I didn’t want to do it at first. My friend Naima practically begged me to let her take a few pictures—just something “natural,” she said, “just you being you.”
But I’d spent years learning how not to be seen. Mastering angles, oversized hoodies, disappearing into the back row of every group photo. I didn’t hate myself, exactly—I just didn’t want to give anyone more reason to stare.
But that day, the light was soft, the air was warm, and Naima had this way of making me feel like nothing needed fixing. She didn’t tell me to pose or adjust my chair. She just told me to laugh when something felt funny. So I did.
And for the first time, I saw myself—not as someone broken or “inspiring” or “so brave”—just me. Whole. Bright. Not hiding.
I looked at one of the shots and couldn’t stop staring. I didn’t see what I usually pick apart. I saw strength in my posture. Warmth in my smile. Power in the way I held space.
But then I felt a sudden wave of unease. There was something strange about how I was seeing myself—something unfamiliar. I had always been so focused on blending in, on not drawing attention to my body, on hiding what I thought was broken. But there, in that moment, I saw something different. Something I wasn’t used to seeing.
Naima noticed the pause in my expression. “What’s up? You okay?” she asked, looking at me with concern in her eyes.
I took a deep breath and handed her my phone. “I don’t know… It’s just that I’ve never seen myself like this before. I mean, I know it’s me, but I’ve always avoided seeing myself, you know? Always angled myself in ways that made me feel small, like I didn’t belong. But now…” I trailed off, not quite able to finish the thought.
Naima took the phone and studied the picture. She smiled softly. “I see you,” she said. “And I think you look amazing. You’re not hiding anymore.”
It wasn’t just the photo. It was something deeper. Something about the way I had been conditioned to think of my body—as something that needed to be hidden, something that wasn’t “normal.” I had been living my life thinking that if I didn’t draw attention to myself, I could avoid the awkward glances or uncomfortable stares from others. But that photo, taken with such ease and love, challenged everything I had ever believed about myself.
It wasn’t just that I looked different in the picture—it was that I felt different. For the first time, I felt seen in the way I had always wanted to be. Not as a person with a disability, not as someone to pity or admire for their “bravery,” but just as me. A person with strengths and flaws, just like anyone else. It made me realize how much energy I had spent over the years trying to be something I wasn’t, trying to blend into a world that wasn’t built for me.
But as much as I wanted to feel good about the picture, the feelings of discomfort didn’t vanish. They still lingered, especially when I thought about the world outside of Naima’s camera lens. I knew that people might look at me differently. They might see the photo and judge me, or worse, see me in the same light I had always seen myself—something to be fixed.
It was only a few days later when I came across the photo again, scrolling through my gallery on my phone. And for some reason, I couldn’t stop staring at it. In the picture, I looked confident—my wheelchair didn’t feel like a burden or a limitation; it felt like part of who I was. My posture was straight, my hands relaxed on the wheels, and my smile radiated an ease I hadn’t realized I was capable of.
The more I looked at the image, the more I realized something important. I wasn’t broken. I had been so used to seeing my body as something less-than, something that needed to be apologized for. But the reality was different. I wasn’t any less of a person. I was just me—filling the space I occupied.
There was a catch, though. A few weeks after Naima posted that photo on her social media, I started getting messages. At first, they were innocent enough—friends commenting on how good I looked or how happy I seemed. But then, things took a turn. Some comments were less kind. Some were overly sympathetic, like “You’re so inspiring for doing this despite your challenges.” Others were downright patronizing.
One person, in particular, stood out: a woman named Claire, who I had never met but who seemed to know me from mutual friends. Her message was simple: “You look so brave in that photo. I know it must be hard to put yourself out there like that.”
The comment hit me harder than I expected. It was the same old narrative I had tried so hard to escape: the one where my body, my life, my existence was viewed as a struggle, something to be admired for its “bravery,” but never fully accepted as normal.
I stared at the message for a long time. The words were kind, but they also hurt. It was that same tired, well-meaning pity that I had spent years avoiding. And as much as I wanted to reply with something sharp, something that would correct her view of me, I realized it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know any better. Just like I didn’t know any better before that photo.
And that was the twist.
I had been living my life as though my disability was something to be hidden, and now I was faced with the reality that the world wasn’t ready to accept me as I truly am. I could feel my frustration bubbling up, the old habit of wanting to shrink away from the spotlight, to hide behind my hoodie, to blend back into the background. But this time, I wasn’t going to do that.
Instead, I took a different approach. I responded to Claire’s message—not with defensiveness, but with honesty. I told her that, yes, I was proud of the photo, but no, I wasn’t brave for simply existing. I wasn’t brave for being in a wheelchair. I wasn’t brave for sharing a picture of myself. I was just a person, doing what anyone else would do.
Her reply was different from what I expected. She apologized and admitted that she had never thought about it that way before. That was the turning point. It wasn’t about changing her perspective or anyone else’s. It was about changing mine.
It became clear to me that my journey wasn’t just about learning to be okay with my body, but also about teaching others to see me as I am, not through the lens of pity or admiration, but through the lens of equality. I was learning to see myself as whole, and now I needed to help others see me that way too.
Over the next few months, I shared more photos, more stories. I made it a point to be visible, not for attention, but for the chance to change the narrative. And with each photo, each post, I noticed something remarkable happening—not just in how I saw myself, but in how others saw me. Slowly, the comments shifted. People started asking questions, engaging in conversations about accessibility, about disability representation, and about how we could build a more inclusive world.
And then, one day, I received a message that felt like the ultimate reward. A young woman, who had been following my journey, reached out to tell me how much my posts had meant to her. She had struggled for years with her own body image issues because of her disability, but after seeing me embrace who I am, she felt empowered to do the same.
That was the moment I realized: this wasn’t just about me anymore. It was about all of us—about everyone who had ever felt invisible, who had ever been made to feel “less than” because they didn’t fit into society’s narrow view of what’s “normal.”
The karmic twist, in the end, was simple but profound: by learning to accept and love myself, I had given others permission to do the same. It wasn’t just my transformation—it was the transformation of a community. We were all learning to show up for ourselves, to be seen for who we really are, without shame or apology.
So, to anyone out there who’s struggling with their own self-image or who feels like they’re not enough, know this: you are. You are already whole. Don’t hide away. Step into the light and let the world see the real you. Because when you do, you might just inspire someone else to do the same.
Share this post with someone who needs to hear it today. And remember: you are more than enough, just as you are.
