I was lucky enough this week to attend a private screening of the Christopher Reeve story, hosted by Spinal Research in partnership with the Reeve Foundation. 

As I watched Reeve’s journey unfold, I was reminded of the resilience required to navigate life with a spinal cord injury. 

For Reeve, known worldwide as Superman, the accident shifted him from being an active sportsman, an equestrian who lived for adventure to someone confined by physical limitations. 

In his words, he went from “participating in life to being the observer.” 

This hit close to home. 

I may not be Superman, but in many ways, I saw myself in Reeve - someone whose life was once defined by movement, sport, and a sense of adventure. 

The shift to paralysis is profound and personal, a stark contrast to the life that came before.

What stayed with me most, though, was the portrayal of Reeve’s friendship with Robin Williams. 

Their bond wasn’t simply about companionship; it was a lifeline, a constant reminder of the strength that comes from connection. 

Williams’ humor was as much a form of medicine as it was a testament to their friendship. 

The story Reeve shared captures it best: “I lay on my back, frozen, unable to avoid thinking the darkest thoughts. 

‘Then, at an especially bleak moment, the door flew open and in hurried a squat fellow with a blue scrub hat and a yellow surgical gown and glasses, speaking in a Russian accent. 

‘He announced that he was my proctologist and that he had to examine me immediately. 

‘My first reaction was that either I was on too many drugs or I was, in fact, brain damaged. But it was Robin Williams… And for the first time since the accident, I laughed.’

Robin Williams did not deliver a traditional eulogy at Reeve’s funeral, but he often referred to himself as “the fool” in Reeve’s life. 

Their friendship, which began in their student days at Juilliard, allowed Williams to bring humor and levity to Reeve’s darkest moments, especially after his spinal cord injury in 1995. 

When Williams visited Reeve in the hospital, posing as a Russian doctor, it made Reeve laugh for the first time since the accident a symbolic moment in their friendship, showing the healing power of humour. 

Williams often took on the role of the jester, the real-life “fool” who helped Reeve find joy even in tragedy.

It’s hard to overstate the power of laughter, especially in moments of intense darkness. 

I remember those early days in the hospital after my paralysis. 

The prognosis was grim, and the reality of paralysis was heavy, but humour, often dark, always unfiltered became a way through. 

Williams’ presence brought that same relief to Reeve; in that one laugh, there was a reminder that he was still alive, still connected to his old self, and still capable of joy, no matter how fleeting. 

For me, those moments of laughter were like sunlight breaking through a storm. 

Humour allowed me to see beyond the physical limitations, beyond the immediate pain and loss, to something lighter and more hopeful.

Reeve and Williams’ friendship went beyond just laughter, though. Their bond embodied the kind of loyalty and acceptance that can change lives. 

That friendship was a source of courage for Reeve, and watching their story unfold on screen was a powerful reminder of what friendship can do. 

When life brings you to your knees, true friends are there, not to tell you everything will be okay, but to stand beside you and help you find a reason to smile, even when the future feels uncertain.

For those of us who’ve faced long hospital stays, humour can feel like a risky thing to hold onto. 

Sometimes, it feels inappropriate. But the truth is, laughter can be a form of rebellion a refusal to let pain or limitation define you. 

Reeve’s story, and especially his friendship with Williams, reminded me that dark humour isn’t about ignoring reality; it’s about facing it head-on, finding a reason to laugh in spite of everything. 

In the hardest moments, laughter reminds us of our humanity and our resilience. 

It gives us a way to express emotions that might otherwise be overwhelming, and this is a daily prescription of mine to get me through the darkest of days currently when they hit.

As the screening ended, I felt a renewed sense of gratitude, not only for the advances in spinal research that the Reeve Foundation and Spinal Research are pioneering but also for the friendships that have supported me along the way. 

Like Reeve, I have friends who aren’t afraid to laugh with me about the difficult realities of life with a spinal cord injury, friends who can see beyond the injury to the person I still am. 

They’ve helped me through some of my darkest days, giving me a reason to keep going when it would have been easy to give in to despair.

The journey of living with a spinal cord injury isn’t one anyone would choose, but Reeve’s story is a reminder of how much power there is in community, in friendship, and in laughter. 

Williams’ presence in Reeve’s life was more than comic relief; it was a reminder of who Reeve was beyond the injury, a way of grounding him in something other than his physical condition. 

We all need that someone who sees us beyond the labels, beyond the diagnoses, and beyond the limitations.

As I left the screening, I felt a renewed sense of purpose, a desire to live with that same fierce dedication to connection and resilience that Reeve embodied. 

There’s strength in laughter, in friendship, and in the shared human experience of navigating life’s most difficult moments. 

The work of the Reeve Foundation and Spinal Research brings hope that one day, paralysis will be something we can cure and for me that doesn't just mean moving, that means I could live longer. 

Until then, we carry on, inspired by those who came before us and by the friends who are with us today.