On that morning of July 2024, I woke up and went to the bathroom to prepare for my workday, as I had always done. As I tried to brush my teeth, I noticed something was wrong — I couldn’t keep the toothpaste foam in my mouth, and rinsing required holding my left lip with my hand. The sharp, deep pain that had haunted the left side of my face and ear the night before had been a harbinger. Then came the paralysis. My smile was lopsided, my cheek refused to inflate, and my eye seemed to have a mind of its own. The diagnosis was a left facial nerve palsy.

Those early days were humbling. Drinking required a straw, sleeping demanded an eye patch, and every mirror reminded me of a body that had suddenly betrayed me. Each small task, once mundane, became an exercise in patience and adaptability. The things I had taken for granted — sipping water freely, closing my eyes to rest, smiling without thinking — were suddenly treasures I longed for. Health, I realised, is a fragile gift, easy to overlook until it is almost gone.

Fear lingered in the background. Losing control over one’s face is more than physical; it challenges identity itself. The expressions we rely on to communicate, to connect, to affirm our presence — all of it was disrupted. For months, I grappled with weakness, involuntary movements, and awkward surprises: my eye closing whenever I chewed, tears appearing unbidden with every bite. My reflection became a puzzle I didn’t know how to solve.

Time, however, has a way of teaching resilience. Fourteen months later, I can smile, close my eye, and laugh without appearing unrecognisable. Yet the journey is marked by remnants: I still cannot fully blow my left cheek, my mouth’s control is weaker on that side, and tears sometimes make unannounced appearances at the dinner table. Each of these quirks is a whisper of the path I’ve walked.

And yet — I feel a quiet acceptance. This, to me, is not a deformity or a permanent setback. It is a souvenir. A mark etched into my body from a season of life that tested me in ways I could not have imagined. A reminder that tragedy came close, but so did recovery. It is my scar, yes — but also my proof of survival.

I have come to see it as a silent badge. Not something to conceal, but something that affirms endurance. Pain recedes, function returns — even if imperfectly — and life continues with or without symmetry. Perhaps the greatest lesson facial palsy left me is that beauty resides not in perfection, but in the narrative woven through imperfections.

So if you see me tearing up at lunch, don’t assume it’s always the food. Sometimes, it is my face remembering where it has been, and me remembering that survival itself is a victory worth honoring.