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Recently, I came across a video of myself on YouTube, filmed at an event around ten years ago. At the time, I had stepped away from consulting for a few years to take on a role as a VP at a 3D printing company.
By coincidence, I had just recorded a new video for a charity, one that was introduced a couple of days ago by a friend to an audience of carers in the community. Seeing the two videos side by side created an unexpected and rather confronting experience. A decade apart. Two recognisably identical people, yet physically very different versions of the same person.
The differences are striking, and not just the hair loss. Although, truth be told, that particular trend had started long before then. I still remember taking my youngest daughter to the hairdresser when she was small. After watching closely, she asked, “Daddy, why does he spend more time on your ears and eyebrows than on your head?” Painful, but fair and pretty funny.
This time, I looked more carefully. First with my own eyes, and then using video analysis software (yes, because I am bored and awake most of the night), without giving it any context about my condition. In reality, I did not need software to tell me what was already visible.
Even allowing for age, the changes were unmistakable. Less energy. More rigidity. Every movement and every word carrying just a little more effort than before. Where there had once been ease and fluidity, there was now something more deliberate, more constrained.
But what stayed with me most was not the catalogue of physical differences. It was what the software concluded:
“At the same time, awareness, personality, emotional understanding, and engagement still appeared strongly present beneath the physical changes.”
That line mattered.
Because it is very easy to measure a person by visible loss.
Yes, a great deal has changed. I now live with PSP. I use a wheelchair rather than walking across stages. I have stepped away from my career. And of course, ten years have passed.
What has surprised me most is how strongly I still experience continuity with the person in that earlier video. Not physically, certainly. The body changes. Abilities change. Independence changes. But somewhere beneath all of that, the deeper self still feels recognisable.
I am also aware that PSP is not only physical. Over time, it does affect thinking, behaviour, and personality as well. I would be naïve to assume I am untouched by that reality. My family could no doubt point to more than a few moments that prove it. What I hope and pray, and consciously work toward, is to preserve as much of myself as possible. Writing reflections like this is part of that effort. A way of maintaining continuity with the person I have been throughout my life.
What has changed most is the effort required to remain that person outwardly. Everything now takes more work. Physically, mentally, emotionally. But beneath that increased effort, the same core values and awareness still feel present.
I do not need an AI tool to validate that, though I admit there was something quietly reassuring in seeing even an algorithm detect more than surface appearances.
When I reflect on my career, what matters more to me now are the less visible things. The ethics I tried to uphold. The people I supported. The relationships built over decades. The impact that endures. I am proud of what I achieved. But I am prouder of those.
Because we are far more than how we appear on screen.
Yes, it can be painful to look back and see such visible change. But it is also an incomplete exercise, one that measures only what can be seen, not what continues beneath it.
I try not to look too far forward. None of us can know exactly where this path leads. What I hope is that whatever happens physically, the essential self remains intact for as long as possible.
Because bodies change. Roles disappear. Careers end. Appearances fade. But what ultimately matters is whether something recognisably human and true continues underneath it all.
