Where there's a wheel, there's a way

My wheelchair has been one of the most beautifully painful experiences of my life. It has returned a piece of the freedom I’d lost and given me a chance to try again. My health knocked me down, and when I couldn’t get back up, my wheelchair was there. Whilst my chair has replaced my legs, it’s replaced my legs. It forces me to confront the reality that I’m watching life unfold from the sidelines, living partially or vicariously through others, always wondering about what could have been.

The wheelchair is a constant reminder of the life I’ve lost because of the limitations it imposes. I’ve begun to notice how the world is built in ways that unintentionally exclude people with disabilities. Small barriers, like steps or a narrow doorway, can turn into walls that shut me out, reminding me that I can no longer engage with the world in the same way.

There is an overwhelming desire to return to who I was before, to take a single step on my own, to feel my legs beneath me and experience that independence once more. As someone who used to thrive on participating in sports, I often find myself wishing I could run just one more time, to feel the exhilarating freedom it once provided, something that is taken for granted by most.

The loss of independence is profound, reshaping my perception of even the simplest tasks. When I can’t rely on my own body, I’m forced to depend on others for everyday activities. Friends and family have become essential parts of my world, constantly there for me, giving me strength when mine is depleted. I’ve come to understand interdependence in a way most people never will. Letting go of that fierce independence and showing vulnerability is difficult, but the gratitude I feel for their support is beyond what words can express.

Some people treat me with pity, while others overlook me altogether, as if losing the function of my legs has somehow diminished my mental capabilities. There’s a strange disconnect that happens—people see the chair instead of the person sitting in it, making conversations uncomfortable, with well-meaning people offering encouragement that feels out of place. There are times I crave normalcy, wishing people would look beyond the wheelchair and just see me. I know they don’t fully understand my reality, and I recognise that it’s neither their fault nor mine.

This isn’t to take away from the fact that I feel immensely grateful to have a wheelchair. It’s the only thing keeping me from being bedbound, allowing me to live my life. The chair has become my means of mobility, enabling me to navigate the world in a way I otherwise could not. I am determined to try and participate in the same activities using my wheelchair, but more often than not, I am met with the disappointment that they simply aren’t physically possible.

The mental anguish of confronting tasks I know I could handle more efficiently if I could walk will always linger, but I am committed to adapting to my new reality. I am experiencing life from a different perspective. Even if it doesn’t unfold in the way I had planned, it is still mine to navigate. And so, I continue to push forward, embracing my new reality, knowing that it is just one part of my story—a story that is still being written.

since May 2024