People love to say I’m strong.
“You’re so brave.”
“You haven’t lost your spirit.”
“I don’t know how you do it.”
And I smile. Because I am proud. I’ve built a whole life from this chair. Raised kids, loved deeply, even learned how to do my makeup without standing up.
But what they don’t see are the quiet moments—like the one you’re looking at now—where I sit still in a hallway that’s too quiet, remembering the version of me that used to move without thinking.
The ‘other me.’
She danced barefoot in the kitchen. She ran after buses. She wore heels just because they made her feel tall.
Sometimes, I miss her so badly it sits heavy on my chest. Not because this version of me isn’t enough—but because she never said goodbye.
I didn’t wake up one day and trade her in for this life. It happened slow. Then fast. Then permanent. And no one prepares you for that kind of grieving.
People assume that because I’ve made peace with my disability, I’ve completely moved on from the life I once had. But what they don’t understand is that grief isn’t something you get over. It’s something you learn to live with, like an old scar that still twinges every now and then, no matter how much time has passed.
I was in my early twenties when it all started. It wasn’t a sudden event, but a collection of things—a minor fall that wouldn’t have meant much to anyone else, followed by an unexplained pain that wouldn’t go away. Doctors dismissed it at first. “It’s probably just muscle strain,” they said. “You’re young, it’ll pass.” But it didn’t. Months turned into years, and I found myself slipping, one piece at a time, into a world I didn’t recognize.
The first time I truly noticed the shift was when I couldn’t walk across the street without holding onto a railing. That should have been a wake-up call. But it wasn’t. I was too stubborn, too proud to admit that something was wrong. After all, I was young. I had dreams. I had plans. But reality doesn’t care about your plans. And sooner or later, my body stopped following my commands.
And that’s how I ended up in this chair. This one. The one I’m sitting in now. It’s sturdy, reliable, but it isn’t the freedom I used to have.
It was hard in the beginning. No one tells you how lonely it can be when the world starts seeing you differently. People look at me now with a mixture of pity and admiration, but it’s not the same. There’s something about the way they see me that makes me feel like they think I’ve lost something—like I’m no longer a whole person. The world changes when you’re disabled. Not just physically, but emotionally too.
I remember the first time I had to ask for help in public. I was at the grocery store, reaching for a can on the top shelf, and my arms just wouldn’t reach. It was a small thing, but it felt monumental. I had to ask a stranger for help, and when they handed me the can, they gave me that look. The one that says, “You poor thing.” I hated that look. It made me feel like I wasn’t capable, even though I was.
But over time, I found a rhythm. I adjusted. I made peace with the chair. I learned how to navigate life without the mobility I once had. I started working from home, a job I loved, doing what I could from my desk. I focused on my family. I raised two beautiful kids who never once made me feel like anything was missing. And most of all, I learned to embrace the things that still brought me joy—dancing in the kitchen again, but now it was in my chair, my hands twirling the air. I wore the shoes that made me feel tall, even if they were just for show, because sometimes it’s the small things that make a difference.
But every now and then, on quiet nights like tonight, I can’t help but grieve the “other me.”
I don’t want to feel this way. I’ve built a beautiful life, full of love and joy, despite the challenges. But it’s the moments of stillness that make me ache for what I lost. For the energy, the spontaneity, the freedom to go where I wanted, when I wanted.
And here’s the twist: I’m not the only one who grieves. I found out recently that my daughter, now a teenager, had been quietly struggling with her own feelings about my disability. She’d been carrying her own grief, a grief I hadn’t even seen because I was too wrapped up in my own.
It came out one evening when she and I were sitting together, just talking about life. She was quiet, and I could tell something was on her mind. So, I asked her. “What’s going on? You seem a little down.”
And that’s when she finally said it: “I miss you. I miss the way you used to play with me. I miss when you could do everything like everyone else.”
It hit me hard. Here I was, thinking I had everything figured out. I had learned to accept my disability, to adapt. But I had never once stopped to think about how my disability affected the people I love. I never realized that they, too, were grieving. My daughter had lost the version of me that could jump in the pool with her, that could run after her at the park, that could just be there in ways I couldn’t anymore.
That night, we talked. And I listened. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. We both had to mourn the “other me.” But then we also had to realize something important: grief doesn’t mean the end of everything. It’s not about saying goodbye, it’s about learning how to live in a new way. We could both grieve, but we could also build something new together, something just as beautiful, even if it was different.
And in that moment, I realized that I wasn’t the only one who needed to adapt. We all did. My family, my friends, they were all a part of this journey. We were learning together, growing together, and supporting each other in ways I hadn’t truly understood before. The grief was real, but so was the love and the support that surrounded me.
Over time, that conversation opened up more doors. My daughter and I began to talk more openly about how we could adjust to this new way of living. We started doing things together in ways that were meaningful for both of us. We danced, not in the way I used to, but in ways that made sense for my body. We laughed, we cried, and we learned. I even started taking her to the park again, not to run after her, but to cheer her on as she played, to be present in her life in the ways I could still be.
And here’s the twist that came full circle: just a few months ago, my daughter came to me and said, “You know, Mom, you’re even stronger than you were before. Because now you’re teaching me how to live with a whole heart, no matter what life throws at us.”
It was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to me. And in that moment, I realized that I hadn’t just taught my kids how to live with a disability. I had taught them how to embrace life fully, no matter what circumstances they faced. I had given them the tools to adapt, to grieve, and to find new strength in the face of challenges.
So, yes, sometimes I still grieve the “other me.” But I’ve come to understand that grief doesn’t mean giving up—it means growing, learning, and finding new ways to live. And maybe, just maybe, the life I’ve built is even more meaningful because I’ve had to fight for it every day.
If you’re facing your own struggles, know this: it’s okay to grieve. But it’s also okay to grow, to find strength in new ways, and to embrace the beauty of life as it is now. And remember, you are never alone in your journey. We all have something to teach each other.
If this story resonated with you, share it with someone who might need a little encouragement today. Let’s lift each other up and remind ourselves that no matter the challenges we face, there’s always something beautiful waiting to be discovered.
