Just two weeks after he retired and moved back to Boise, I was picking Dad up for his first day of class.

Dad was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease in his early-40s, and twenty years later, it was obvious that the disease was progressing. He barely lifted his feet and shuffled as he walked. His posture was stooped forward, and his left hand tremored involuntarily and uncontrollably. He was also starting to show signs of Parkinson's dementia.

It was the hand tremor that bothered him the most. A sign that the expensive handful of prescriptions that he took each day were no longer effectively treating the physical symptoms of the disease.

Because I knew it would be weeks or even months before we could find doctors to establish medical care in Boise, I went searching for treatment programs for Dad to fill the gap while we were waiting to see his new doctors.

The local YMCA offered an award-winning group program for Parkinson's patients a couple days a week called "Delay the Disease." The program focused on aerobic exercise to help with balance and stability, two things many patients struggle with. I registered Dad on the spot, and mentioned it to him at dinner the night before his first class.

I was thrilled about it! A built-in community of new friends for him, as he was settling into a new city. And even better: new friends who would understand what living with Parkinson's felt like.

Dad was less enthusiastic. While pushing dinner around the plate with a fork, he gave me a list of reasons why this was a bad idea. He didn't want to go hang out with a bunch of "old" people...especially "old" people he didn't know. He didn’t want to be around people with Parkinson’s who couldn’t move or do anything. He didn't know if his insurance would cover it. And he really needed to get an Idaho driver's license, and he figured that would be a better use of his time than going to class.

But I let him know that I'd already paid for the class, and I'd pick him up tomorrow at 11.30 to take him to class.

Remember that I don’t have children. I’ve never dropped them off for a first day at school. I haven’t experienced what it’s like to leave them behind when all they want is to cling to you. The closest I’ve come to experiencing that was taking Dad to his first Delay the Disease class.

We walked through the glass doors of the rehab hospital where the classes took place, and were directed to take the elevator to the third floor. When the elevator doors opened to the dimly lit hallway, we were greeted by the instructor.

“You must be Gary! Welcome.”

He flashed his sheepish smile at the cute instructor, but stayed right by my side. She explained that since it was his first class, they’d need to do a quick evaluation before class started. He looked at me, pleading. I knew he didn’t want to be evaluated. He was a former state champion sprinter. He’d won body building competitions. And while he was still quite active, his body was betraying him as the disease progressed.

I watched as my Dad shuffled back and forth down the hallway in as straight of a line as he could muster. Honestly, he could have failed a field sobriety test with his straight-line walk.

They threw balls for him to catch. They had him balance on each leg. They asked him to sit down in a chair, and then get up out of the chair.

My heart broke a little more with each test I watched him complete. I pretended to reply to emails on my phone because he was watching me watch him. And I’m sure that he could feel the surprise in my eyes, even from the other end of the hallway.

Eventually, class started. I continued watching for a bit, and then left. When I returned to pick him up an hour later, he was exchanging phone numbers with a guy who wanted to meet up for a bicycle ride, and another who was looking for a golf buddy.

Change can be hard. New beginnings can be hard. Putting ourselves out there in a way that we haven’t before can be hard. And yet, that’s how we learn more about ourselves, who we are, and what we can handle. It’s how opportunities unfold.

I have my own first day coming up in just three weeks. I’m heading to Bordeaux, France, to attend a four-week French language immersion course. (Something I've been talking about doing for five years or more!) I took the placement test this past week. And I'll be moving to a new-to-me city in a country where I do not (yet) comfortably speak the language.

I’m excited. And anxious. And looking forward to it so much. And also a bit overwhelmed by a “to do before I leave” list that seems to grow longer with each passing day. All the feels; all at the same time.

It’s been 31 years since my first day of law school. Surely, I’ve been to other “first days” since then: first days of new jobs, first days of certification programs, first days of training for events.

But there’s something about this upcoming first day that feels more like I’m dropping little Laurie off for her first day of school. I know she’ll do great. I know she’ll have the time of her life. And I wouldn’t blame her if she starts missing home a bit while she is away.

I've been thinking about Dad in that hallway a lot these days. How badly he wanted to skip it. How much better his life got because he didn't.

In three weeks, it'll be my turn to feel like the new kid, sitting in a classroom where I don't yet have the words for what I want to say. I already know I'll want to skip it some days because I won’t want to look like a beginner. Or sound dumb. Or not be able to understand the homework.

Even so, here's what Dad’s first day taught me, and what mine is about to teach me again: you don't have to feel ready. You just have to show up for that first day. And then keep showing up after that.

And I think that's the part worth sitting with — not just for me, but for you, too.

Somewhere in your life, there's a version of that hallway. A class, a conversation, a decision you've been standing outside of, coming up with perfectly reasonable reasons to wait.

Dad didn't feel ready either. He just went in. What about you?

xx, Laurie

P.S. After a once-a-month cadence over the summer, the BEST LIFE List is back in your inbox every Monday! And I know what you're thinking: what about while you're in France for seven weeks? Yes, even then. Here's the thing I want you to notice: I'm not stepping away from my life to go to France. This is the life. Client work continues. The podcast continues. This newsletter continues, every Monday, the whole time I'm gone. Living your best life was never about waiting for the empty calendar. It's about deciding what you want, and then building your life around the decision...not the other way around.

P.P.S. If you've been eyeing a Best Life Planner, order by Monday, September 21. Anything ordered after that will ship November 10, when I'm back from France.