I Stopped Hiding My Disability, and It Opened Up New Worlds

Not every challenge was that simple, however. Because my parents were trying so hard to make me feel “normal,” that also meant I didn’t really have space to talk about my limb difference—and it was different. No matter how we tried to reframe it, other kids had two hands and I had only one.

Why I started hiding my disability

That fact that I was different hit me hard my first day of high school. I was 13, an age when kids are already very self-conscious and the need to fit in is magnified. I remember getting on the yellow school bus and one of the other kids stared just a little too long at my left arm. The staring unnerved me in a way it never had before, and I felt a sudden urge to hide my hand, so I impulsively slipped it into my pocket.

I told myself that I’d just hide it that one day, while I was trying to make

friends. But one day of hiding turned into a week, which turned into a month, which became years—25 of them to be exact.

I spent the next two decades keeping my limb difference hidden at all times. I’d keep it in my pocket, cover it with extra-long sleeves or tuck it behind bags or underneath jackets. But the thing about hiding is that the very act implies there is something bad or wrong (or else why would you need to hide it?). In my mind, I had decided that my missing hand

made me hideous and that if people knew about it they would be scared of me and not want to be around me anymore. I internalized this self-

loathing, and it only strengthened over the years. Honestly, I was terrified that if I exposed my limb difference that people would find me as ugly as I found myself. I felt lonely and scared all the time.

Dating with a limb difference

Making friendships felt challenging enough, but trying to find love felt particularly daunting. As I started dating, I made deliberate efforts to hide my limb difference. Eventually we’d reach a point in the relationship where I knew I had to tell them. I’d agonize over the “big reveal” and build it up in my mind and theirs for days. I’d tell them, “There’s something I really need to tell you,” and then leave them to imagine what terrible thing I was hiding. When I had steeled myself, I’d call them on the phone and say abruptly, “I was born missing my left hand”—and then immediately hang up before they could respond. I’d wait in shame and fear for them to call me back (which they all did, to their credit), but even then, I couldn’t bear to talk about it, so I’d let it go to the answering machine and then listen to their message later.