My hands shake. Not dramatically, but persistently, a faint tremor humming through everything I do. It shows up in the obvious places first: holding a pen, threading a needle, pipetting in lab. But it also sneaks into moments I wouldn’t expect, when I’m reaching for a cup of water, or holding the steering wheel at a stoplight. My hands have always been this way, and it’s been long enough that it’s simply become part of me. When I fumble for something or knock a glass over, the explanation rises to my lips instantaneously: “Yeah, sorry, my hands are really shaky.”
There’s a particular feeling that comes with having unsteady hands. You don’t quite trust your body to carry out what your brain intends. You second-guess the tiniest movements. You brace yourself before doing something as simple as signing your name. What’s frustrating isn’t the shaking itself, but the reminder it carries: you’re not always in control. No matter how hard you try to focus, to breathe or anchor yourself, something might still slip.
That feeling has started to bleed into the rest of my life. The world feels uncertain, unstable. Plans shift. News breaks. Things that once felt solid — institutions, norms, even time — seem a little less dependable. Just like my hands, everything trembles around the edges. There’s a kind of global shaking happening, not just in me, but in everything.
In the lab, my tremor forces me to slow down. I can’t succumb to my frustration and rush; if I do, I’ll spill or mismeasure something. So I stop. I breathe. I rest my elbows on the counter. I move carefully. Things usually still work. I’ve started trying to carry that same energy into the rest of my life, the act of steadying myself before responding, before choosing. In a world that urges us to react fast, to be constantly connected and constantly efficient, there’s something radical about pausing. There is a strength in admitting, quietly, that you don’t have full control, but you can still move forward, slowly, on your own terms.
As I drove to Hanover for the summer, I noticed how I gripped the wheel, tighter when anxiously changing lanes, looser when simply coasting along the highway. As I take notes in class, I forgive myself for the slightly crooked lines, the uneven letters. When my hands shake in front of someone else, I don’t immediately apologize. I just let it be.
This week in Mirror, we steady ourselves in preparation for the chaos of the summer ahead. One writer explores her Sophomore Summer bucket list, reflecting on the act of maximizing every minute.
My shaky hands won’t go away. Neither will the chaos in our world. But what I’ve learned, through my body, more than anything else, is that steadiness, not control, is the ultimate goal. I strive towards that steadiness, the kind that comes not from dominance or certainty, but from intention, from pausing long enough to breathe, to carry the shaking with you instead of fighting it. Maybe that’s the lesson: we steady ourselves not by eliminating the tremors, but by learning how to live within them.
