— When Progress Fights Back
I trusted the mirror — it had given me hope.
So I tried the exercises at home.
Every day.
Same table.
Same technique.
At first, the results continued.
My fingers listened more.
My grip returned drop by drop.
Rebecca and Manessah would smile each time I held something I couldn't before.
But then… something changed.
One afternoon, while everyone was busy inside, I set the mirror down and placed my hands just like the therapist taught me. I focused hard, wanting more progress. Wanting strength. Wanting to feel whole.
Left fingers up…
Right hand tries…
Then suddenly—
A storm inside my brain.
A spark of fear shooting down my spine.
A dizzy wave that stole balance from the world.
My breathing shortened.
My vision flickered like a dying lightbulb.
That strange warning flashed behind my eyes —
the seizure coming.
I pushed the mirror away in panic.
"No… no… not again…"
My heart raced.
My right hand — the one I fought for — began to stiffen.
It felt like the same injury that nearly killed me was laughing, reminding me it still owned a piece of me.
When it passed, I sat back shaking.
Confused.
Angry.
Terrified.
Was the mirror helping me…
or hurting me?
I tried again days later.
Same thing.
The harder I pushed for progress —
the quicker my brain snapped back into danger.
It felt like I was being punished for trying to get better.
At night, I'd stare at my right hand and whisper:
"Why can't you just be mine again?"
I didn't want to worry Rebecca.
Didn't want anyone to think I was slipping backwards.
So I kept the fear to myself.
But deep inside, I wondered:
Is healing supposed to feel like this?
A part of me wanted to stop the exercises completely.
Another part — the stubborn part — refused to surrender.
Because I wasn't just fighting for myself anymore.
I was fighting for three hearts:
Rebecca.
Manessah.
Angela.
And I wasn't ready to let any of them see me break again.
---
I thought I could hide it.
My fear.
My setbacks.
The silent battles happening inside my skull.
But Rebecca always watched me closely —
not with suspicion,
with love.
One late afternoon, she found me sitting alone on the edge of the bed.
The mirror lay on the floor, turned face-down like a secret I didn't want anyone to discover.
She knelt in front of me.
"Tebelo…"
Her voice soft, but sharp enough to cut through my walls.
"You've been different," she said.
"You look like someone who's holding lightning inside."
I tried to smile it away.
Tried to pretend nothing was wrong.
But Rebecca…
she knew the tears I wasn't crying.
She took my right hand — the one that still struggled, the one I hated some days — and placed it over her heart.
"Talk to me," she whispered.
"No hiding. Not from me."
My voice cracked before the words even came.
"I'm trying…"
Breath unsteady.
"My hand… it's getting better. But the mirror trick… it's changed."
She listened, eyes focused only on me.
"I feel it coming when I concentrate too hard," I confessed, fingertips trembling.
"Like the seizures are waiting for me to push myself.
Like healing is punishing me."
Her lips parted with that worried breath she always tried to swallow.
"And you didn't tell me?" she asked — not angry, just hurt.
"I didn't want you to be scared again."
I looked away.
"I'm supposed to protect you. Not make you cry every week because of me."
Rebecca shook her head, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.
"You are protecting us," she said firmly.
"By fighting. By trying. By choosing life every single morning you wake up."
She lifted my chin gently.
"But I need the truth to help you.
Both the progress… and the pain."
In that moment, the heavy silence broke.
My fear spilled out, and her strength caught every drop.
She pulled me into her arms.
"You're not alone in this battle," she whispered.
"We heal together.
We fear together.
We become stronger… together."
And for the first time in a long time—
I believed her.
---
The next morning, Rebecca was already awake before the sun.
She moved quietly around the room, careful not to disturb Manessah, who slept curled like a tiny angel between us.
But her eyes found me —
and I could see a decision already made in them.
"You're telling your physiotherapist today," she said gently, handing me my shirt.
No arguments.
No excuses.
No running.
Because she had seen through me —
and chosen to stay anyway.
We walked together to the taxi rank, step by steady step.
She didn't rush me.
She didn't speak much.
Just kept her hand wrapped around mine — the hand I was still learning to trust.
When we reached the clinic, I could feel my heart pounding.
Fear is loud when you're trying to be brave.
My therapist welcomed me with her usual warm smile, but her eyes sharpened the moment she tested my grip.
Stronger than before — noticeably.
Then she asked: "What's worrying you?"
I hesitated… just long enough for Rebecca to squeeze my hand.
"There's something I didn't tell you," I finally said.
And I let it out:
the strange warning signs,
the dizzy spells,
the fear of trying too hard.
The therapist nodded slowly — not surprised, not alarmed.
"What you're experiencing," she said, "is your brain working extremely hard to reconnect signals. Sometimes, the brain gets overwhelmed."
I swallowed hard.
"So am I making it worse?"
"No," she answered.
"You're pushing limits — and limits push back. But we'll adjust. We'll protect your progress, not rush it."
Relief washed over me.
Not because the fear was gone…
but because someone understood it.
She gave me new exercises — safer ones —
and clear instructions:
"Never fight the warning signs.
When your body says stop, you stop.
Healing is not a race."
Rebecca nodded proudly, as if she had been waiting for someone to say those exact words.
On the walk back home, she held my hand again —
but this time, I didn't hold back.
I wasn't failing.
I wasn't falling apart.
I was rebuilding.
And now, I wasn't doing it alone.
— A Tiny Voice From Far Away
The day felt lighter already.
A calmer mind.
A clearer path forward.
Rebecca's hand still warm in mine as we reached the gate.
Inside, life resumed its normal rhythm —
Manessah laughing with her toy,
Rebecca hanging laundry in the sun,
the smell of tea rising from the kitchen.
I had just sat down on the bed when my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
My breath caught for a moment.
I answered… "Hello?"
Short silence.
Then — that voice.
"Daddy?"
Angela.
So small.
So gentle.
So full of love I thought I had lost.
My heart squeezed, and I sat up straight like she could see me.
"Angel… is that you?"
"Yes!" she said, excitement bubbling.
"Grandma said I can say hi! I miss you."
Just those words…
and the whole world felt brand new.
I closed my eyes, smiling through the ache in my chest.
"I miss you too, my girl. Every single day."
I could hear her breathing close to the phone, like she wanted to climb through it and into my arms.
"Daddy… when I come visit, can we play outside? And can you lift me?"
Her innocence didn't know the weight of that question.
I swallowed the fear — the seizures, the weakness, the distance —
and answered like a father determined to win his life back:
"Yes. I will lift you. Higher than before."
She giggled — music to my soul.
Before I could say more, I heard a voice in the background… stern… watching.
"Time to go," Angela whispered.
"I love you, Daddy."
"I love you too," I said, voice shaking.
"So much."
The call clicked off.
I just sat there holding the phone, like her voice was still inside it.
Rebecca peeked in and saw my eyes shining.
"Angela?" she asked softly.
I nodded — and she came to sit beside me, leaning her head on my shoulder.
Hope didn't yell or march in loudly.
It came as a tiny soft whisper…
"Daddy."
And it was more than enough to keep fighting.