My first 'wobble' or actually my first complete breakdown came after my first physiotherapy session. We had spent the hour working on my core muscle and head movement. I would sit on the plinth and practice holding my sitting balance. It was pants. I couldn't even manage a whole second. They wheeled a mirror in front of me and I stared at my limp, twisted body. My clothes hung off my skinny frame and my head crooked to the left. I'd never looked so unattractive in my life.
They hoisted me back into my bed and set my duvet over me.
And that's when it hit me.
Tears streamed down my face. For someone that couldn't speak, I sure as hell howled the gym down. My physios attempted to console me but I couldn't stop. I didn't want to be here. I couldn't do this.
I never really talk about my inspirations/heroes, regarding my recovery. My main motivation really was my family, in particular, my nan and granddad.
My nan passed away when I was four and my granddad when I was twelve. Before my nan's death in 1999, she had battled with breast cancer for 12/13 years. My granddad, who had a stroke when he was 60, pushed himself to the point of physical pain, to regain walking again.
After that awful physiotherapy session I thought of my nan and granddad, 'If they could push themselves and give a good fight, then why can't I?'
My dad joked that 'You're a Sinfield, we never give up! You've got Sinfield blood!' and he was right. Who was I to let down the Sinfield name? I had to do this. Stroke was not about to defeat me.
The next physiotherapy session I snapped out of that depressing mentality and got to work.