The Tremors: Life With a Shaking Hand Thanks to Multiple Sclerosis

Dec 9

5 min read

It’s such a small thing, a tremor in two fingers. At least, it seems like a small thing to everyone else. To me, though, it’s become this daily presence, this constant reminder that my body is now unpredictable. The tremors started subtly, just the faintest quiver in my left hand’s ring and middle fingers, a sensation that almost felt like a flutter. I dismissed it at first, attributing it to fatigue or maybe the long hours typing away for work and school. But over time, the tremors grew stronger, less ignorable, and eventually, they became impossible to work around.

My left hand used to be my partner in everything creative. I’ve played the piano since I was young. The way my fingers used to glide across the keys, I’d almost forget they were even there. Playing the piano felt like breathing, the instrument closest to my heart. My left hand was always right there to support me, to steady me. Now, though, when I sit down to play, I feel the weight of every note. I hesitate. I slow down. The tremors make every movement shaky, uncertain. When I place my hands on the keys, I have to fight for control over each finger, especially those two troublesome ones, the middle and ring fingers. They tremble, sometimes barely brushing the wrong keys, sometimes missing their marks entirely. I used to play the piano without thinking, but now I have to think of every note, every finger, every tremor.

The same thing has happened with the guitar. I took it up in my early adult years, captivated by the idea of translating my favorite songs into something I could create myself. It’s hard to explain to people who don’t play, but the left hand is crucial — it does most of the work on the fretboard, pressing down on the strings, switching between chords, making sure each note sounds clear. Now, those tremors make my left hand feel clumsy, awkward, like I’m trying to play with someone else’s fingers. I press too hard or not hard enough. The strings sometimes buzz, or they fall silent under my shaking fingers. Songs I used to play without a thought now take so much focus, and even then, I struggle to get them right. It’s a strange feeling, to lose something that was once as natural as breathing.

And then there’s the viola. It’s strange, maybe, to be so attached to an instrument that so few people play, but there’s something about the viola’s warm, mellow tone that feels like home. When I play, it’s as though the music is coming from inside me. But my left hand, that delicate balance of fingers on the fingerboard, now wavers. The tremors mean that sometimes, my notes are just slightly off-pitch. Sometimes, my fingers slip or don’t press down hard enough, leaving the note thin or even silent. When I miss a note, I feel that failure deeply — not just in the music but in myself. I’ve spent years honing my skill, making my viola my voice. Now that voice is shaky, as though the tremors are muting the sounds I want so much to share.

Beyond the music, though, the tremors have crept into nearly every part of my daily life. Typing has become one of the hardest tasks. For work, for school, and even just to stay connected, I rely on typing. It’s how I communicate with the world, how I contribute and express myself. But now, every keystroke is a struggle to hit the right letter, to keep my fingers from jittering and skipping or double-typing letters. I used to be able to type at an impressive speed, my fingers flying across the keyboard as fast as my thoughts. Now, I have to slow down, concentrate on each movement, correct mistakes as they appear. Even emails or short assignments take twice as long because of the constant fight with my left hand. I feel myself growing frustrated, impatient with the very part of me that I’ve always depended on. I never thought typing would become a challenge, that something so fundamental would require this much effort.

The tremors are more than just physical; they’re a reminder of the changes that have come into my life without permission, without warning. Every time my fingers shake, I feel the weight of this condition, a reminder that my body is not the same as it used to be. These tremors chip away at my confidence, not just in my ability to play music or type, but in my ability to live as I once did. They remind me that my independence, something I once took for granted, has become precarious.

What I miss the most is the feeling of freedom, of ease. There was a time when I could sit down at the piano or pick up my viola and just play. No second thoughts, no hesitation, just music flowing through me. I could express myself fully, let everything I felt pour out in notes and chords and harmonies. Now, that connection feels fractured, interrupted by those two fingers that seem to have a mind of their own. It’s a kind of loss that’s hard to explain, hard to even put into words. It’s like losing a language, losing the ability to say what you feel.

Some days, I fight back, push through the tremors and play anyway and type until my fingers obey. Other days, I feel the weight of it all too deeply, and I let myself grieve the loss of that ease, that freedom, that part of myself that I’m not sure I’ll ever fully get back. I’m learning, slowly, to adjust, to find new ways to express myself, new ways to make peace with these tremors. But it’s a journey, and it’s a hard one. I wish I could sit down and play a song on the piano, sing along with my guitar, or hear the mellow tones of my viola without a struggle. I miss the feeling of simply creating, without the fight for control, without the reminder that my body is no longer in sync with my desires.

This is my new reality with Multiple Sclerosis, one that I’m still navigating, still trying to accept. I know I’ll find new ways to make music, to create, to write. But for now, I’m mourning what I’ve lost, and that’s okay. These tremors may have changed what I can do, but they haven’t changed who I am.