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My name is Njeri. For years, I introduced myself as xthe girl who couldnxt dance.x That was before the accident, before the fire that took not just my left leg, but my identity.xxxxI used to be the life of the party in our village in Nyeri. I loved the rhythm of the gumaru, the way my feet would fly across the dust, spinning and leaping. When the flames stopped that dance, I felt like the music had died with my leg. I spent months in the dark, pulling the curtains shut, refusing to let the sun in because the world outside seemed too bright, too fast, and too cruel. I was angry. I was bitter. I felt like a ghost haunting my own life.xxxxThe change didnxt come from a doctor or a therapist. It came from a six-year-old girl named Wanjiku who knocked on my door one afternoon. She held a wooden doll with one arm missing.xxxxxMama Njeri,x she asked, xwhy are you sadx Your doll still dances, doesnxt shexxxxxxShe held up the doll, making it hop on its single wooden leg. xSeex It can still dance if you hold it right.xxxxxThat simple question cracked the shell of my sorrow. I realized I had been waiting for my leg to come back before I could live again. But it wasnxt coming back. And as long as I waited, I was just waiting to die.xxxxThe next morning, I woke up and put on my prosthetic leg. It was heavy, stiff, and unfamiliar. I stumbled in the doorway, but I didnxt fall. I took a step. Then another. It wasnxt a dance yet, but it was movement.xxxxI started small. I learned to walk to the market. Then I learned to climb the small hill behind my house. I realized that my body had changed, but my spirit was still the same. I was still Njeri. I was still a woman who loved to move.xxxxI bought new shoes, sturdy ones with good grip. I started practicing again, not for the big stage, but for myself. I learned to balance on one leg, to pivot, to spin. My new xdancex was different. It was slower, more deliberate, but it had a power I never knew before. It was a dance of survival.xxxxToday, I donxt just dance; I teach. I run a small group for young women and girls in our community who have faced similar challenges. We meet every Saturday. We donxt talk about what we lost. We talk about what we can do. We laugh, we stumble, we get back up, and we dance.xxxxPeople still look at me with pity sometimes. They see the missing limb and think xtragedy.x But I see something else. I see a woman who was broken and put herself back together, stronger and more beautiful than before.xxxxTo anyone out there who feels like their story has ended, who feels like they are defined by their scars: You are not your injury. You are the courage you show every day you choose to keep going.xxxxYour dance hasnxt ended; it has just changed its rhythm. And I promise you, the world is waiting to hear your new song.

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My name is Njeri. For years, I introduced myself as xthe girl who couldnxt dance.x That was before the accident, before the fire that took not just my left leg, but my identity.xxxxI used to be the life of the party in our village in Nyeri. I loved the rhythm of the gumaru, the way my feet would fly across the dust, spinning and leaping. When the flames stopped that dance, I felt like the music had died with my leg. I spent months in the dark, pulling the curtains shut, refusing to let the sun in because the world outside seemed too bright, too fast, and too cruel. I was angry. I was bitter. I felt like a ghost haunting my own life.xxxxThe change didnxt come from a doctor or a therapist. It came from a six-year-old girl named Wanjiku who knocked on my door one afternoon. She held a wooden doll with one arm missing.xxxxxMama Njeri,x she asked, xwhy are you sadx Your doll still dances, doesnxt shexxxxxxShe held up the doll, making it hop on its single wooden leg. xSeex It can still dance if you hold it right.xxxxxThat simple question cracked the shell of my sorrow. I realized I had been waiting for my leg to come back before I could live again. But it wasnxt coming back. And as long as I waited, I was just waiting to die.xxxxThe next morning, I woke up and put on my prosthetic leg. It was heavy, stiff, and unfamiliar. I stumbled in the doorway, but I didnxt fall. I took a step. Then another. It wasnxt a dance yet, but it was movement.xxxxI started small. I learned to walk to the market. Then I learned to climb the small hill behind my house. I realized that my body had changed, but my spirit was still the same. I was still Njeri. I was still a woman who loved to move.xxxxI bought new shoes, sturdy ones with good grip. I started practicing again, not for the big stage, but for myself. I learned to balance on one leg, to pivot, to spin. My new xdancex was different. It was slower, more deliberate, but it had a power I never knew before. It was a dance of survival.xxxxToday, I donxt just dance; I teach. I run a small group for young women and girls in our community who have faced similar challenges. We meet every Saturday. We donxt talk about what we lost. We talk about what we can do. We laugh, we stumble, we get back up, and we dance.xxxxPeople still look at me with pity sometimes. They see the missing limb and think xtragedy.x But I see something else. I see a woman who was broken and put herself back together, stronger and more beautiful than before.xxxxTo anyone out there who feels like their story has ended, who feels like they are defined by their scars: You are not your injury. You are the courage you show every day you choose to keep going.xxxxYour dance hasnxt ended; it has just changed its rhythm. And I promise you, the world is waiting to hear your new song.