The Mirror

Hi, I'm Michael, and I'm a stroke survivor.

This morning at the gym, I was doing a barbell squat. The standard technique is to rest the barbell across the collarbone, stabilised by placing two fingers on either side. Unfortunately, due to the lingering weakness in my right hand from the stroke, I don’t have enough control to use this method safely.

Instead, I cross my arms in what I like to call the "I Dream of Jeannie" pose—holding the bar in place across my collarbone with both arms folded.

A well-meaning correction goes awry 

There was a new trainer at the gym whom I’d met a few times. I appreciated his insights in the past—he had previously corrected my technique, and I welcomed it. But this morning, his attempt to help created an uncomfortable situation.

He approached me to ask why I wasn’t using the conventional technique. Between the noise of the pumping music and the fact that I wasn’t prepared to have this conversation mid-squat, I struggled to explain why I use an alternative method.

As trainers do (and should—I know I push myself harder when challenged), he encouraged me with a “You can do it.” But after my half-formed explanation, that push hit a nerve. My body language shifted, and I snapped back—something like, “My f***ing hand can’t do that.” He immediately stepped back and apologised for pushing too hard.

Facing the mirror: a moment of vulnerability

The truth is, he was doing his job. His intentions were good. My reaction wasn’t his fault—it was mine.

What happened in that moment was what I call The Mirror effect. It’s when the reality of your disability is reflected back at you—not by someone else, but by your own reaction. The Mirror reminds you that you’re not as strong as you once were, that you live with fear (in this case, of dropping the barbell and injuring myself), and that sometimes, you can’t explain your needs the way you want to.

Breaking the loop: from misunderstanding to clarity

I could see the confusion on his face, and I felt bad for putting him in that position—especially when he was only trying to help. I obsessed over the moment for the rest of my workout. Do you explain and risk dragging the moment out, or do you just let it go?

In the end, I chose clarity. After the session, I pulled him aside and told him about my stroke, the heart surgery, and how returning to the gym is helping me rebuild strength and coordination on my weaker side. We shook hands and moved on.

Moving on, but not ignoring the moment

These things happen. Life after a stroke isn’t just about the big milestones—it’s about navigating the small, unexpected moments too. Sometimes you handle them well. Sometimes you don’t. This was one of those Mirror moments where I was reminded that I’m still learning how to live in this body.

I’m not proud of snapping, but I am glad I circled back and explained myself. That’s part of the work too—owning your response, giving people context, and not letting a single awkward moment undo the good intentions on both sides.

We moved on. That matters. But so does taking a moment to look in the mirror and learn from what you see.