For most dancers, rhythm comes through sound. For me, it comes through sight, vibration, and trust. Being deaf means I don’t just listen to music, I feel it, I watch it, and I translate it into movements. On a warm summer night in 2023, I sat cross-legged on my bed with my mother Aishwarya Chakravarthy, talking the way we always did before going to sleep. But that night felt different. We were dreaming aloud about my Bharatanatyam arangetram, set for 2025. The thought both thrilled and terrified me. Could I do this even though I hear the music differently? We chose Sankatahara Chaturti as the day for my arangetram. Dedicated to Lord Ganesa, the remover of obstacles, which felt fitting as I knew there would be many obstacles ahead. I began my Bharatanatyam journey at the age of seven under the guidance of my mother and guru, Aishwarya Chakravarthy. Growing up, I was captivated by the beauty of the art form, attending countless performances and marvelling at the dedication that dancers poured into their practice. I still remember the mix of excitement and nervousness I felt as I began preparing for my own arangetram—it felt surreal to be on this path. The summer before my arangetram, I travelled to India to train intensively with the remarkable teacher Vijna Vasudevan, who helped me refine my technique and deepen my connection with the music. I spent hours writing down the Tamil lyrics alongside the corresponding dance movements, a process that transformed my understanding of the art. Each verse came alive with meaning, and I could feel the emotions behind the words as I memorised them. The struggle to capture each nuance was a labour of love, but it made the dance feel so much more personal. I often found myself mentally practicing the dance before sleep, jotting down notes, and making connections that helped me internalise the pieces. When practicing on my own, I would dance along with the video until I felt comfortable with the steps. The videos included counting and beats, which enabled me to follow along. I then progressed to practicing with the audio, but this presented my first challenge. When I first tried practicing with only the audio, I kept slipping offbeat. My heart would race as I stumbled through the steps, frustration welling up in my chest. I would return to the videos, clinging to the steady counting and beats, hopelessness riding over me. I reverted to practicing with the videos, where I could hear the sound and count the beats. Gradually, I became comfortable with the audio, but there were still times when I danced either too fast or too slow. Despite the frustration, my mom said to me, “We will figure it out.” During our classes, whether at the studio or home, I would face my mom, reading her lips and observing her hands clapping or the nattuvangam as visual cues to help me stay on beat. I then danced away from my mom, but could see my mom’s nattuvangam and visual cues through the window’s reflection in front of me, which would prepare me to use the confidence monitor. My attempt to dance alongside a live orchestra was particularly disorienting, leaving me feeling as though all my efforts had gone to waste. My stomach sank each time I lost my place. Yet again, my mom reassured me. Almost every night, I would pray asking for the strength to do justice to my training and to make my family proud. Our journey required a lot of teamwork and an open-mindedness to explore possible solutions. We began testing a device that I use at school to help me hear teachers. The sound engineer created a mix that amplified the nattuvangam, slightly boosted the vocals, and reduced the volume of the rest of the orchestra. Discovering that this adjustment was a possibility relieved me, and the nervousness I felt earlier began to fade away, leading up to the big day. Finally, the big day arrived; 14 June, 2025. From the day before the rehearsals, I felt an unexpected confidence. As I started dancing, an immense pride and joy filled me as I listened to the vocals and the nattuvangam, even when my mom would remind me to smile through a separate direct feed. I would look at the confidence monitor whenever I felt offbeat and would see my mom grinning and guiding me when I needed to. When the final note faded and I knelt in prayer, the hall was filled with applause. But for a moment, everything felt quiet inside me. I thought about the nights of frustration, the prayers whispered in front of my deities, and the countless conversations with my family about my worries. I had finally felt the joy of overcoming. My arangetram wasn’t just a performance but a proof that with love, persistence, and a little help from technology, even obstacles can turn into stepping stones. I had always been told, deafness meant silence. But on that stage, silence became rhythm, prayer, and power. My arangetram wasn’t only to prove that I belonged to Indian culture, it was a testimony that dance can belong to everyone. I hope my experience inspires other dancers and serves as a reminder for us all to pursue what we love, without letting limits hold us back.