The first impression speaks before I do.
People see it before they see me.
The awkward gait. The way I navigate space. The not-quite-smooth motion that tells its own story. I have Cerebral Palsy—mild, but not invisible. And in a world obsessed with first impressions, it speaks before I do.
Where I move best.
So I write.
Because when I write, there’s no limp in the lines. No stumble in the syntax. People read my words and don’t filter me through assumptions. They don’t see struggle before they see soul. And that matters—more than I usually admit out loud.
Words give me a kind of freedom my body doesn’t know—stretching in ways I can’t, moving in directions I’ll never physically reach, and centering my mind on the days when my body doesn’t match my momentum and my balance goes rogue. Writing lets me take up space I can’t always claim with my presence. It becomes release when I’m caged and relief when I ache.
Seen, but not quite.
People notice it because it’s real. And when they do, they either overestimate it or underestimate me. That’s the strange limbo of living in my world. Its obviousness shouldn’t be enough to define me, but it’s not quiet enough to ignore.
I don’t talk about it much—not out of shame, but because I’ve learned to move through the world without wanting to explain every hesitation, every stumble, every task that takes a little longer. My body has a different rhythm. My depth perception is off. Balance is tricky. Fine motor skills aren’t so fine. But my mind? Sharp. Intuitive. Fast—and present at depths only the intentional can see.
Too much. Too little. Too misunderstood.
That’s the kicker, really. People see my intelligence and assume ease. Or they see a physical challenge and assume limitation. Both are wrong. And both feel like trying to fit into clothes that were never meant for me.
What most don’t see.
What most don’t see is that movement isn’t automatic for me. It’s effortful. Intentional. Every motion is calculated, not casual—because pain is part of my every day. Not the kind that flares and fades, but the kind that hums in the background of everything. It doesn’t define me, but it shapes me. And it means that every action—walking across a room, reaching for a mug, standing too long—costs something. I don’t talk about it to be dramatic. I talk about it because it’s true. And because truth deserves room.
Caution isn’t coldness.
So I keep my distance more than I’d like. Not out of coldness, but caution. Because trust is currency I don’t hand out freely. Not when so many spend it on assumptions. Not when being misunderstood feels more familiar than being seen.
Fatigue is real. Not the kind that sleep fixes—the kind that builds from constantly having to prove what should already be clear. It creates a subtle kind of disconnection. A quiet frustration. A hesitancy to get too close, because too many people only see the outline and miss the depth.
Soul-deep recognition.
That’s why I cherish the few who truly see me.
I can’t even articulate the weight they carry in my life—the way their presence steadies me. When someone does see me—really see me—there’s a kind of loyalty that runs deep. Not performative, not pity-based. Just soul-deep recognition. The kind that says, “I know who you are beyond the surface,” and means it.
Brick by brick.
Confidence doesn’t come naturally. I’ve had to build it brick by brick, pushing against the voice in my head that mirrors the world’s assumptions. I work every day not to see myself through the lens of what others think I am. Some days I win. Some days I don’t. But I keep building anyway.
Living in the grey.
I’ve spent my life in that grey zone—too “able” to need most accommodations, too “disabled” to not be affected. I’ve had to build a life that makes space for contradiction. One that includes grit, grace, and a touch of rebellion.
Rebellion redefined.
Because rebellion, when you live in a body that doesn’t always cooperate, isn’t about anger. It’s about choosing not to be boxed in. It’s about creating, speaking, building, dreaming—especially when the world says, “Are you sure you can?”
Yes, I’m sure.
I’m not your inspiration story.
I’m not looking for pity. I’m not even looking for understanding, really. I’m just telling the truth. The quiet truth. The messy, powerful, misunderstood truth of being fully human in a body that does its own thing.
I’m not a before and after. I’m a here and now that keeps showing up.
Just… me.
I know some people carry this muscle-born rebellion like a badge. I don’t. I accept it. What else can I do? But I’m not a poster child. I don’t like it. I’m not grateful for it, and I’m not angry either. I’m just… me. I’m here.
I don’t need a reason. I need room.
I don’t think it happened for a reason—I think it happened. And I work with it, even when it works against me.
I don’t want to inspire people because I have it. If I’m going to inspire anyone, let it be because of what I say, not what you see.
If I inspire you—help shape a world that doesn’t consider me extraordinary just for showing up.
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