I Learned to Dance… Even Over What Broke Me
Some experiences do not only change what we know about the world; they change the way we see ourselves within it.
In this narrative, a simple moment with a small cat in the rain intersects with a long journey of recovery, revealing deeper reflections on presence, acceptance, and trust in what continues to grow within us—even when we do not fully understand it.
“I may not be able to choose what happens to me, but I can choose how I remain with it.” — Ghadeer Merdas
One winter day, the sky was pouring relentlessly, and the cold was as unforgiving as ever. I was watching the rain from my window when I noticed a small cat perched on the ledge — soaked, trembling.
I don’t know why, but I felt I had to do something for her. I stepped onto the balcony and prepared a simple shelter: a piece of cloth, a dry corner, a small attempt at creating warmth. I called to her softly. She came closer, paused for a moment, looked at me… then walked past.
She chose another place instead — a narrow spot beside the water meter. She settled there as though she had found exactly what suited her, without needing what I had prepared.
At that moment, I found myself standing before an idea I did not immediately understand:
Perhaps what I see as suitable is not necessarily what someone else needs.
That meaning returned to me with force when I went through my own experience.
My name is Ghadeer, from Sweida. Years ago, I lived through one of the most difficult chapters of my life: complete paralysis of my lower body, and a delicate spinal cord operation with only limited chances of success. Back then, the greatest thing I allowed myself to hope for was being able to walk with assistance.
Today, I walk normally.
I know medicine deserves tremendous credit, and the people who stood beside me during that time left an impact I could never deny. But there was another side to the story — one less visible.
During that period, I was not searching for explanations for everything happening to me. I did not understand why, or how.
But I began to notice something small unfolding inside me:
I could not choose what was happening to me,
but I could choose how to remain with it.
I did not fight every difficult thought, nor did I try to be strong all the time.
I breathed.
I observed.
I allowed things to move through me as they were.
The pain did not disappear, but it became lighter… or perhaps I simply became calmer in facing it.
Over time, something within me changed.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
As though something was taking shape beneath the surface, without my fully seeing it.
When I think of the cat now, I understand that scene differently.
She did not need what I offered her,
just as I did not need someone else to carry my experience for me.
In both cases, there was a path that had to be lived from the inside.
I learned that compassion does not mean carrying everything.
And that sometimes, presence alone is enough.
To remain close to ourselves, and to others,
without collapsing beneath what we cannot change.
Perhaps we do not understand everything we go through.
Perhaps meaning does not reveal itself immediately.
But that does not mean it is absent.
I do not possess complete answers.
But I have learned to leave room for what I do not yet understand.
And to keep walking… one step at a time.
