Hey, y’all; Karin here with a little bit of a life update. Last Saturday, March 26th, I was going out to dinner with my family. On the way there, we got into a significant accident. Luckily, there were a number of good Samaritans on the nearby beach. They helped remove me from my chair and stabilize my mother and grandmother.

Currently, I am in the medical progressive care unit with a head injury, broken clavicle, and fused neck. My mother is in a coma a the same hospital and progressing greatly. Unfortunately, my grandmother passed a few days after the accident. I will be back to posting regularly at some point, but I wanted to provide an update so you all know why I haven’t posted in a bit. I would welcome anyone who wants to reach out to contact me here.

I feel surrounded by love. I will try to continue to update as things progress, but it may be slow. Thank you all so much.

Love always, Karin.

I’m writing to you again, this time with over five more years of experiences that have helped me learn, change, and grow in every way imaginable. The first time I wrote you a letter, I was not quite 25, and just at the beginning of the chapter of life we call adulthood. 

I told you not to give up hope because everything you hated about who you were, would become important aspects of your identity and existence. I promised you that you would find acceptance, friendship, and even love, not in spite of any of who you are, but precisely because of it. I told you all these things, and they are the truth, but there’s more to the story. When I first wrote to you, I was lost, and still trying to figure out who I was, and find my place in our beautiful, complicated, and complex world.

As I write to you now, I’m not going to pretend that I have everything figured out, but I’m ready to tell you more of the story. Now, with five years of hindsight, I can tell you how all the things you are struggling with have come together to help you begin to create a life beyond anything you could ever imagine.

In this letter, I want to impart to you some of the lessons I have learned through the twists and turns of the last 15 years of my life. I want to share with you everything I wish you knew. I probably can’t get everything in this letter, but here are some of the most important ones.

As you are on the precipice of womanhood, I want to assure you that despite what everyone says, being disabled has no bearing on your femininity, or your ability to “be a girl.” Believe it or not, you will find a way to express yourself and show the world who you are through fashion and makeup. As you grow, you will worry less about blending in, and start focusing on being exactly who you want to be, no matter what anyone else thinks.

You, the girl who secretly can’t stand to look at herself in the mirror, will learn to stop trying to hide, go unnoticed, and apologize for your existence. You will find a way to accept yourself in the body that you have, instead of always pining for a different one. 

Aggie Cromwell was right all those years ago in Halloweentown. Being normal is vastly overrated. You will find so much more peace and joy in being yourself than you ever did in trying to be who everyone else thought you should be.

Take up space, and don’t apologize for it. You have stories worth telling, and a life worth living,  so speak up and speak out for what you believe is important. Take more pictures, even in moments when you don’t look perfect. Perfection is not what makes a memory important. Document messy hair and goofy smiles with friends, and allow yourself to be fully present and enjoy the perfectly imperfect moments of your existence.

I promise you, you won’t remember the number on the scale, or what you ate or didn’t eat, but you will remember the experiences you miss out on because you were too afraid to just be.

You won’t regret being yourself as much as you will regret spending years hiding from you are to appease everyone else. The best moments of your life will be those times when you let Karin be Karin without apologies.

As you grow, find and cultivate relationships that challenge you while letting you be unapologetically you.  It is in these relationships that you will find your voice and your pride. They will teach you to grapple with the hard things in life, And teach you to know better and do better.

Today I am a proud disabled woman, who lives in my life unashamed of who I am and full of passion to help other people on their journey to self-acceptance. I have come to terms with the fact that in many ways my body exists outside of societal definitions of normal, but I have come to realize that doesn't mean that I am not a beautiful, worthy, valuable, and worthwhile person.

 I have found strength in my faith, family, and community, and I have learned that I am not now nor have I ever been alone on this journey we call life. I have come to realize that the experiences I thought separated me from others, have actually provided me with some of my most important and richest relationships. I have found a way to make peace with my body, and accept myself as I am, not in spite of my flaws, but in full recognition of all aspects of me, both good and bad.

I won’t promise that everything is perfect, but I will tell you that most of the time it is better than you ever dreamed. You have risen to the challenges that nobody could’ve predicted, like finishing grad school through surgery, sickness, and a global pandemic.

 In building a life you can be proud of, you have not "overcome" your disability or any other part of your identity, but instead, learned to see them as integral parts of who you are.

 I don't have everything figured out, and I probably never will, but I know one thing. The greatest gift you can give yourself is learning to accept who you are, even if you don't always love it. There will always be parts of you that you want to change in one way or another, but learning to be your best self exactly as you are, and not waiting for a different version of you that may never arrive, is one of the most powerful and freeing things you can ever do.

Life is a journey, but it's one that's worth taking, and even when things get hard, I want you to know that they will get better, and you will be okay. Things will turn out differently than you imagine, but that doesn't mean they won't be amazing. Of all the lessons you will learn the greatest one is that you are worthy and deserving of love and respect from others, and more importantly from yourself. There is no one right way of being or existing in this world, and nobody has it all figured out, no matter what they say.

In closing, I want to encourage you to keep going. Keep learning and growing, and keep figuring out who you want to be, not who everyone else expects you to be. Life is hard, but it does get better, and there are lots of beautiful bright spots that make it all worth it, so don't ever stop fighting for what you believe in, and don't ever stop working to make the world a better and more just place.

I love you always.

Love,

30-year-old Karin

The silence in the room was palpable as I processed what had just been said. My fingers unconsciously ran down the sleeve of my sweatshirt that was far from seasonally appropriate for fall in southern Florida.

“Of course you hate your body, you’re in a wheelchair,” his words echoed around me, growing larger and larger with every passing second. I sat there stunned unable to respond, and unsure what to do next.

"Anyway,” he continued,  paying little attention to the way my body language and demeanor had shifted over the past 15 seconds, “it’s not a big deal if you skip meals sometimes. I mean it’s not like you’re thin.”

I swallowed hard and stared at the ceiling, counting seconds and trying to avoid letting my emotions betray me. After all, I thought to myself, he was right, I'm not skinny, and girls like me should hate their bodies, so maybe everyone is overreacting. Everything is fine. Everything is always fine, and now I have proof that nothing is wrong.

I continued staring at the ceiling in the dark, dank therapy room, staying uncharacteristically silent as the minutes passed. I must've zoned out, because eventually after what seemed like hours, I heard him say my name.

"I’m sorry, what did you say?" I asked quietly, coming back to myself.

"I asked if you ever hurt yourself, or had thoughts of hurting yourself," he said.

Like I would tell you, I thought to myself before answering with as much conviction as I could muster, "oh, no, of course not." My lie seemed to satisfy his sudden concern for my well-being because he smiled and said, "I'm glad to hear that. I'll see you next week."

I exited the office as quickly as I could, fidgeting with my bracelets and holding down the sleeve of my sweatshirt that just barely concealed the scars that lined my wrist. My illnesses had made me such a liar, but then again people made it easy to lie because everybody expected someone like me to be miserable and depressed, and when it came to food, people were more likely to praise me for skipping lunch than they were to be concerned.

That was not the first time I had been told that it was okay for someone like me to hate her body, to destroy it, and it wouldn't be the last.

My body has never come close to fitting even the most liberal definition of "normal" or even "socially acceptable." For all my life, I have been physically disabled and primarily used a wheelchair for mobility, and for most of my teenage years and adult life, I have been varying degrees of fat. 

I've never had the privilege of inhabiting a body that allowed me to blend in with the crowd and go unnoticed. I rarely see people who look like me on television and in other forms of media content; my very existence is so uncomfortable to many people, that I'm often the victim of unnecessary misplaced "concern" over my health and well-being.

To say the least, I have long had a complicated relationship with my body. I grew up a disabled girl in a society that makes no secret of saying who I am is the problem. I attended countless physical therapy sessions where I tried and tried and tried to be as physically normal as possible, but I never succeeded. No matter how hard I tried, it wasn't enough. I couldn't make my body fit in and look and behave like everyone else's.

Being physically disabled, my body has never been completely my own. From the time I was a child, I was bombarded with messages that convinced me that there was something wrong with my body and the way I moved through the world. Whether it was the strangers on the street or parents of classmates who would look at my mother with the most condescending pity and say, "you're so strong, I could never raise a child like that. I don't know how you do it." The people who would treat my friends like saints just for hanging out with me, or the professionals who would continuously remind me the importance of keeping my body small so that others could take care of me without too much struggle or "inconvenience," I always felt like the body I inhabited made me a problem.

I truly believed that if I could just be smaller or less disabled everything would be better and all would be right with the world. In my mind, I was in control of my destiny, and all I needed to do was fit into other people's expectations of what and who I should be, and everything would be fine. 

Pretty simple right?

Far from it.

No matter how hard I tried, my body never seemed to do what I or anyone else wanted it to do. When I was eight, I started early puberty, and among other things, gained a bunch of weight. Now, not only was I physically disabled, I wasn't small, thin, and socially acceptable. Something had to change, so I went on a diet and lost 10 pounds. I remember everyone was so proud of me. 

Thus was the beginning of what would become an all-out obsession with controlling my body and never being too much. If my body was the problem, I was going to do exactly what the doctors were always trying to do, I was going to fix it, but this time I was going to be in control.

On the outside, I always acted confident, outgoing, and self-assured, but on the inside, I was at constant war with myself for not living up to society's standards and ideals. I believed the lie that I embodied the two worst things a person could be. I was disabled, and I was fat. By now I knew I couldn't change the disability part of the equation, but I was determined to be thin. I lived in fear of my body becoming out of control.

Right before I went to college, I remember a physical therapist telling me I couldn't gain the freshman 15 because then nobody would be able to take care of me. This terrified me and sent my food obsession into overdrive. Throughout college, I vacillated between starving and binging and purging. Even though my friends saw there was a problem and tried their best to support me, it was hard to get treatment and support because the professionals thought it was normal for me to hate my body and didn't see anything wrong with "a little weight loss."

My body was meant to be despised, so of course, I was miserable. Of course, I hated my own skin, wouldn't anybody in my situation? 

Being fat and disabled, meant being allowed, and even expected to hate and destroy my body. It meant being praised for that destruction, often labeled as, "self-control."

I spent years hating and destroying my body because I wholeheartedly believed the lie that that is what people who look like me are supposed to do. I bought into diet culture hook line and sinker, and I believed that fitting into someone else's idea of beautiful or acceptable was the ultimate key to happiness. I spent years truly convinced that my body was flawed and broken, and exhibited the worst things a human being could possibly be.

That is what ableism, fatphobia, and diet culture do. They destroy you from the inside out and teach you that your body is always a problem to be fixed, conquered, or controlled. Instead of seeing all the beautiful amazing things your body does you begin to see its very existence as a failure.

Thankfully, this story doesn't end there. I'm not going to wrap it up in a pretty bow and tell you everything is perfectly okay now, but I am going to tell you that things have gotten better and that things get better. My recovery story isn't linear, and it's far from a lifetime movie, but it's real.

Eventually, with the support of my friends and family, I found the right kind of mental healthcare, a far cry from that awkward encounter in a dark therapy room in a college counseling center. I got a diagnosis of bulimia and other unspecified eating disorders. I found the right combination of medication and therapy. I talked, a lot, and I messed up even more, especially when difficult and traumatic things happened. For a long time, I vacillated between a series of unhealthy coping mechanisms, and it's just now in my 30s, that I'm really beginning to find healthy ones.

One of the most important parts of my recovery has been finding, and really learning to unapologetically use my voice and speak my truth. I'm still learning to set boundaries and to allow myself to express the full range of emotions, especially anger and frustration, but I'm getting there. For the first time in a long time, I'm focusing on growing instead of shrinking, and healing instead of destruction.

My body hasn't changed. I'm still disabled and I'm still fat, but the way I deal with it is different now.

Even when it's hard, I refuse to blame my body for the systemic failures that surround me and make living in my body 100 times more difficult than it has to be. I know that I and my body are not problems that need to be fixed, society is what needs to change. I have grown in community and through community with other people living in marginalized bodies, and I have learned that my story and my struggle are not as unique as I once thought.

When your body doesn't fit into society's standards or ideals, you are expected, and even encouraged, to break, twist, and maim yourself in order to blend in. You are expected to do whatever it takes to be as close to the ideal of the dominant culture as possible. Refusing to do that is not only radical and revolutionary, it's a necessary tool of surviving, and even thriving, in your own skin.

I accept my body, even when I don't love it because accepting my body is a radical act of self-preservation and a political statement that says my existence is nothing to apologize for.

I have written about body acceptance, fatphobia, ableism, and even eating disorders before, but I have never shared so clearly and openly the details of my story. I won't say I'm not scared to be this vulnerable, but I think the conversation around eating disorders, mental health, and disability needs to be had, and stories like mine rarely, if ever, make it to the table.

I was never the "right" kind of sick, and I didn't recover into the "right" kind of body. 

I'm writing this story now because people shouldn't have to struggle for over a decade to get help. I'm writing this because sickness and the need for support shouldn't be determined by the number on a scale. I'm writing this because I truly believe culture needs to change. I'm writing this because I know there is someone out there somewhere who needs to hear this and know they're not alone.

I still have a complicated relationship with my body, but we are finding our peace. I'm learning that I do not have to make myself smaller to make other people's lives easier and make other people less uncomfortable. I'm learning to take up space and to stop apologizing for my existence.

I'm here today because I got lucky, really lucky. I have amazingly supportive friends and family who fought for me to get the support I needed, but it shouldn't be that hard to get help when you need it. We need to stop telling the lie that thin and nondisabled are the only acceptable ways of existing. 

Being fat and disabled is not a bad thing. The way my body is and the way I move through the world is not a flaw or a moral failing. It's a completely valid and beautiful way of existing, and that is enough.

For more of my thoughts on the intersections of ableism, fatphobia, diet culture, and body politics, check out:

• When Self-Acceptance is Political: Some Thoughts on Identity and Body Politics 

• I Am Fat, and There's Nothing Wrong With That 

• As a Disabled Woman, Here's Why I Will Never Stop Posting Selfies 

• Rebellion Through Radical Self-Acceptance 

• Ending the War: Refusing to Hate Your Body as a Radical Act 

• Restricted: On the Body, Self-care, Dependence, and Ableism

If you are struggling, please please please reach out for help and support. Whatever stage you are at, please know you are "sick enough" and you deserve to have your story and experiences taken seriously. If you need help and don't know where to look, please check out some of the great resources below. Recovery is possible, and you deserve it.

Project HEAL

National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA)

Beat | The UK's Eating Disorder Charity

I’m proud to be an ambassador with Project HEAL and support the great work they are doing to make eating disorder treatment more accessible to everyone who needs it, regardless of background, socioeconomic status, body size, or any other factor or identity. 

Pandemics, politics, and more have filled this year with twists and turns that I don't think anyone expected, but amidst all the drama and dark days, I have learned a lot and realized how important it is to hold onto the things that bring you light and bring you joy whenever possible. I know I've written about the pandemic and the importance of light and joy before, but in reflecting on 2020, I realized that this unexpected year taught me many things that I want to share.

Let me start by saying that I know finding light and joy isn't always possible. Still, I think sometimes one of the problems is that we feel guilt and shame about the things that bring light and joy into our lives, particularly when the world is in the state it is today. I'm here to tell you that it is okay to find moments of joy and lightness, even in the most challenging times. It is okay to let yourself enjoy the things that matter to you whenever you can. You don't owe anyone an explanation for taking care of yourself and prioritizing your needs when you can. You matter, and your well-being is important, and 2020 has taught me first and foremost to remember that.

I'm American. Living in a capitalist society, we are often taught to prioritize productivity above everything else, but this year has taught me to slow down and put my needs and well-being above things like profit and grades. I'm not saying those things aren't important. I'm just saying that your well-being should come first, whenever possible. In 2020, I realized I had to let go of my perfectionism and focus more on living the life I wanted to live, not living the life I thought others expected me to live.

Both the pandemic and personal complications from medical procedures taught me to do the best I can to make the most of my time. Making the most of your time doesn't mean always being busy. It means doing things that are meaningful and valuable to you. Again, I realize we live in a capitalist society, and sometimes having the ability to do what matters to you isn't always available to everyone in the same way. Still, wherever possible, creating a life focused around the things you find important is more valuable and worthwhile than forcing yourself to live up to other people's expectations of success.

While 2020 taught me about the importance of joy and light, it also taught me that it's okay not to be happy and joyful 100% of the time. Yes, 2020 taught me to hold onto the beautiful moments of joy and positivity in my life, but it also taught me to acknowledge the pain and sadness we experience collectively and personally. In 2020, I started to let go of toxic positivity that tells us we always have to look on the bright side and instead acknowledge that sometimes it's okay to sit in the discomfort of sadness and pain.

It's okay to acknowledge when things suck and give voice to genuine frustration, disappointment, and anguish. It's okay to express negative emotions and refuse to apologize for them. It's okay to be sad or wish things were different at times. Acknowledging that life is not perfect is not incongruent with trying to be grateful for the things you do have, however small they may be.

On a deep, personal level, I learned that things will not always go the way you want or expect. When this happens, conventional wisdom will tell you to make the best of it, and that's important, but it's okay to have moments of sadness, frustration, and disappointment as well. I will say, living my entire life as a disabled person has taught me that just because things are different than expected, it doesn't mean they can't be worthwhile, valuable, and even beautiful. That being said, it's okay to grieve your expectations of how you thought things were going to be.

The unexpected up and downs of 2020 reminded me that it's okay to reach out for help when you need it. There is no shame in needing support, and needing other people to be there for you. It is okay to ask for what you need without guilt or embarrassment. Despite what we've been told, human beings are not independent or solo creatures. We are interdependent. That means we need to rely on each other for different things, and that's okay. Support systems are about a give-and-take, and it's okay to sometimes need more support at the moment than you're able to give at the time, because I guarantee you there will be another time where you're in the position to give support to others. Never feel guilty for asking for what you need. Especially in difficult times, we need to rely on one another and remember that everyone has strengths and talents that they bring to the table.

Learning to rely on other people was particularly hard for me as a disabled person who needs a lot of care in my daily life. I felt like I was always relying on people for basic things, so I didn't want to rely on them for other things, like emotional support. Over time I learned that as much as I rely on other people, they rely on me too, just for different things and at different times. It can be easy to feel like we need people more than they need us, but I guarantee you that's not true. Everybody has something unique to offer others, and it's important to remember that you bring something important to every relationship you are in.

 Asking for help does not make you a burden. It simply makes you human.

In 2020, I learned on an even deeper level the importance of fighting for what you believe in, using your story to make a difference, and making space to be unapologetically yourself in this world. I turned 30 and 2020, and I realized that for most of my life, I was living in fear of what other people would think of me when the only person whose opinion of me should matter is my own. In 2020, I stopped apologizing for being human and taking up space in the world. I realized that refusing to apologize for the body I inhabit and how I show up in the world is a political statement and a radical act. Doing this declares that there's nothing wrong with who I am and that society needs to change, not me or my body.

This is not to say that I never make mistakes or that I don't have room to grow, because nobody is entirely unproblematic in every way. When I talk about refusing to apologize for the way I show up or take up space in this world, I mean refusing to apologize for the ways that I fall outside of society's definition of normal or acceptable. I mean owning my body and accepting it exactly the way it is, even if I'm not always completely confident or in love with everything about it. I realized, more than ever. that I get one body and one life, and I don't want to spend that life hating myself for things I can't change. Instead, I want to spend that life trying to make the world a better place for everyone regardless of the identities they hold or the bodies they inhabit. Changing me to fit society's norms would never do anything to dismantle the larger systems of oppression that make people feel like they are not acceptable or not good enough. 

Being nondisabled or thin, for example, might make it easier for me to navigate the world the way it is currently set up, but it wouldn't change the fact that the world is set up in an inherently inequitable way. It's the inequity we have to fight against, not the differences. We have to work to create a world where people are valued exactly as they are, not despite any of their identities. 2020 has made me stronger and more able to use my voice in this fight without being afraid of how people will perceive me or how they will react. I'm no longer afraid of speaking up because people will think I'm too much. Instead, I'm unable to stay silent and not be enough.

Overall, 2020 has taught me the importance of a support system and the beauty of being yourself. It has taught me to use my voice to make a difference, not just for myself but also for society. Through all the ups and downs of the last 12 months, I am so grateful for my family and friends who are always there for me no matter what. I'm grateful for the people who supported me in my lowest moments and joined me in celebrating my successes. I'm thankful for those who challenged me to grow and be better and never settle for being treated with less respect or dignity than I deserve.

2020 was not the year I expected, and parts of it were really, really hard, but I have learned to slow down and take care of myself, not as an afterthought but as a priority. 

I have learned I don't owe anyone an apology for being exactly who I am. 

I have grown even stronger in my belief that I am beautiful, whole, and worthwhile exactly as I am, and even more committed to changing this world into a more equitable place for everyone.

When first reading those words, it's possible that you think I sound a bit shallow or vapid, but for me, fashion is not about impressing other people, but crafting an image that reflects to the world how I see myself, and how I want to be seen and understood as a person.

This is particularly important to me as a physically disabled, fat woman who often has false assumptions made about her wants, needs, desires, and quality of life. In a world where I am both hyper visible, and invisible all at once, fashion gives me the tools to express to society who I am, and in many ways allows me to reclaim my femininity and womanhood that is often stripped from me.

Nothing I'm saying here is new, but that doesn't make it any less important. I've written about the importance of fashion and representation many times before, but it's a subject that is very near and dear to my heart, because learning to express myself, and craft an image that reflected how I wanted to be seen and perceived changed how I viewed my body and my place in the world.

A few years ago in an article, I said something along the lines of, "We often think of fashion as a very surface-level thing, but it gets to the core of who you are and how you present yourself to the world. Just because I'm fat and physically disabled doesn’t mean I don’t have my own style, and fashion can’t be something that I care about," and that statement still holds true for me today.

I care about fashion not just on the surface level of trying to fit in to other people's trends, but on a deeper level of having the ability to create an identity and express aspects of my personality through what I wear. This is why inclusive fashion is so important. Whether you like it or not, fashion is something we all interact with in one way or another, and regardless of our body type we deserve to have choices about what we wear, and how we present ourselves to the world. I may be fat and use a wheelchair, but I deserve to have access to clothes that represent my identity and personality, just like anybody else.

I care about fashion because it gives me a voice crafting my own identity. Fashion allows me to create and explore on my own body, as does makeup. It allows me to interact with my body in a positive way, and focus on what makes me feel beautiful, instead of always focusing on the flaws. 

Fashion gives me agency over the way I present and show up in the world. My fashion choices are deliberate, almost political statements, that in my case take back the narrative of femininity, and say that it is possible to be feminine, pretty, or beautiful in a body like mine.

Reclaiming and redefining what it means to be beautiful in a body that falls outside of society's standards of beauty is powerful and it is political. Beauty does not have to be about vanity or any of the negative things often associated with somebody who owns their appearance. Beauty and fashion can be about confidence, self-worth, and self-expression. They are important elements in expressing the person you are, however that may be.

Your style choices, and the choices you make with beauty and makeup send a message to the world, and no matter what body you live in, you should have the opportunity to craft the message that you are sending, and not have it be decided for you simply because of your body type or any other factor about you.

Fashion matters. It allows us to tell the world who we are without ever saying a word. It allows us to represent the people and the way we know ourselves to be. Fashion is much deeper than we often give it credit for. It is about self-definition, self-expression, and most importantly claiming your identity, whatever that may be.

For me, fashion allows me to express my feminine side to a world that so often tells me I'm anything but a woman. For me, fashion and beauty give me a way to show that my body is not a bad thing anyway, and that I embrace who I am. Fashion can be a tool for resisting stereotypes and the status quo, or simply trying to blend in and go unnoticed. Either way it is incredibly powerful and an important part of our daily lives, which is why everyone in every body type deserves to have options and choices rather than being forced into one style simply because of what their body looks like.

Like I said earlier, we all have to interact with fashion in one way or another, but you should have a choice about what that interaction looks like for you. Fashion and beauty should always first and foremost be about how you feel about yourself, not how you think others expect you to look or dress. You don't owe it to anyone to be pretty, or fit into a specific standard of beauty. You owe it to yourself to express who you are and be true to your own identity.

Recently, I've been thinking about why that is such an important statement for me as a disabled, fat woman living in our society. I've been thinking about the way I show up, and the way my identities shape my experience in the world, particularly in regards to being disabled.

My identities are not pieces of me. I'm not a puzzle that can be broken down and separated into its various parts. My identities are layers that overlap and meld together in unique ways to shape my experiences in the world, and make me the complex, unique, and beautiful person that I am. 

For me, disability is one of those identities. My disability, like my fatness, influences the way I move through the world, but it is not a bad thing or something to be avoided, it is simply one part, and one layer to who I am.

I posted a quote on social media saying that disability is part of what makes our world so beautiful and complex, and the response was definitely mixed.

There were quite a few people who responded and told me that disability is anything but beautiful. I've been thinking about this a lot, and I wanted to unpack a bit more in this essay, because it is not a simple thing.

Like I have said many times before, I personally see disability as an identity, not a problem or a deficit. Like any identity, disability is complex. There are good parts and bad parts to being disabled and living in a disabled body. When I talk about beauty and joy in the context of the disabled experience, that does not negate the difficult parts. Being proud of my disabled identity and culture does not mean I can't acknowledge there are parts of my disability that I definitely don't like. Yes, there are things about my disability I wish I could change, or get rid of altogether, but that doesn't mean that I wish I was able bodied or nondisabled. Don't get me wrong, I know that there are plenty of disabled people who do wish this, and do want a cure, and I have definitely been there in the past, but that's not where I'm at anymore.

For me, being disabled has brought me a community that changed my life. My disability has connected me to people who have become some of my best friends, and greatest loves. Being disabled has given me a history, and a connection to something bigger than myself. My disability is an inextricable part of the person that I am, and I cannot separate the ways in which it has influenced my life and my experiences from any of my other identities.

The truth is when I really take a hard look at it, most of the time when I think about things in my life related to disability that I wish I could change, I realize upon reflection that what I really want to change is ableism. What I mean is, that personally, I've gotten to the point where it's not things like the fact that I can't walk that bothers me, as much as it is the fact that people treat me differently, and oftentimes like I'm less than human because of it. For me, it's not being disabled that's the problem. It's the way the world responds to disability.

Instead of fighting for a cure, I want to fight against the oppression that makes disabled people feel like they are less than nondisabled people. I want to fight against the discrimination, prejudice, and lack of equity experienced not only by disabled people, but by people from a range of marginalized communities.

Most of the time, being disabled isn't actually the difficult part of my life in and of itself, sometimes it is, like when I have chronic pain, or some other medical issue, and I'm not here to discount that. Impairment is real, but most of the time the challenges I face are created by society. I have an impairment, there's no denying that, but when the real problems arise, is when my impairment meets society and there is a mismatch.

Let me explain a little bit more using some examples.

Let's start with an easy one, physical access to buildings. It took me a long time to realize that my wheelchair is not what keeps me out of inaccessible places, the lack of a ramp or elevator is. My wheelchair is not what limits me, in fact it plays a big role in liberating me, and giving me the freedom to move through the world on my own terms. The problem is that we think of ramps and elevators as an accommodation instead of an expectation.

Nobody would ever build a five-story building without stairs because we know people can't fly from floor to floor. Stairs are an expectation. We don't have to wonder if a building will have them if there's more than one story, because we already know it will, but the same is not true for ramps and elevators. Ramps and elevators are still largely seen as something special, or extra, not something expected. That's what keeps me out of buildings, not my chair.

The same logic holds true for other examples. Take the high levels of unemployment in the disability community. When you really look at things, the issue is not that disabled people are universally unqualified or unable to work. While some people's disabilities make traditional work very difficult or even impossible, that's not the case for everyone, but nondisabled people still struggle to see disabled people as qualified and valuable in the same way as a nondisabled person.

This goes beyond work and extends to relationships. The reason that you will so often see stories about somebody asking a disabled person to prom or on a date being cast as "inspirational" or "heartwarming" is because our culture views disabled people as less valuable and less desirable, but it's the culture that needs to change, not disabled people. It took me years of hating my body for things I could not control to get to this point, but I now realize that my body has never been the problem, the way other people view and understand my body is what is problematic.

My disability, my fatness, and any of my many other layers are not bad things. They are not moral failings, or something to be ashamed of, or apologize for. They don't make the broken. They don't make me ugly. They don't make me undesirable. Most importantly, they don't make me any less human or deserving of love and respect and anyone else.

When I say disabled is not a bad thing, it is a political statement, because I am openly proclaiming that the way I move through the world is not where the problem is.

When I talk about disabled joy and disabled beauty, it is political.

When I refuse to apologize for my fat, disabled body, it is political.

Even though these things seem like they are deeply personal, they are political. The way you exist in the world is political, especially if you are marginalized, because our world is set up to systematically advantage some people over others. Our society has declared that some ways of being an existing in the world are inherently better and more valuable than others. Pushing back against that is a revolutionary and inherently political act.

Identity is complicated.

We are all made up of many layers, and some of those layers of afford us more privileges than other layers. For example, the fact that I'm white means that I have privileges based on my race that make it easier for me to exist in our society the way that it is currently structured, but the fact that I'm disabled means that I experience oppression because of that specific aspect of my body that makes navigating the world more difficult and complicated. Nobody is one-dimensional, and the way the layers of our existences come together impacts every single experience we have in this world.

We need to fight against oppression and work to make our world more equitable for everyone regardless of the body they inhabit and the way they show up world. However, just because society oppresses us because of some of our identities, it doesn't mean that those identities are in themselves bad. It's the oppression that's the problem, not the oppressed.

I am disabled. I am fat. I am a myriad of things. I may not always love every part of myself, but I accept the person that I am. I will not apologize anymore for existing in my body, because I have come to realize that my body is not the problem, society is. I will acknowledge the inherent struggle of impairment, but I will also acknowledge the way that struggle is compounded by societal oppression. I will not try to fit my body into society's boxes, and I will not apologize for being different and taking up space.

I will allow myself to be, exactly as I am. I will acknowledge the struggle, but also embrace the beauty of my existence, because there is great power in refusing to see yourself, or your body, as a problem to be fixed.

In the essay from 2015, she said:

"This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal."

I know Toni Morrison wrote these words in a world that looked quite different from the one we’re living in now, but even now in this world full of pandemic, and general uncertainty, her words resonate and hold truth, and honestly, I couldn't agree more with them.

I am a writer.

Writing isn't just something I do, it's a part of who I am. It goes down deep into my soul, and sticks with me at my core. I write, because in the written word I found my voice. I found the power to persuade, activate, and even change minds. 

In telling stories, usually my own story, I realized that I am not now, nor have I ever been, alone in this world, and I learned that sharing a story can create a common thread that binds people across time and space, and shows people the richness of the identities and histories they embody.

Telling my story is an act of resistance, and a tool for justice and healing. It has shown me that I can make a difference in this world, and that who I am matters, and is good enough.

I write to document the experiences so often ignored and left unspoken in our society. I write to leave a record, and to fight against the world that would render me invisible, and proclaim I am here. I write because when everything seems dark, my words are the only tool I have to make a difference. With my words I can slay dragons and fight monsters that hide in the dark. I can give voice to truth, and share a perspective that is often lost, or willfully ignored.

I write and I create because that is where I find hope. That is where I find joy, and light. I write, because like Toni Morrison, I refuse to despair. I refuse to sit by in silence. I refuse to be sidelined by fear.

Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I channel all my pain, frustration, anger, and even joy into my work. I document my stories so that hopefully one day, people will have a glimpse into what it means to live life in a body like mine.

Even now, when I feel a sense of painfully uncertain hope, and cautious joy at the possibilities for the future, I write, because staying silent is not now, and has never been an option.

Over time, I've seen that my writing heals not only me, but others that I have never even met. I have finally closed decades old wounds that have festered because of all the things I used to leave unsaid. I have found a way to use my pain, frustration, disappointment, and the lowest points of my struggle to find my place in a community and a movement fighting for change.

Toni Morrison is right.

Now, in the uncertainty, is when artists go to work. We don't only create in times of joy, but in times of fear, and in times of pain and sorrow. Now, we create because without art, without creation there is no beauty left in the world, and there is very little hope for change.

As artists and writers, we must remember that whether we like it or not, our work is inherently political, and oftentimes revolutionary. Putting words to paper and creating things is a political act. Especially if we are marginalized in some way, our words, like our bodies make a political statement by existing in a world that often refuses to make room for them.

I'm a writer. 

I document my existence, because I know that the very fact that I exist in my body in this world is a political act. I document my existence, because there is pain, joy, and beauty in existing in a world that is not made for you. I write because telling my story really does have the power to change things, and to heal wounds, especially for people who feel alone and ignored.

So, this is why I write, in the good times, and the bad, because it is how I find my voice, my purpose, my place, and my peace in the world.

Typically, when I talk about claiming my identities I'm talking about my experience of being disabled, but today I'm here to talk about something else. I'm here to talk about another word that you may often see me use that some people find controversial or uncomfortable. I'm here to tell you why I call myself fat, and why just like when I call myself disabled, it's not a bad thing, and there's nothing wrong with it.

I've talked about accepting your body for everything that it is, even the things society tends to reject. I have explored, at least briefly, how fatphobia and ableism have intersected in my life with potentially disastrous and life scarring consequences. I have publicly called myself disabled and fat more than once, but I'm realizing that my reasons for doing this require some explanation for many people.

When I say I'm fat, I notice a lot of people get uncomfortable, and it is usually people who are smaller than me that express their discomfort the most. When I say I'm fat, people's immediate reaction is often to tell me I'm not, and that I shouldn't talk about myself like that. While I understand their intentions, and know that they likely don't mean any harm or offense, what they're doing is deeply harmful and perpetuates the idea that bodies like mine are bad and shouldn't be talked about in a realistic way.

When I call myself fat, I am not looking for someone to contradict me, or reassure me that's not the truth of my body.

I already know it is.

I am saying that fat is not something to be ashamed of or embarrassed by, it's just one way a body can be.

I am fat.

That's a fact. It's not up for debate or argument. There is nothing good or bad about it, it's just the reality of my body. When I say I am fat I am not making a judgment call on whether my body is good or bad, I'm just describing the way my body is, and the way I move through the world.

I am fat and there's nothing wrong with that. Fat is a descriptor of the way my body is, not a value judgment on my worth as a person. When we refuse to say the word fat we perpetuate the lie that fat bodies are bad bodies, a lie I believed for way too long.

In claiming my fatness, I found peace and freedom. I found in the word fat the same kind of freedom I find in the word disabled. I found the ability to express the truth of my body without sugarcoating it, or beating around the bush with awkward euphemisms that do little to explain the reality of living in a world not designed for the body that I'm in.

If you think I'm saying something negative when I use the word fat, you're missing the point. Our bodies are constantly changing and in flux, but their worth and value is permanent, and is not defined by their size or shape.

I know now that fat is not a problem that needs to be fixed. It's not something to hide from or deny, because the reality is the shape of your body does not now, and has never defined your worth as a person.

I struggled for years torturing myself in failed attempts to be thin because I believed the lie that being thin would make me more beautiful and more worthy of love, but that's simply not true. As a fat disabled woman, I am no less worthy of love, and no less valuable or beautiful than my thin, nondisabled counterparts.

The word fat describes my body and defines some of my experiences in the world, but it is not everything that I am, it's just a part of me.

Claiming your identities is a lifelong journey, and I'm still working on fully claiming mine. However, I thought I would share some of them with you so you can understand who I am and my position in the world.

I am white.

I am disabled in multiple ways.

I am a cisgender woman.

I am a writer.

I am an activist.

I am going to be a social worker.

I am a sister, a daughter, a niece, a cousin, and a best friend.

I am all these things, and I am fat too.

I am not pieces of my identities, but layers upon layers of complicated, beautiful, and complex existences that meld together to make me the person that I am.

Each of my identities is in itself whole, but each of my identities also intersects with every other identity I hold in a way that makes the experience of living with these multitude of layers different and distinct from living with any one of them on its own.

Being fat doesn't take away from any of my other identities, but is an identity and an experience in its own right. It shapes the way I am understood and seen in our society, and the way I move through and interact with our world. It is one of the many layers that makes me the beautiful and complex person that I am.

I am everything that I am, all while being fat, and being disabled, not in spite of those things. My disability, and my fatness cannot be separated from all my other identities because they are a part of me. These things influence the way I have come to experience everything in my life, whether I like it or not.

I am fat and I have come to realize that there's no shame in that. Calling myself fat as a fat person is no different than a thin person saying they're thin. Fat is not taboo. It's not a word that needs to be said only in whispers in dark unlit corners. It is not derogatory. It is not an insult. It is not a value judgment, and it's not a bad thing.

It just is.

I've made no secret of the fact that I think representation in fashion is essential for people in non normative bodies because clothing is one of the main ways we have to express who we are and how we would like to be seen, and if you don't see people like you wearing the clothing you want, it can be hard to imagine that there's a place for you, especially when you're younger, and already struggling with your self image because of everything that makes you different.

As both a fat and visibly disabled woman, my body is often immediately cast as unworthy, gross, or undesirable, and it can make it really hard for me to feel comfortable and beautiful in my own skin.

As a fat, visibly disabled woman I go through the world feeling invisible, and hyper visible all at once. I rarely see my body represented in the media, but I can't roll down the street without being stared at, or even sometimes being asked inappropriate questions about my body.

As I have written about before, it has taken me a long time, but I have come to accept my body just the way it is. Now, I refuse to hate myself or be ashamed of the body I inhabit. I refuse to measure my worth and value by my clothing size or a number on the scale. I have come to know that there is nothing wrong with being exactly who I am, and found expression through fashion and makeup, but I still long to see people who look like me in one way or another represented in mainstream media and fashion. Even though I have accepted who I am, I still long for the day when the rest of society, and the world, will know my body is not broken or disgusting, but worthy and beautiful.

This is why I was so excited when I stumbled across ModCloth's home page while looking for cute new clothes. I was scrolling down the page and came across a set of four photos, when I looked closer I was completely shocked and totally delighted. One of the photos featured a beautiful plus size woman wearing dresses and makeup like the ones I often like to rock, and one of the photos featured a gorgeous woman using a wheelchair and looking as fashionable as ever.

I was elated.

Here I was seeing myself in a brand I love.

It's no secret that my love affair with ModCloth goes back a while. I've always known them to be an inclusive brand, and I know from my experience at their pop-up in Washington DC that they value all people, and they will go out of their way to make mistakes right when it comes to something like accessibility. So in one way, I guess I shouldn't be surprised that they are embracing bodies like mine, but I was.

I looked at the ad, and thought back for a minute what it would've felt like to see representation like that when I was 15, and totally at war with my body, and I know it would've changed everything. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying representation in fashion will completely revolutionize the way society thinks about non normative bodies overnight, but it's definitely an important starting point.

When mainstream brands use diverse models and include disability and body size in that equation, they are sending the message that all bodies truly are worthy and beautiful just the way they are. They're saying that people in non normative bodies are beautiful as is, not in spite of the things that make them different.. They are saying that those of us in bodies like that matter, and have a place with them and their company, and when you're used to being invisible at the very best, and at the very least feeling like you're on a sideshow display, that is revolutionary.

I know this is just one small step, and we have a long way to go before we see a truly diverse and representative fashion industry that embraces people living at intersections of all forms of body diversity, but this gives me hope that we can get there.

I hope to one day see fat, disabled, and otherwise diverse body types in every store window, every fashion magazine, and on the runway, but I know that that is a really long journey, and so I will celebrate the little wins along the way.

I know you're scared, holding a 3 lbs. 12 oz. baby girl who can't even breathe on her own, but I'm here to tell you that everything will be okay.

I'm here to tell you that with your support that baby girl will grow into a strong independent woman who is sure and confident about her place in this world. You will become her greatest advocate, and you will teach her that it is okay to be different, and that being disabled does not mean you're less valuable or worthy of respect in this world.

I can't imagine what you're feeling in this moment as all your expectations for what your child would be like change in a matter of minutes. I know everything feels uncertain, and in a few months you will find out that your daughter has cerebral palsy, but you will quickly learn that that's not necessarily a bad thing.

It is true that disability will color many of your, and all of her experiences in this world, but even though there will be struggles, she will learn that being disabled is not a bad thing. In her disabled life, she will find beauty, joy, love, fulfilling relationships, and purpose beyond what you could ever imagine.

Disability will shape the way she moves through the world, but it will  not always be a burden. It will bring you and her, and your entire family a vibrant community, new experiences, and opportunities to see the world differently.

As a grown disabled woman I'm here to tell you that living a disabled life does not mean living a less worthy, joyful, important, beautiful, or valuable life. I'm here to tell you that being disabled is not a bad thing, it's just part of the diversity that makes our world so amazing. I'm here to tell you that your daughter will grow to know these things as truth, and learn to embrace her differences, and everything that makes her who she is.

I'm here to tell you that the greatest thing you can do for her, now and forever is teach her to find her place in this world, and fight for her own equitable treatment, and the equitable treatment of others in this world. 

From you, she will learn to find and use her voice to make the world a better place for herself and others. She will learn to see who she is as valuable, and will always be good enough. It will take time, but she will learn to love and accept herself exactly as she is, disability and all.

I am not you, so I don't know what your expectations were for her life, but I can tell you with certainty that in time the life she wants and creates for herself will meet and exceed any of your wildest dreams.

So today, in the beginning, I want you to know that in all the uncertainty there is hope for a beautiful, valuable, joyful, and purposeful future. I want you to know that the coming diagnosis is not the end of anything but the beginning of a new journey.. I want you to know that she will grow and change, just like all children do, and she will learn that it is okay for her to be exactly who she is. In the beginning, I want you to know that it's okay to be scared, but I also want you to know that although things may be vastly different than what you had planned, they will be beautiful.

I want you to know that for all your mother-daughter ups and downs she will be immensely grateful for the role you play in her life, and the advocate and activist you teach her to be. I want you to know that this is a journey, and it's okay to feel whatever it is you feel in this moment, but things really will be more than okay. I want you to know without any uncertainty that this is not the end of your dreams for your child, but the beginning of new dreams that are more powerful and more beautiful than you could ever imagine.

Love Always,

Your Daughter

While I appreciate people's intent in sharing them, I don't think that statement is true, and I think that there are even times when statements like that can be downright dangerous. 

I grew up believing I had to be nice to everyone, no matter the cost to me. I often worried that if I was "too harsh", too loud, too opinionated, or just generally took up too much space, people would see me as a problem. 

I constantly did mental gymnastics to avoid coming off as mean or "bitchy", and in what may come as a surprise to people who know me now, this often led me not to speak up when I wanted or needed to because I didn't want to rock the boat or upset anyone, so instead I ended up being the one not getting my needs met, or being put in uncomfortable positions time and time again.

I watched my male counterparts be praised for their assertiveness, while I was told I talked too much. I watched boys be called natural leaders while I was called bossy, and so maybe without meaning to, I learned to stay quiet in so many situations where quietness was the last thing that was called for.

As a woman, especially, a disabled woman, people and society taught me that if I wanted people to like me, I had to be nice all the time, and I had to avoid doing anything that would make other people feel uncomfortable, without consideration for whether or not I felt that way, but I'm here today to tell you niceness is a trap.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying you should be cruel, or mean to people for no reason, but I am saying that it is totally okay to stand up for yourself and advocate for your needs, even if that means causing discomfort or rocking the boat.

Niceness is a trap laid to get marginalized people to stop standing up to oppression, and stop calling out injustice. So often calls for niceness and kindness are one-sided, with all the weight being put on the most marginalized people in the situation. So often, society demands that oppressed people be "nice", "kind", or "understanding" towards their oppressors without demanding the same in return.

Niceness is a trap created to make people afraid to speak out against the dominant group for fear of looking rude or disrespectful. Niceness is a trap used to silence, and write people off simply because they used the "wrong tone" or sounded "too angry" in the face of absolute injustice.

Despite what common rhetoric would tell you, kindness doesn't come without a cost. It isn't free, and you can't just go around demanding it from people without doing the work to earn it in return. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about growth and change, and I think we should show compassion to people trying to grow and to better, but if someone is not willing to put in the work to learn, and stop perpetuating active harm against others, you are under no obligation to respond with nothing more than niceness or kindness and understanding.

 It is okay to call people out when they hurt you or cross your boundaries.

It is okay to say no, and to tell other people when they've gone too far, without worrying about whether or not you're being nice.

I can't tell you the number of times I've stayed in uncomfortable, and downright dangerous situations because I was afraid of being perceived as mean, and I'm just not willing to do that anymore. I'm not willing to silence myself just so other people never have to experience a moment of discomfort. I'm not willing to give away pieces of my soul to keep everyone else happy. I'm just not.

Niceness and kindness are great ideals to strive for in general, but I think when we talk about them as a culture we have to ask ourselves who is being told to be nice, and at what cost?

As for me, I'm no longer afraid of being too loud or taking up too much space. I'm no longer ashamed that I talk too much or make my opinion known.

Yes, I will be nice whenever possible, but I won't let niceness come before self-respect, dignity, and self-preservation, and I won't be afraid to get sassy when necessary.

I will not out shout people, but I will be heard.

I will be seen.

I will be valued.

I will be respected.

I will be treated like a whole person with rights, dignity, and worth.

Absolutely none of this is up for debate.

My kindness is earned with genuine respect and equitable treatment.

Never again will I let my fear of being called a bitch make me go silent.

“We must make the promise of the country real for everybody — no matter their race, their ethnicity, their faith, their identity, or their disability.”

In that moment, my heart felt fuller than I ever knew was possible. I was listening to the 46th President honor and acknowledge so many people, including me, and my community. It may seem simple, but when your experiences are so often ignored and erased, hearing someone— especially someone in power, acknowledge the importance of your existence, and your equitable treatment in society feels revolutionary.

I've talked a lot about why I became an activist, and the struggles I have experienced living as a disabled woman in this world, particularly the fears and concerns I had about a continuation of the Trump administration. So, I wanted to take a moment to write down and document why this statement is so important to me, and millions of other marginalized people in the United States.

Let me start by saying very clearly that I am not naïve. I know that statements like these do not mean that our work is anywhere near done. They do not mean that oppression will suddenly disappear, and equity and justice will happen overnight. I know all that, but that doesn't mean they're not powerful, and it doesn't mean they don't matter. 

I've often said, I became an activist because my life depended on it, and that's the truth. My activism was born out of my own struggle to find my place in this world. It was born from disappointment and realizing that the promises of our great nation often did not apply to people like me. It came from realizing that hard work and determination would not be enough to get people to realize that my disability doesn't make me less valuable than anybody else.

I dream of a world grounded in equity, where differences are not ignored, or glossed over, but rather celebrated. I dream of a world where our goal is not to pretend that everybody's the same, and needs the same things, but rather where we acknowledge people's different experiences, struggles, talents, and backgrounds, and truly believe that no one way of being is better or more deserving of respect and dignity than another. I pray and hope for a world where my disability is not seen as a bad thing, but as a valuable part of who I am. I hope for a future where people can acknowledge their privileges without defense and work on dismantling the structural oppression that keeps others down. This is the world, and the America that I dream of. This is the nation I know we can be.

When Joe Biden acknowledged my community among those deserving of the promises of this nation, I felt seen, but I also remembered why I will never stop doing the work of fighting for equity and change.

The truth is, Joe Biden's words shouldn't be considered revolutionary at all. Instead, they should be expected. Those words should be a reality for every single person in this nation.

We shouldn't live in a country where certain people have to work ten times as hard as others for half as much because of the identities they hold and the bodies they inhabit. We shouldn't live in a country where people fear elections because their very right to existence is up for debate yet again. 

I know I've said this before, but it bears repeating.

This fight isn't about Republicans versus Democrats, red versus blue, or even Trump versus Biden. It's about so much more than that. Activists are fighting for their lives, and the lives of others. We are fighting for our right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. We are fighting to matter, and have our lives seen as valuable and worthwhile, not in spite of who we are, but precisely because of it.

So, you may be wondering what does all of this have to do with the words Joe Biden spoke on November 7, 2020? Well, let me tell you.

It has everything to do with it.

The first part of fixing a problem, and of challenging inequity is being willing to openly acknowledge that it exists, and we deserve better. With his speech, Joe Biden did just that. He acknowledged that the promises of the United States of America are not yet equally real for everyone regardless of their identities, and it shouldn't be that way, because we all deserve better.

I became an activist because I genuinely believe that we are capable of better, and we deserve better, and hearing the next leader of our country acknowledge this gives me at least a little bit more hope that we can get there. It is well past time that the promises of our nation become a reality for everyone, and I won't give up, or stop doing the work that needs to be done until that dream becomes our reality.

Growing up, boys would often tell me they felt comfortable saying inappropriate things in front of me, because “I wasn’t really a girl.” It took me years to understand what they really meant, and even longer to realize that who I am has nothing to do with other people’s expectations of who I should be, and everything to do with how I see myself.

As I got older, I realized being seen as non-girl when I strongly identified as a woman and a very feminine woman at that, had to do with the male gaze, and the idea that I couldn’t be seen as an attractive or feminine because I was visibly physically disabled, and far from thin. It sounds strange, but as I got older their words began to feel more real, and I struggled to see myself as “really a girl.” I also began to feel ashamed of wanting to be pretty, and started feeling pretty was a bad thing, especially if I wanted to be revolutionary, and change the world.

I began to question my ideas of beauty and what it meant for me to be beautiful as a fat, disabled woman. For a moment, I started to think that embracing femininity was wrong because it meant I was doing what society expected of me, but then I realized that nothing could be further from the truth. For me, embracing things that made me feel beautiful was radical because I live in a body that exists outside of what society thinks can be beautiful.

I wear dresses and makeup as a sign of my rebellion against the idea that I cannot be feminine. I choose to embrace my feminine side because it makes me feel comfortable in my own skin. I wear dresses and makeup and take selfies for me, not for anyone else. I have learned to embrace my body instead of hating it, and expressing myself with makeup and clothing is a game-changer for me in a body like mine, that is so often stripped of any gender or sexuality.

I've realized that I don't have to reject the things that make me feel like who I am to be revolutionary. Instead, refusing to be erased, or rendered invisible or undesirable in my body is its own revolution. Proclaiming to the world that I see myself as beautiful is taking back and rewriting the narrative that says beautiful can never belong to someone like me.

Whether it's femininity, masculinity, or something in between, embracing the things that make you feel beautiful and comfortable in your own skin is revolutionary, especially when you live in a body that society says will never be good enough.

I rock dresses with sneakers and do my makeup every day for me, because it reminds me in a world that either erases or objectifies my body, that my body is mine, and my story mine too. Fashion reminds me that I don't have to fit into anyone else's narrative, because who I am is enough.

I am learning to be who I am 100% of the time and accept myself in my own skin. I’m learning that my body is mine, and self-expression is powerful and beautiful. I’m learning that I may not always love myself 100% of the time, but I’m learning to accept who I am, and I think acceptance is 1000 times more powerful.

Image description: image is a quote attributed to Karin Hitselberger that reads, "expressing myself with makeup and clothing is a game changer in a body like mine that is so often stripped of any gender or sexuality.”

”

”

As you enter young adulthood, there is so much I want to tell you. You're just in the process of discovering who you are. Some of your identities are readily apparent to you and to others, and others of them will still take you a few years to figure out, and that's okay. Identity is an ever-evolving process. I know right now you're about to get your first of quite a few fresh starts you will have in the coming years, and I know your greatest wish is to just blend in. Sweetheart, I know this is hard to hear, but no matter how hard you try, you will never just blend in, and in a few years you'll learn that that is one in your greatest strengths.

As you embark on your journey to Miami, I want you to know that you will make great friends. Friends who will help you re-imagine what it means to have faith, and you will find a faith that will grow and change and evolve with you, but always be there to ground you in something greater than yourself.

I know right now you have a lot of shame around your disability, and I want to tell you that you will learn about things like ableism and oppression. You will begin this education in Miami, with the help of an amazing woman and mentor who will begin to show you that your disability is nothing to be ashamed of, and introduce you to the world of critical disability studies, a field that will shape and change your path in ways I can only just begin to explain. 

In England, you will continue this education, both academically, by studying disability studies in a global context, and personally by falling in love with the most amazing, and yes also disabled, boy you'll ever meet. Your relationship with him will not only teach you that you are worthy of being loved just as you are, it will also show you once again that sometimes what started out as your greatest struggles, can bring you your greatest joys and passions. 

At Columbia, you will begin to tie it all together, realizing that yes ableism exists and has a major impact on your life, but that's only part of the story. These concepts will help you make sense of your experiences both growing up and on an everyday basis.

You will learn about oppression and how it affects you, but you will also learn about privilege. When you learn about privilege,  you may first feel defensive and wracked with guilt, but I'm here to encourage you to fight past that feeling and really engage with it. You will learn that your privilege is all things you don't have to think about when you leave the house. What I mean is, your privilege comes in the shape of your white skin, your upper-class upbringing, your education, and so many more things. You will come to see that your experiences and identity are shaped as much by your privilege as your oppression.

You will learn about intersectionality, a term that will help you understand how your experience as a   white person is so very different from the experience of people of color even though you still experience marginalization and oppression. You will come to understand the complicated layers of identity and how they affect the way people move through the world. You will reflect on your experiences and realize how much privilege allowed you to “buy normalcy” and be somewhat protected from the harshness of our society. You will want to change things, and you will take steps to do it, both in your own life and in the world around you.

I know right now you’re struggling, and all you want is to fit in and be like everybody else. Believe it or not, as you grow you will become more comfortable in your own skin, and even start to like and be proud of everything that you are. Disability, the thing that brings you the greatest shame, will become the cornerstone of your adult experience, bringing you to DC, England, and even Columbia. 

Disability will connect you to your first love from across oceans.It will give you a new community of amazing friends, many of whom will become like family. It will be the beginnings of your activism, and your experiences as a disabled woman will stoke your passion for making a change in the world. You will learn about and experience systematic oppression in your own way, but you will know that it’s different for you because you are not a person of color. 

You will learn that the greatest strength is not fitting into a broken system that treats people inequitably, but fighting against the system for liberation and freedom for all.  It may seem strange to you right now, but you will decide that you want to devote your life to fighting against oppression, and you will do this by studying to become a social worker. On this journey, you will learn to question your place in society and your role in perpetuating oppression, racism, and other forms of injustice. You will learn that racism and other forms of oppression don’t always have to be active or done with intent, but fighting against them is always an active choice, never a passive one.

I have so much more to tell you that I can’t quite put into words, so I will leave you with this final thought: never allow anyone to make you complacent in accepting your own oppression, or the oppression of others. Your job as a social worker and activist is not to help people adjust to an oppressive system, but rather to come alongside them in fighting against it, and breaking it down.

I’m proud of the person you are becoming, and I think you would be too.

Love always,

29-year-old Karin

Image description: a graphic with two photos of Karin, the top photo is Karin at age 18, and features Karin smiling wearing a red dress and striped sweater. The bottom photo is Karin at age 29, and features Karin smiling in a blue dress. Text next to the image reads, "privilege, identity, and coming into your own: a letter to my 18-year-old self. At the bottom of the image is a web address for Claiming Crip.

I've seen a lot of people talking about self-care, which is so important, and it's definitely a part of finding your joy and your light, but it's not all of it, at least not for me. To me, finding your joy and your light is about discovering those things that fuel you, and remind you that who you are is important and that your life matters. Yes, they are the things that bring you smiles, but even more than that I think finding your light and joy means finding those things that give your life purpose.

Let me explain.

To me, joy goes beyond simple happiness. Joy is a happy emotion for sure, but it's a heavy one. It's one you can hold onto, that carries you through the darkness and the uncertainty and makes you want to keep going. The things that bring you joy and light do not have to be complicated or profound, they just have to be strong enough to hold onto when the world around us gets dark.

I know things are hard right now, and we are collectively grieving the loss of what was, but that doesn’t mean we can’t find joy and hold out hope for what the future could be. In my darkest times, finding little bright spots of joy and light kept me going because the things that bring me joy and light always remind me that life is still worth living, even when it’s hard.

Everyone’s joy looks different. Perhaps it’s taking selfies and smashing standards of beauty or spending (virtual) time with friends, lovers, and family. Maybe its  rereading a favorite book, finding new adventures and stories on TV and in literature, helping others however you can, practicing your faith, or a myriad of other things.

For me, finding joy and light is about those things that make me want to keep living, keep trying, and keep fighting even when everything around you is a bit impossible. Joy is not just about a fleeting smile on your face, but rather about finding the things that give you hope, remind you of possibility, and show you your purpose.

I know that finding joy is not always simple, especially in a world full of oppression and marginalization. When you live in a marginalized body, the world constantly tries to rob you of your joy, and there can be a lot of privilege in keeping joy, and I recognize that. I recognize that when you're constantly being oppressed, finding joy can be extremely difficult, but even if you can't find joy, I hope you can find your light. That thing that helps you keep fighting against the system, and keep going even when it feels like the odds are stacked against you.

Joy and light are often hard-won, but that’s what makes them so important.

This pandemic is hard, and things are changing rapidly, but that doesn’t mean life isn’t still worth living. Even if you can’t do all the things you used to do, you most likely can find something that brings you joy and light.

If you’re struggling to find your joy, don’t be afraid to make an actual list of things that matter to you in this world. That’s how I found my joy in my darkest days.

If you’re wondering what brings me joy, here are some of the things on my joy list:

● Rediscovering the importance, value, and beauty of breakfast. As someone who has struggled for years with my relationship with food, I now find a lot of joy in being able to properly nourish my body every morning.

● Taking selfies and reminding myself to live by my own definition of beautiful and worthy.

● Video chats with friends and family who share my passion and concern for the world.

●  Listening to cheesy pop music and dancing around my room, or listening to angry punk music, and screaming along.

●  Puppies. Enough said.

●  Activism, advocacy, and helping others. I genuinely find joy and light in trying to make the world a more equitable and just place.

●  My faith, and my belief that we are not going through this for nothing, and we are not going through this alone.

● Writing and sharing my story to help remind others that no matter what we go through we are never truly alone.

These things and too many more to list, bring me joy and light. These are the things that keep me going when everything around feels dark. These are just some of the things that remind me, that life is now, and will always be, worth living.

Find your joy, whatever it is, and hold onto it like a life raft. Find those things that give you light, and don't let them go. When things are hard, and it feels like the world is at its darkest, it's important to remember that life still has purpose, beauty, and meaning.

[Image description: A black and white text image reads, “Find your joy, whatever it is, and hold onto it like a life raft. Find those things that give you light don't let them go.” The quote is attributed to Karin Hitselberger. In the bottom of the image is a web address: www.claimingcrip.com]