My friends and I are currently enjoying a girls-only getaway in beautiful Oman, lounging by a stunning pool. The atmosphere is relaxed and light-hearted, as we engage in casual conversations about our jobs, boys, and the silly things we’ve done on nights out. However, it doesn’t take long for our discussion to shift to a topic that plagues many women’s minds – our bodies.
While I am surrounded by a group of stunning friends, I find myself quietly listening as they express their dissatisfaction with certain aspects of their appearance. They lament no longer being the same size or shape they were in their late teens, giving in to societal pressures that make them criticize themselves. Despite my best efforts to interject, this conversation, with its repetitive phrases of “I wish I had” and “if only I could wear”, has become almost ritualistic. These women have been conditioned to go through the motions of self-criticism, proving that they are aware of their supposed flaws.
Courageously, I speak up and tell them, “You all look absolutely amazing. Don’t buy into this nonsense!” They laugh and nod in agreement, acknowledging that the patriarchy has played a role in shaping their insecurities. However, their responses still carry a hint of uncertainty. “I know I shouldn’t care,” one admits, “but I do.”
I gaze down at my own body, sprawled out on a sun lounger. I study my curved spine, my uneven hips, and my hands twisted outwards, all trademarks of my cerebral palsy. A wry smile forms on my lips as I reflect on my situation. I look at my disabled body, one that is often marginalized and desexualized by an ableist society, and I think to myself, “Thank you, you’ve spared me from all this nonsense.”
I haven’t always been so accepting and appreciative of my body. As a child, I was shielded from ableism by the love and support of my family and friends (young kids are remarkably unfazed by differences). However, during my teenage years, self-consciousness and bullying took their toll, especially in an era fixated on appearance like the 00s. My worries were not centered around whether I looked pretty or cool, but rather, how visible my disability was (spoiler alert: very visible).
I have never felt as exposed as I did during swimming lessons in year 7. The entire class would watch as I transferred into a hoist and then sat, shivering in my swimsuit, while the teachers figured out how to lower me into the water. This happened every week, and although eventually no one gave it a second thought, the damage was already done. The shame had seeped into my soul.
Beyond the pool, other insecurities began to pile up. I became fixated on whether a particular outfit from Topshop accentuated or hid my scoliosis-curved spine, as if the curvature was more noticeable than the wheelchair I sat in. This led to some quirky and contradicting fashion choices, such as oversized yet vibrant-colored jumpers that became my unofficial uniform in a school without dress codes. They served as my armor as I navigated through the turbulent waters of ableism – baggy enough to conceal the unique contours of my body, but bold enough to convince myself that people were staring at the luminous orange knit instead of my disability.
I understand the struggles faced by my friends, but their insecurities about minor weight gain or how their hair falls seem almost trivial to me. It never occurred to me to question whether I liked how I looked beyond the lens of my disability. My body was merely a physical challenge to overcome, devoid of any aesthetic value. While my peers experimented with different styles and ever-changing hair colors, I clung to the same faded jeans and too-small hoodie, oblivious to whether they truly reflected my identity. When I got dressed in the morning, my mind was occupied with worries about the day ahead and whether my body would cause me any more difficulties rather than pondering over my fashion choices.
Reflecting back, it’s difficult to comprehend how deeply I internalized the toxic blend of ableism, sexism, and teenage insecurity that made me yearn to appear “less disabled” (a notion I now find deeply uncomfortable for various reasons, primarily because there is no singular “look” associated with disability). Like most teenagers, I had an intense desire to avoid being noticed, so being in a body that was becoming increasingly conspicuous was mortifying. As a girl, burdened by countless rules dictating how I should look and fit in, that could never be met, the struggle intensified.
Moreover, the bullying and isolation I experienced at school due to my differences – receiving exclusion from after-school meet-ups because I couldn’t participate in certain activities or because they didn’t want my support worker present – compelled me to minimize my dissimilarity, at least visually. I would have given anything not to be disabled, to blend in so seamlessly that I faded into the background.
As a disabled woman, I encountered even more negative messages about my body compared to my non-disabled peers, and this was particularly true during my youth. The gaping stares and horrified reactions, coupled with statements suggesting people would rather end their lives than live in my body, implicitly and explicitly conveyed that my body was ugly, repulsive, and defective. It embodied everything antithetical to societal ideals of femininity.
I wasn’t alone in feeling like my body was an abnormality; studies conducted during the 2000s, when I was growing up, revealed that disabled women had lower self-esteem and body image compared to their non-disabled counterparts, primarily due to social ostracism. As a teenager, I lacked the comprehension that the narratives surrounding disabled female bodies were rooted in ableist and sexist assumptions about beauty, rejecting anyone who didn’t fit the mold of being white, non-disabled, and thin. Consequently, I found myself drowning in shame, blaming my body instead of society for perpetuating my marginalization. It seemed like the logical culprit. At that moment, I hadn’t yet discovered that being mistreated due to my body did not equate to my body being inherently flawed.
Everything began to change when I arrived at Warwick University, where I was met with a newfound world of accessibility across campus and in my residence halls. Suddenly, navigating through life with my body became much more manageable. I swiftly made friends who only cared about what I could or couldn’t do, as long as they could ensure my inclusion. There was a definitive turning point when a friend called to ask whether they should cancel a long-planned society Laser Quest event, considering my disability. Rather than wanting them to cancel, I realized that being considered was what truly mattered to me. I encouraged them to continue with their plans, assuring them that I would join them at the pub afterward.
With good and empathetic friends by my side, my social life blossomed, and there were occasions when I desired to dress up and look glamorous. I distinctly remember a day during my first term when a friend styled my hair and did my makeup. I squeezed myself into a tight, green bodycon dress and gazed at my reflection in the mirror. To my surprise, I genuinely liked what I saw. However, on other days, when I wasn’t dressed up and feeling fabulous, I continued to view my body either as an insurmountable problem to be ignored or a source of anxiety. I stuck to the same limited wardrobe, hastily purchased from New Look during the early weeks of university, and repeated the outfits over and over again. One of the many reasons I avoided dating and relationships at the time was due to my firm belief that no one could find me attractive. Being desired would mean being seen, and at that point, I still didn’t want to be noticed.
I must admit, during that period, I engaged in many conversations with other women about our bodies that left me feeling bewildered and envious. While I wanted to empathize with their insecurities over barely noticeable weight gain or hair falling out of place, it all seemed almost comical to me. My perspective had shifted drastically, and I couldn’t fathom why these minor concerns held so much importance.
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