Mornings Are Negotiations
Every morning, I wake up and feel a quiet kind of betrayal. With a dynamic disability, my body, once something I trusted without question, now greets me with an ache I never agreed to. I lie there, still, taking inventory: fatigue, pain, dizziness, or that familiar, nameless sense of wrongness. Living this way means each day starts with an assessment, a careful negotiation with a body that doesn’t always tell the truth.
"Living with a dynamic disability means every day starts with a careful negotiation with a body that doesn’t always tell the truth." Share on X
When The Mirror Lies Back
Some days, when I catch my reflection, I see the person I used to be. Upright. Capable. Recognisable. For a moment, I believe in her again.
Then I move too fast, or stand a beat too long, or reach for something just beyond my grasp, and the illusion cracks. My balance wavers. My strength drains away.
Outside, the world carries on uninterrupted. The kettle clicks off. Cars pass. Life hums along. Inside my body, the rules rewrite themselves without warning. It feels like being gaslit by my own body. I insist I’m fine. My body quietly, stubbornly disagrees.
The Cruelty of ‘Sometimes’ in a Dynamic Disability
That’s the hardest part of a dynamic disability: the inconsistency. If it were always bad, I could brace myself. If it were always visible, I wouldn’t have to explain.
Like a lot of others, my disability isn’t static. My disability shifts. It fluctuates. Sometimes it changes by the hour. Often by body offers me flashes of my old self, only to snatch them back. I never know which version of me I’ll wake up to. Each day arrives carrying the same unspoken question: Who will I be today?
The version whose body cooperates, or the one who can’t trust her own legs?
Too Disabled, Not Disabled Enough
This unpredictability breeds imposter syndrome in my life with disability. On good days, I feel dishonest calling myself disabled. On the days I look fine, I feel as though I break an unspoken rule about what disability should look like.
"On good days, I feel dishonest calling myself disabled. On the days I look fine, I feel as though I break an unspoken rule about what disability should look like." Share on XI live in a liminal space, always too much of one thing and never enough of another. There’s a quiet fear that people think I’m exaggerating, being dramatic, or lying outright.
The Complicated Gifts of Mobility Aids
Mobility aids complicate that fear.
They also save me.
Because my disability changes, my mobility aids change with it. Some days, I don’t need anything at all. I walk unaided and, for a while, I forget. Other days, I reach for support, fingers tightening around my crutch as my legs tremble beneath me. And then there are the worst days, when I need my wheelchair.
Each aid corresponds to a different version of me. Some days, I use all three within twenty-four hours, an exhausting one-woman show with far too many costume changes.
“But you Were Fine Yesterday”
That constant change attracts scrutiny. People crave consistency. They expect that if you need a wheelchair once, you’ll need it always. When I don’t, I can feel their confusion harden into suspicion, hovering like a question mark.
You needed that yesterday, so why not today?
I ask myself that too.
I feel exposed when I take out a mobility aid after being seen walking without one, as if I’ve somehow been caught in a lie.
Relief, Too
And yet there is relief.
Because when I use the right aid for the right day, I don’t just survive. What changes is my ability to participate: fear loosens its grip, my energy stretches further, and a sense of autonomy returns.
Mobility aids are tools of independence, not defeat. Each one adapts to my needs without erasing my agency or style.
"Mobility aids don’t mean giving up. They mean adapting. They are tools, not symbols of defeat." Share on XThe Pink-Leopard Print Revelation
One of those tools is my pink, leopard-print crutch.
I love it. I really love it.
It isn’t grey, or sterile, or apologetic. It’s bold. Playful. A flash of joy in a world that so often renders disability in muted tones. It’s unapologetically me.
When I hold it, I don’t feel smaller or weaker. I feel visible in the right way. It supports my body, yes, but it also supports my identity. It says: Yes, I need help. And yes, I am still myself.
Choosing Visibility Instead of Disappearing
My crutch, my trusted sidekick, has been with me through every fall, every stubborn attempt to stay upright, every tear behind closed doors. It changes how I move through the world, helping me stand taller even when my body resists.
The sting of needing support softens when that support feels chosen rather than imposed. I didn’t settle for something that made me disappear. I chose something that made me feel more like me. Because if disability is unavoidable, I might as well accessorise.
"If disability is unavoidable, I might as well accessorise." Share on XA Little Braver With Support
On the days I use it, I feel a shift inside myself. I’m braver. Less apologetic. I stop trying to pre-emptively explain my existence.
My crutch becomes part of my outfit, part of my presence, part of how I show up. It reminds me that disability doesn’t erase joy or style. And honestly? It feels really good when people compliment my bright pink, leopard-print crutch.
The Imposter Syndrome Still Whispers
Even so, the doubt doesn’t vanish.
There are moments when I wonder: am I using this because I truly need it, or because I’m afraid? And then my legs buckle, or begin to give way, and the answer arrives clear and unarguable.
Yes. I need it. Trusting my body means listening when it asks for support, even if it didn’t ask yesterday.
Learning A New Measure of Success With a Dynamic Disability
Living with a dynamic disability is a life of constant recalibration. I plan less rigidly now, building flexibility into my days and scheduling rest with the same intention I once reserved for productivity.
Success is no longer about how much I’ve done. It’s about whether I’ve respected my limits.
"Success is no longer about how much I’ve done. It’s about whether I’ve respected my limits.” Share on XMaking Peace With a Changing Body
The grief for my former body remains, along with days when the unfairness of it all feels especially heavy. I didn’t consent to the uncertainty, the negotiations, or the constant self-doubt that came with it.
But slowly, I’m learning that my body isn’t my enemy. It isn’t lying to me. It’s speaking in a language I’m still learning to understand.
I Am Not an Imposter – I Am Complex
I walk unaided some days and lean on a crutch on others—capable and limited all at once. I’m not an imposter; I’m complex.
"I walk unaided some days and lean on a crutch on others—capable and limited all at once. I’m not an imposter; I’m complex." Share on XMy disability is real even when it’s invisible. My support is valid even when it changes. Because disability looks different for everyone and can change from one day to the next in the same body.
My pink, leopard-print crutch doesn’t contradict my strength. It complements it.
"My pink, leopard-print crutch doesn’t contradict my strength. It complements it." Share on XShowing Up, However I Can
When people ask how I am, I try not to default to fine. Sometimes I say, “I’m managing.” Sometimes, “Today’s a crutch kind of day.” Other times, I simply say, “I’m here.”
And that is enough.
I show up in whatever way my body allows that day: not as a failure, but as an act of resilience and honesty. It’s me, standing in the middle of unpredictability, choosing adaptation over denial, colour over invisibility, and compassion over shame.
"I show up in whatever way my body allows that day: not as a failure, but as an act of resilience and honesty." Share on XAnd often, I do it in pink leopard print.
