When I said yes to acting in Can You Hear Me?, I thought I was saying yes to a story about finding your voice beyond words. Then I read a scene direction that made my stomach drop:

He waltzes.

Me? The guy with drop foot and a right leg that curls into a cringe the moment nerves show up? I laughed out loud, then sat very quietly. Because sometimes laughter is how I buy time while my courage catches up.

The room, the floor, the fear

This afternoon my living room became a rehearsal studio. We moved the table, tidied the cables, and cleared a little rectangle of wooden floor. Bare feet on the cool boards. My heart already marching at 120 bpm.

Aphasia steals words. Drop foot steals rhythm. Both like to show up uninvited—especially when I care about something. And I care about this film. It’s my life in another language: movement, breath, presence.

A crash course, and two kind teachers

Tess and Arielle arrived like sunlight—no fuss, no pity. Tess took my hands first, steady and warm.

“Let’s make the room smaller,” she said, meaning: we’ll start where you are.

“One, two, three,” Arielle counted, soft and even, the kind of voice that calms the noise inside your head. We practiced the frame—shoulders down, crown tall, eyes where the horizon might be if the sea were in my living room.

My right foot misbehaved, as expected. It curled. It sulked. It argued with the idea of gliding. Tess didn’t let go. “We’ll teach it kindness,” she smiled. So we did.

What my body remembered

Here’s what my body remembered today:

I can breathe slower than my fear.

I can let someone else lead and still keep my dignity.

I can move imperfectly and still look like I belong in the music.

We didn’t chase perfection. We chased connection—the waltz as a conversation where every step says, I’m here with you. When I stumbled, the beat didn’t punish me; it simply waited for the next one.

Somewhere between the third and fourth attempt, my foot unclenched. It wasn’t pretty—but it was possible. I felt the floor pushing back, the small power that rises when you trust your weight, the miracle of a body that still negotiates with you after everything.

Beyond steps, into meaning

People think a dance scene is about steps. For me, it’s proof of life. After the stroke, I measured progress in tiny units: one extra word found, one extra minute of balance, one less wince on a slope. 

Today, I added a new unit:

Three counts, repeated with courage.

Aphasia taught me that speaking is more than words. Drop foot is now teaching me that dancing is more than legs. It’s eyes that say “okay,” hands that say “I’ve got you,” and a spine that says “stand again.”

Next Sunday

Next Sunday we film. I’ll be nervous. My foot might cringe. The cameras might see every wobble. But they’ll also see something else: a man who didn’t sit out when the music started.

If you can walk, you can dance.

If you can dance, you can hope.

If you can hope, you can live out loud—even when the words come slowly.

To Tess and Arielle: thank you for meeting me where I am, for making the room small, and then—step by step—making it big again.

And to anyone reading this who is learning to move through fear (on a dance floor, in a hospital corridor, or across your own living room): start with one, two, three. We’ll learn the rest together.

#CanYouHearMe #StrokeRecovery #AphasiaAwareness #IfYouCanWalkYouCanDance #StrokeSurvivor #NeverGiveUp #FindingMyVoice #HealingJourney #CourageInMotion #DanceOfHope #ShortFilm #stroke #strokesurvivor #StrokeRecovery #strokeprevention Aphasia SG

When I said yes to acting in Can You Hear Me?, I thought I was saying yes to a story about finding your voice beyond words. Then I read a scene direction that made my stomach drop:
He waltzes.
Me? The guy with drop foot and a right leg that curls into a cringe the moment nerves show up? I laughed out loud, then sat very quietly. Because sometimes laughter is how I buy time while my courage catches up.
The room, the floor, the fear
This afternoon my living room became a rehearsal studio. We moved the table, tidied the cables, and cleared a little rectangle of wooden floor. Bare feet on the cool boards. My heart already marching at 120 bpm.
Aphasia steals words. Drop foot steals rhythm. Both like to show up uninvited—especially when I care about something. And I care about this film. It’s my life in another language: movement, breath, presence.
A crash course, and two kind teachers
Tess and Arielle arrived like sunlight—no fuss, no pity. Tess took my hands first, steady and warm.
“Let’s make the room smaller,” she said, meaning: we’ll start where you are.
“One, two, three,” Arielle counted, soft and even, the kind of voice that calms the noise inside your head. We practiced the frame—shoulders down, crown tall, eyes where the horizon might be if the sea were in my living room.
My right foot misbehaved, as expected. It curled. It sulked. It argued with the idea of gliding. Tess didn’t let go. “We’ll teach it kindness,” she smiled. So we did.
What my body remembered
Here’s what my body remembered today:
I can breathe slower than my fear.
I can let someone else lead and still keep my dignity.
I can move imperfectly and still look like I belong in the music.
We didn’t chase perfection. We chased connection—the waltz as a conversation where every step says, I’m here with you. When I stumbled, the beat didn’t punish me; it simply waited for the next one.
Somewhere between the third and fourth attempt, my foot unclenched. It wasn’t pretty—but it was possible. I felt the floor pushing back, the small power that rises when you trust your weight, the miracle of a body that still negotiates with you after everything.
Beyond steps, into meaning
People think a dance scene is about steps. For me, it’s proof of life. After the stroke, I measured progress in tiny units: one extra word found, one extra minute of balance, one less wince on a slope.
Today, I added a new unit:
Three counts, repeated with courage.
Aphasia taught me that speaking is more than words. Drop foot is now teaching me that dancing is more than legs. It’s eyes that say “okay,” hands that say “I’ve got you,” and a spine that says “stand again.”
Next Sunday
Next Sunday we film. I’ll be nervous. My foot might cringe. The cameras might see every wobble. But they’ll also see something else: a man who didn’t sit out when the music started.
If you can walk, you can dance.
If you can dance, you can hope.
If you can hope, you can live out loud—even when the words come slowly.
To Tess and Arielle: thank you for meeting me where I am, for making the room small, and then—step by step—making it big again.
And to anyone reading this who is learning to move through fear (on a dance floor, in a hospital corridor, or across your own living room): start with one, two, three. We’ll learn the rest together.
#CanYouHearMe #StrokeRecovery #AphasiaAwareness #IfYouCanWalkYouCanDance #StrokeSurvivor #NeverGiveUp #FindingMyVoice #HealingJourney #CourageInMotion #DanceOfHope #ShortFilm #stroke #strokesurvivor #StrokeRecovery #strokeprevention Aphasia SG