My Life

This is the fishish version of my book Story Highlights: Leanna Mills – Living Life on Her Own Terms A Portrait of Strength, Independence, and Defiance in Newcastle, NSW 1 . Introducing Leanna Mills Leanna Mills is a 31-year-old woman living in the heart of Newcastle, NSW. With a keen intellect and unwavering independence, she’s carved out a life that is distinctly her own. Leanna thrives on self-determination, relishing her morning coffee at a beachside café before launching into her busy day. Whether she’s working on a new project, volunteering in the local community,going along the foreshore, Leanna is wonderful for her strength, resourcefulness, and resilience. Standing Up for Herself One thing Leanna cannot stand is when people assume they know everything about her. Over the years, she’s had her fill of friends, colleagues, and even strangers offering unsolicited opinions about her choices, ambitions, and personal life. From comments about her decision to live alone, to assumptions about her career or relationships, Leanna has grown weary of the constant judgements and advice from those who barely know her story. 2 . Defying Stereotypes Leanna’s path hasn’t always been easy. She’s faced challenges having to have leg surgery and having to have 2 brain surgery’s it’s been a lot not only the leg surgery or brain surgery I had to have a feeding tube building a career in a male-dominated industry and navigating relationships on her terms. Despite this, she’s become known among her friends for her quick wit, her ability to solve problems on the fly, and her refusal to let others define her. For Leanna, being underestimated is simply another opportunity to prove people wrong 3. Life in Newcastle Newcastle is the perfect backdrop for Leanna’s independent spirit. She enjoys exploring the city’s markets, catching up with mates at the local pub, or taking spontaneous road trips in her trusty ute. Her weekends are as varied as her interests—one might find her by the lake going or going on a Train or going on a cruise or a picnic Speaking When assuming Out motions about her life become too much, Leanna isn’t afraid to speak her mind. She’s mastered the art of setting boundaries and reminding people that her journey is her own. Through her example, she encourages others—especially young women—to trust themselves, ignore the naysayers, and live authentically. For Leanna, independence isn’t just a lifestyle; it’s a declaration. Conclusion Leanna Mills embodies the spirit of a smart, strong Australian woman blazing her own trail. Her story is a reminder that only we truly know ourselves—and that’s more than enough. Newcastle is richer for her presence, and those lucky enough to know her are constantly inspired by her courage, intelligence, and determination to live life her way. Living with a disability people find it hard to find a place to park so then they go and park in a spot that are for people who have disability’s or people with a baby Pam is what I think is wrong shops don’t have any where for people to park who are old people who could easy floor over Story Highlights: Leanna Mills – Living Life on Her Own Terms Leanna Mills, 31, lives independently in Newcastle, NSW, known for her strength and resourcefulness. She enjoys coffee by the beach, community volunteering, and values self-determination. Leanna dislikes when people make assumptions about her choices, especially regarding her lifestyle and career. Having overcome various challenges, including moving cities and working in a male-dominated field, she’s built a reputation for quick thinking and resilience, always defying stereotypes. Her life in Newcastle reflects her independent spirit—she explores markets, socializes at pubs, and goes on road trips. Weekends might find her shopping at Kmart or at the grocery store Finding My Voice: Living with Paṟķisons When people first meet me, they often notice the power wheelchair and the iPad before they notice me. I see the questions forming in their eyes, the momentary confusion, sometimes the awkward glances away. What many don’t realize in those first few moments is that I’m right here, present and listening, with thoughts and feelings and things I want to say—I just say them differently than most people do. My Communication Journey I have Parkinson’s , a condition that affects my muscle control and coordination throughout my body. One of the biggest challenges it presents is with speech. My Parkinson makes it extremely difficult for me to form words clearly with my mouth and vocal cords. The messages travel from my brain just fine—I know exactly what I want to say—but somewhere between intention and execution, my muscles don’t cooperate the way they need to for clear, easily understood speech. It’s not that I can’t speak at all. Sometimes sounds come out, fragments of words, approximations of what I’m trying to communicate. But asking someone to piece together my meaning from those sounds, especially if they don’t know me well, creates frustration on both sides. I can see people straining to understand, their faces tightening with concentration, and I feel the weight of that struggle. It’s exhausting for everyone involved, and more often than not, the communication breaks down entirely. That’s where my iPad comes in. More Than Just a Device My iPad isn’t just a piece of technology—it’s my voice. Through it, I can type out exactly what I want to say, with all the nuance, humor, sarcasm, or emotion I’m feeling in the moment. I can participate in conversations, answer questions, share stories, make jokes, express opinions, and connect with people in ways that would be nearly impossible otherwise. When I type on my iPad, the words that appear on the screen are as much “my voice” as spoken words are for someone else. This is how I talk. This is how I communicate. This is how I share myself with the world. But here’s what breaks my heart: not everyone understands that. When People Don’t Wait Too often, I’ll start typing a response to something someone has said, my fingers working as quickly as they can across the screen, and before I can finish—sometimes before I’ve even gotten through the first sentence—the person has walked away. Or they’ve turned to talk to someone else. Or they’ve made an assumption about what I was going to say and moved on without waiting for my actual response. It’s as if the few seconds it takes me to type are too long for them to wait. As if their time is more valuable than my voice. People talk over me, around me, about me—sometimes while I’m sitting right there. They ask my support workers or family members questions about me instead of asking me directly. They make decisions on my behalf without consulting me. They treat the slight delay in my communication as permission to simply not communicate with me at all. Do they realize how that feels? To have something to say and to be ignored before you’ve even had the chance to say it? To be treated as if you’re not quite fully present in the conversation, not quite a complete participant in your own life? The Wheelchair My power wheelchair is another essential part of my independence. Parkisons affects my legs and my balance, making it extremely difficult—and often impossible—for me to walk safely or for any real distance. Even standing can be a challenge, requiring enormous concentration and energy. The wheelchair isn’t a prison or a tragedy. It’s freedom. It means I can move through the world, go where I want to go, participate in activities, live independently. Without it, I’d be far more limited, far more dependent on others to physically transport me everywhere. But people see the wheelchair and make assumptions. They assume I can’t do things. They assume I need help when I haven’t asked for it. They assume my life must be sad or difficult or less-than. They see limitation where I see liberation. The Weight of Being Different The hardest part isn’t actually the Parkisons itself—I’ve lived with it my entire life, and I’ve learned to navigate the world with the body I have. The hardest part is how other people respond to it. When I say “I just want to be like everyone else,” I don’t mean I want to not have Parkisons I mean I want to be treated like everyone else. I want people to wait for my responses the way they’d wait for anyone else to finish speaking. I want to be included in conversations naturally, without it being treated as some special accommodation. I want people to see me—my personality, my intelligence, my sense of humor, my interests—before they see my disability. I want to be given the same respect, the same patience, the same basic courtesy that anyone else receives in a social interaction. What Understanding Looks Like The people who get it—and there are some, thank goodness—are the ones who’ve taken the time to understand that my iPad is my communication method and they simply wait for me to finish typing. They direct their questions to me, not to whoever happens to be standing near me. They don’t rush me or make assumptions. They don’t treat the technology between us as a barrier, but as a bridge. These people have learned that a conversation with me might take a bit longer than a conversation with someone who speaks verbally, but it’s just as rich, just as meaningful, just as worth having. They’ve realized that communication isn’t just about speed—it’s about connection, understanding, and mutual respect. With these people, I can relax. I can be myself. I can joke around, share stories, express opinions, and feel genuinely heard. These are the friendships I treasure, the connections that remind me that real communication has nothing to do with how quickly words are produced and everything to do with whether both people are truly present and engaged. My Hope I share this because I want people to understand that disability takes many forms, and so does communication. Just because someone doesn’t speak in the traditional way doesn’t mean they have nothing to say. Just because someone uses assistive technology doesn’t mean they’re less intelligent, less aware, or less deserving of your time and attention. When you encounter someone who communicates differently—whether through an iPad, sign language, communication boards, or any other method—please, just wait. Be patient. Direct your attention to them, not to the device or the method, but to the person using it. Ask yourself: would I walk away mid-sentence if this person were speaking out loud? Would I talk over them? Would I ignore them? If the answer is no, then extend that same courtesy to people who communicate in alternative ways. We’re here. We’re present. We have thoughts, feelings, experiences, and perspectives worth hearing. All we ask is that you give us the chance to share them—and that you stick around long enough to listen. Living My Life Despite these challenges, I’m building a life that’s mine. I’m pursuing my interests, forming meaningful relationships, advocating for myself, and working toward my goals. My parkisons part of who I am, but it doesn’t define everything about me. I have bad days, certainly—days when the communication barriers feel insurmountable, when I’m tired of explaining myself, when I wish things were just a little bit easier. But I also have good days, great days, days when I connect with someone new who really gets it, days when I accomplish something I’ve been working toward, days when I feel genuinely seen and heard. The iPad gives me my voice. The wheelchair gives me my mobility. But what gives me hope is the slow, steady increase in people who are willing to expand their understanding of what communication can look like, who are patient enough to wait for my words, who see past the equipment to the person using it. That’s all any of us really want, isn’t it? To be seen, to be heard, to be treated with dignity and respect, to be given the chance to participate fully in our own lives and in our communities. I just want to be like everyone else—not in the sense of being the same, but in the sense of being valued equally, listened to equally, and given the same opportunities to connect, contribute, and belong. Is that really too much to ask? Finding My Voice: Living with parkisons When people first meet me, they often notice the power wheelchair and the iPad before they notice me. I see the questions forming in their eyes, the momentary confusion, sometimes the awkward glances away. What many don’t realize in those first few moments is that I’m right here, present and listening, with thoughts and feelings and things I want to say—I just say them differently than most people do. My Communication Journey I have parkisons a condition that affects my muscle control and coordination throughout my body. One of the biggest challenges it presents is with speech. My parkisons makes it extremely difficult for me to form words clearly with my mouth and vocal cords. The messages travel from my brain just fine—I know exactly what I want to say—but somewhere between intention and execution, my muscles don’t cooperate the way they need to for clear, easily understood speech. It’s not that I can’t speak at all. Sometimes sounds come out, fragments of words, approximations of what I’m trying to communicate. But asking someone to piece together my meaning from those sounds, especially if they don’t know me well, creates frustration on both sides. I can see people straining to understand, their faces tightening with concentration, and I feel the weight of that struggle. It’s exhausting for everyone involved, and more often than not, the communication breaks down entirely. That’s where my iPad comes in. More Than Just a Device My iPad isn’t just a piece of technology—it’s my voice. Through it, I can type out exactly what I want to say, with all the nuance, humor, sarcasm, or emotion I’m feeling in the moment. I can participate in conversations, answer questions, share stories, make jokes, express opinions, and connect with people in ways that would be nearly impossible otherwise. When I type on my iPad, the words that appear on the screen are as much “my voice” as spoken words are for someone else. This is how I talk. This is how I communicate. This is how I share myself with the world. But here’s what breaks my heart: not everyone understands that. When People Don’t Wait Too often, I’ll start typing a response to something someone has said, my fingers working as quickly as they can across the screen, and before I can finish—sometimes before I’ve even gotten through the first sentence—the person has walked away. Or they’ve turned to talk to someone else. Or they’ve made an assumption about what I was going to say and moved on without waiting for my actual response. It’s as if the few seconds it takes me to type are too long for them to wait. As if their time is more valuable than my voice. People talk over me, around me, about me—sometimes while I’m sitting right there. They ask my support workers or family members questions about me instead of asking me directly. They make decisions on my behalf without consulting me. They treat the slight delay in my communication as permission to simply not communicate with me at all. Do they realize how that feels? To have something to say and to be ignored before you’ve even had the chance to say it? To be treated as if you’re not quite fully present in the conversation, not quite a complete participant in your own life? The Wheelchair My power wheelchair is another essential part of my independence. Parkisons affects my legs and my balance, making it extremely difficult—and often impossible—for me to walk safely or for any real distance. Even standing can be a challenge, requiring enormous concentration and energy. The wheelchair isn’t a prison or a tragedy. It’s freedom. It means I can move through the world, go where I want to go, participate in activities, live independently. Without it, I’d be far more limited, far more dependent on others to physically transport me everywhere. But people see the wheelchair and make assumptions. They assume I can’t do things. They assume I need help when I haven’t asked for it. They assume my life must be sad or difficult or less-than. They see limitation where I see liberation. The Weight of Being Different The hardest part isn’t actually the Parkisons itself—I’ve lived with it my entire life, and I’ve learned to navigate the world with the body I have. The hardest part is how other people respond to it. When I say “I just want to be like everyone else,” I don’t mean I want to not have Parkisons I mean I want to be treated like everyone else. I want people to wait for my responses the way they’d wait for anyone else to finish speaking. I want to be included in conversations naturally, without it being treated as some special accommodation. I want people to see me—my personality, my intelligence, my sense of humor, my interests—before they see my disability. I want to be given the same respect, the same patience, the same basic courtesy that anyone else receives in a social interaction. What Understanding Looks Like The people who get it—and there are some, thank goodness—are the ones who’ve taken the time to understand that my iPad is my communication method and they simply wait for me to finish typing. They direct their questions to me, not to whoever happens to be standing near me. They don’t rush me or make assumptions. They don’t treat the technology between us as a barrier, but as a bridge. These people have learned that a conversation with me might take a bit longer than a conversation with someone who speaks verbally, but it’s just as rich, just as meaningful, just as worth having. They’ve realized that communication isn’t just about speed—it’s about connection, understanding, and mutual respect. With these people, I can relax. I can be myself. I can joke around, share stories, express opinions, and feel genuinely heard. These are the friendships I treasure, the connections that remind me that real communication has nothing to do with how quickly words are produced and everything to do with whether both people are truly present and engaged. My Hope I share this because I want people to understand that disability takes many forms, and so does communication. Just because someone doesn’t speak in the traditional way doesn’t mean they have nothing to say. Just because someone uses assistive technology doesn’t mean they’re less intelligent, less aware, or less deserving of your time and attention. When you encounter someone who communicates differently—whether through an iPad, sign language, communication boards, or any other method—please, just wait. Be patient. Direct your attention to them, not to the device or the method, but to the person using it. Ask yourself: would I walk away mid-sentence if this person were speaking out loud? Would I talk over them? Would I ignore them? If the answer is no, then extend that same courtesy to people who communicate in alternative ways. We’re here. We’re present. We have thoughts, feelings, experiences, and perspectives worth hearing. All we ask is that you give us the chance to share them—and that you stick around long enough to listen. Living My Life Despite these challenges, I’m building a life that’s mine. I’m pursuing my interests, forming meaningful relationships, advocating for myself, and working toward my goals. Parkisons is part of who I am, but it doesn’t define everything about me. I have bad days, certainly—days when the communication barriers feel insurmountable, when I’m tired of explaining myself, when I wish things were just a little bit easier. But I also have good days, great days, days when I connect with someone new who really gets it, days when I accomplish something I’ve been working toward, days when I feel genuinely seen and heard. The iPad gives me my voice. The wheelchair gives me my mobility. But what gives me hope is the slow, steady increase in people who are willing to expand their understanding of what communication can look like, who are patient enough to wait for my words, who see past the equipment to the person using it. That’s all any of us really want, isn’t it? To be seen, to be heard, to be treated with dignity and respect, to be given the chance to participate fully in our own lives and in our communities. I just want to be like everyone else—not in the sense of being the same, but in the sense of being valued equally, listened to equally, and given the same opportunities to connect, contribute, and belong. Is that really too much to ask? Page 10 Life is not easy Life really does throw unexpected challenges our way - things break, plans fall through, people let us down, circumstances shift beyond our control. It can feel overwhelming when multiple things go wrong at once. But at the core of it, we’re not just passive recipients of whatever happens to us. The things that make us unhappy often feel fixed or inevitable, but many of them are actually within our power to change - whether that’s a job that drains us, relationships that aren’t serving us, habits that hold us back, or even just our perspective on a difficult situation. Sometimes the change is leaving something behind, sometimes it’s setting a boundary, sometimes it’s trying a different approach, and sometimes it’s simply deciding we’re not going to let something have power over our peace anymore. It takes courage to recognize what needs to change and even more to actually do something about it. But that ability to shape our own lives, even in small ways, is one of the most important things we have. I am always happy when I get to see my family and friends and I love to meet people I love to play with my puppy name daisy I love getting on the floor with daisy i love taking daisy for walks I love to play games with my friends I love to go to Sydney I love being able to go to pool or the beach I love to be loved I love to see there for people I love to just be me I love playing music when I am sad its way I cope I love to write songs and write stories Learning technology and how to use technology Learning technology can be especially empowering for people with disabilities. From screen readers that make computers accessible to those with visual impairments, to communication devices that help people express themselves, technology opens up new ways to connect with the world. Adaptive tools and software can turn barriers into opportunities, allowing individuals to pursue education, employment, hobbies, and relationships that might otherwise be out of reach. For many, mastering these technologies takes patience and perseverance, but the rewards are immense. It’s not just about overcoming challenges—it’s about gaining independence, expressing creativity, and being part of a broader community. As technology continues to evolve, it offers even more possibilities for inclusion and participation, helping everyone to live fuller, more connected lives Page 11 Health professionals can be rude at times It's a question many people have asked: why can’t health professionals always be nice and respectful to their patients? Ideally, every patient should be treated with kindness and understanding, but sometimes stress, heavy workloads, or even burnout can impact the way healthcare workers interact with others. While most health professionals genuinely care about their patients, there are times when communication breaks down or empathy gets lost amid the pressures of the job. Still, everyone deserves to be treated with dignity, and it’s important for both patients and providers to remember that respect and compassion are essential parts of healthcare. Open communication and feedback can help foster a more supportive environment for all. Why do people get away with Hurting or bully There are several reasons why people sometimes get away with hurting others, bullying, sexual harassment, or sexual assault. Often, these actions go unreported because victims may feel afraid, ashamed, or worry that they won’t be believed. In some cases, institutions or communities might lack proper systems for accountability, or there may be a culture of silence that discourages people from speaking out. Sometimes, those in positions of power use their influence to avoid consequences. All these factors can make it difficult for justice to be served, but raising awareness, encouraging open dialogue, and supporting victims can help bring about change and create safer environments for everyone. It’s important for society to continue working toward better prevention, education, and support so that people feel empowered to speak up and seek help, and those responsible are held accountable for their actions. Deep brain stimulation (DBS) is a medical procedure that involves implanting electrodes into specific areas of the brain. These electrodes deliver electrical impulses that can help regulate abnormal brain activity. DBS is most commonly used to treat neurological conditions such as Parkinson’s disease, essential tremor, and dystonia, especially when medications are no longer effective or cause significant side effects. The goal of deep brain stimulation is to reduce symptoms like tremors, stiffness, and movement difficulties, thereby improving a person’s quality of life. For some individuals, DBS can also help manage symptoms of mental health conditions like obsessive-compulsive disorder or severe depression. While the procedure does not cure these conditions, it can make everyday activities more manageable and enhance independence for many patients. People may need deep brain stimulation (DBS) when they have certain neurological conditions—like Parkinson’s disease, essential tremor, or dystonia—that are not well managed by medication alone or when medication causes significant side effects. DBS is used to help control symptoms such as tremors, muscle stiffness, and movement difficulties, making it easier for people to perform daily activities and maintain their independence. Deep brain stimulation works by sending electrical impulses to targeted areas of the brain through implanted electrodes. These impulses help regulate abnormal brain signals that cause symptoms, allowing for smoother and more controlled movements. For some, DBS can also help manage severe mental health conditions like obsessive-compulsive disorder or depression when other treatments haven’t been effective. Overall, DBS can significantly improve quality of life by reducing symptoms, increasing mobility, and enabling individuals to participate more fully in everyday life. While it does not cure the underlying condition, DBS often provides relief that allows people to regain confidence and independence. Why do people need to have deep brain simulation what does deep brain simulation do