After my stroke, the world didn’t just change—it distorted.

 Words I once had at my fingertips suddenly vanished.

 Thoughts became trapped behind walls I couldn’t break down.

 I had so much to say… but I couldn’t get the words out.

I live with aphasia now. It’s not just about struggling to speak—it’s about the anxiety, the fear of not being understood, the sadness of being left out of conversations I used to lead.

And then there’s this:

 Even the people closest to you—who love you—can’t always understand what you're trying to say.

My partner has been by my side every step of the way. He listens with his heart, even when his ears can’t quite catch the meaning.

 Sometimes, he doesn’t understand me.

 Most of the time, he pretends to.

 And I know—I know—he’s just trying to make me feel safe, not frustrated.

But still, I scream. I get angry.

 Not at him, but at the barrier between us.

 At the fact that my words don’t come out right.

 At myself.

Afterward, I feel sad. Guilty.

 Because I know he cares for me—deeply.

 And pretending to understand? That’s his way of being kind.

 That’s his version of listening loud.

 He gives me space to speak, even if it doesn’t always make sense.

 He stays. He doesn’t walk away.

Listening isn't always perfect. It doesn't mean getting every word right.

 Sometimes, it’s just staying with someone in the storm—letting them feel seen even when they can’t explain what they feel.

To those living with aphasia, I see you.

 To the caregivers and partners who stay—even when it’s hard—thank you.

 Your patience is louder than words.

 Your presence is kindness in its purest form.

Because in the end, listening is not just about ears.

 It’s about heart.

 It’s about love.

 It’s about the quiet, imperfect moments that say,

“I’m here, and I’m not giving up on you.”