my father.

Once, his smile came effortlessly. Later, it became difficult to find, even when he felt joy. His face grew still, not because his heart had changed, but because his muscles had.

I remember how unsettling it could be.

Now, when I imagine that future for myself, I feel grief rise unexpectedly.

Will people think I am angry?

Will they assume I am unhappy?

Will they mistake stillness for indifference?

Will they think I am judging them?

Will they think I have become… a mean girl?

Even writing those words brings tears.

And then I look at Lily.

Immediately, my fear softens.

No one who truly knows Lily would ever confuse her expression with her heart.

I know who she is.

She is joy.

She is gentleness.

She is warmth.

She is love hidden behind a face that tells the wrong story.

Perhaps the same will someday be true of me.

Perhaps my smile will become smaller.

Perhaps my eyes will stare a little longer.

Perhaps my face will tell a story my heart no longer has the muscles to express.

But beneath it all…

I will still delight in the morning light dancing across the water.

I will still find beauty in ordinary moments.

I will still laugh.

I will still love deeply.

I will still offer whatever warmth and kindness I have to those who cross my path.

My face may change.

My heart will not.

As I sit here writing these words, I can feel both grief and peace living together inside me.

The grief is real.

But so is the quiet, steady rhythm of my heart.

So is the sparkling presence of my soul.

Those things are untouched.

They will remain with me until my last breath…

and perhaps, even beyond.

And somehow…

that is enough.