Christmas has always been a season I cherish — a time when my home transforms into a place of warmth, colour, and welcome. Weeks before December arrives, I start preparing. I pull out the boxes of ornaments, fairy lights, ribbons, and little treasures collected over the years. I buy flowers — always flowers — because they brighten the home and my heart. And then comes the part I love most: planning the lunches and dinners that will fill my flat with laughter, clinking glasses, and the smell of good food.

At Oasis Terrace, a mall near my home, Christmas has begun to appear too. The huge Christmas tree and the wide staircase I climb every day on my exercise rounds are now pasted with bright stickers shouting Christmas greetings — gingerbread men, candy canes, snowflakes, “Merry Christmas” on every step. I walk those stairs daily, and it’s nice to see them ushering in Christmas, one of my favourite festivals of the year.

Every year, this preparation takes time, energy, and love. But this year, it feels different. Richer. Deeper. More meaningful.

This year, Christmas carries a new kind of light.

Because this is the year I stepped into something I never imagined for myself after my stroke — acting.

 The year I stood in front of a camera, not just as a stroke survivor, but as someone learning to express again, beyond the limits of speech. My short film Can You Hear Me? is more than a creative project. It is a part of me — the part that still struggles, still hopes, still searches for connection in ways words can’t always reach.

And perhaps that is why Christmas feels deeper this year. Because while I decorate my home with ornaments, I also realise I have been slowly decorating my life again — piece by piece — after everything that changed in 2020.

The Christmas tree in the photos reminds me of that journey.

 I stand there — one leg supported, one step careful — but still standing. Still moving. Still climbing. Still alive.

This year, I am also planning something close to my heart: a fundraising project for Aphasia.

 Aphasia changed my life in ways that many people will never see. But it also gave me a new purpose — to speak through my limitations, to create, to advocate, and to stand for those who feel unseen or unheard. This Christmas, I want to give back to the community that stood by me, taught me patience, and reminded me that communication is more than words.

As I hang up ornaments and string lights across the room, I realise that Christmas is no longer just about celebration.

 It is about gratitude.

 It is about second chances.

 It is about rediscovering joy in small things — like flowers on the table, candles glowing in the evening, or the sound of friends laughing over a home-cooked meal.

It is about looking at the staircase in front of me — bright, colourful, festive — and choosing to climb it anyway, step by step, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

This year, as my home fills with Christmas cheer, my heart fills with something deeper: the understanding that life can break you… and still find beautiful ways to rebuild you.

So here’s to a Christmas that means more.

 A Christmas of healing.

 A Christmas of giving back.

 A Christmas of stories — told through film, through art, through courage, through community.

And most of all, a Christmas where I remind myself that even with aphasia, even with struggles, even with scars…

I am still here. I am still growing. I am still giving.

 And I am still finding my voice — in my own way.