In my teens, I had no idea about running as a sports event. For me, an orphan, it was not only about learning how to survive the brutal world, but also about carving an identity.

Do not give back to his master a servant who has gone in flight from his master and come to you: let him go on living among you in whatever place is most pleasing to him.

With Parkinson's, it's like you're in the middle of the street and you're stuck there in cement shoes and you know a bus is coming at you, but you don't know when. You think you can hear it rumbling, but you have a lot of time to think. And so you just don't live that moment of the bus hitting you until it happens. There's all kinds of room in that space.

My 'fear' is my substance, and probably the best part of me.

When an almond tree became covered with blossoms in the heart of winter, all the trees around it began to jeer. 'What vanity,' they screamed, 'what insolence! Just think, it believes it can bring spring in this way!' The flowers of the almond tree blushed for shame. 'Forgive me, my sisters,' said the tree. 'I swear I did not want to blossom, but suddenly I felt a warm springtime breeze in my heart.

I would love to see an athlete live their life in an authentic way, not feel that they have to hide, not feel that they have to be afraid, or live with shame - all the other things that go with being a closeted athlete. No human being should have to walk that path. But there is that fear of stepping forward.