I live in a body
that does not always follow me,
even when my will is clear.
Some days, it feels
as if I have to negotiate with it—
step by step,
day by day.
My movements need time.
They ask for patience.
They demand a strength
that often goes unnoticed.
I am tired more easily than others,
sometimes long before the day is over.
And still, I keep going—
not running,
but dancing around life
in my own way.
From the outside,
people may see hands that tremble,
legs that hesitate,
movements that don’t quite fit the usual rhythm.
What they don’t see
is the constant calculating,
the adapting,
the quiet endurance.
Cerebral palsy has never taken away
what makes me who I am.
It has not touched my thoughts,
nor softened my feelings.
I love deeply.
I think clearly.
I feel intensely.
The space between
what I want
and what my body allows
can be rocky, unpredictable.
But it is exactly there
that I learned to be patient with myself—
to listen,
to slow down,
to accept without giving up.
I know what it is like
when getting up requires courage.
When every step is a decision.
When strength isn’t loud or impressive,
but quiet,
steady,
and brave.
I live in a world
that moves fast,
that praises speed
and demands perfection.
And yet, I carve out my place—
not by adapting myself away,
but by being honest.
I am not here despite my cerebral palsy.
I am here with it.
It hasn’t broken me.
It has shaped me—
my patience,
my resilience,
my way of moving through the world.
I don’t run.
I dance.
And I walk my path
not without flaws,
but upright—
with dignity,
with depth,
and proudly,
as myself.