Brokenness Becomes Beautiful is more than a collection of poetry and reflections; it is an intimate journey through loss, healing, self-acceptance, and the quiet courage of becoming someone new. What does the title Brokenness Becomes Beautiful mean to you personally?

To me, Brokenness Becomes Beautiful is about learning that what has been broken does not have to be hidden.

After my stroke, many parts of my life changed — my body, my speech, my confidence, and the way I saw myself. For a long time, I thought recovery meant trying to return to the person I had been before. Gradually, I began to understand that perhaps I was not meant to go back.

The title reflects that shift. Brokenness can leave scars, but those scars can also become part of something meaningful. Beauty, for me, is not about becoming perfect again. It is about accepting the fragments, carrying them with honesty, and discovering that a different life can still hold purpose, dignity, and hope.

What has living with aphasia taught you about language and communication?

Aphasia has taught me that communication is much larger than words.

Before my stroke, I rarely thought about speaking. Words simply came. After aphasia, even a simple sentence could become difficult. I might know exactly what I wanted to say but be unable to find the words to express it.

That experience has changed my perspective about communication. I have learnt that we communicate through pauses, gestures, expressions, writing, silence, patience, and simply being present with another person.

It has also taught me how important it is to give someone time. When a person with aphasia struggles to speak, it does not mean there is nothing inside. The thoughts and emotions are still there. Sometimes they simply need another way — and a little more time — to come through.

What does self-acceptance mean when someone is adjusting to changes they never chose?

Self-acceptance does not mean that I have to like everything that happened to me.

I did not choose my stroke. I did not choose aphasia, weakness, dependence, or the many changes that followed. There are still moments when I miss the person I once was and the things that once came easily.

For me, self-acceptance means no longer fighting every part of the person I have become.

It is recognising my limitations without allowing them to define my entire life. It is giving myself permission to grieve what was lost while also remaining open to what may still be possible.

Acceptance is not surrender. It is making peace with reality so that I can continue moving forward from where I am, rather than spending my life wishing I were somewhere else.

How has sharing your experience publicly affected your own understanding of recovery?

Sharing my experience has made me realise that recovery is much more complicated than I once imagined.

When I first began writing about my stroke, I was trying to make sense of what had happened to me. But when other stroke survivors, people with aphasia, caregivers, and families began responding to my words, I started to see that many of the emotions I thought were mine alone were shared by others.

Their stories have changed my understanding of recovery.

I no longer see recovery simply as getting stronger, speaking better, or reaching a particular milestone. Recovery can also mean learning to live with uncertainty, rebuilding relationships, finding confidence again, discovering purpose, and accepting that progress is rarely a straight line.

By sharing my journey publicly, I have also had to look at my own experience more deeply. Writing and speaking about what happened forced me to confront emotions I might otherwise have kept buried — grief, frustration, fear, vulnerability, and the struggle to understand who I was becoming. It also made me pay more attention to my mental and emotional well-being, not just my physical recovery.

Over time, I came to understand that healing also means learning how to live with those emotions, rather than pretending they are not there.

Writing has become a way of witnessing my recovery rather than measuring it. I can see that I am still changing, still learning, and still becoming.

Perhaps that is what recovery means to me now: not returning to who I was, but continuing to discover who I can become.

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