I recently started re-reading some of my old journals.

I like to do this from time

to time because I usually find myself seeing my past in a new light that teaches
me something, especially as I get older.

Each night, I’d read several entries; some were a mere recounting of the day’s
events while others expressed that all-too-common yearning of teenage crushes.

It seemed pretty harmless and just as I remembered things happening at the

time.

But then I noticed something I’d never really paid attention to before: So many
entries were littered with words like “fat” and “ugly” — there might have even
been a “disgusting” in there too.

This is how I wrote about myself, using the cruelest of words. I wrote about
how I needed to lose weight and how no one guy would ever love me because I
was so ugly.

To say that I was stunned as I read what I had to say about myself is an
understatement. But when I thought about it through the lens of my disability, I
suppose it was inevitable that I would struggle with feelings of self-worth and
loving myself, especially in the face of our society’s toxic beauty standards.

I was born with Freeman-Sheldon syndrome, a genetic bone and muscular

disorder. I had some 25 surgeries by the time I turned 15 and spent my
childhood and teen years in a haze of hospital stays, doctors appointments and
what seemed like one surgery after another. I had surgeries to straighten joints
and muscles in my hands, knees and hips as well as surgery to correct scoliosis.
In a weird way, those medical days were sort of comforting; no matter how
serious the surgeries were, everything turned out alright.

Plus, for the first 15 years of my life, hospitals served as a cocoon of sorts,
wrapping me up and shielding me from the outside world. I knew what to
expect every time I rolled through those doors in my wheelchair — I had the
hospital-stay routine down to a science (no pun intended) and each time became
a little less scary.

As I got older, I learned pretty quickly that my disability made me different —

and for the most part, I could handle being different. I could handle all that
medical stuff. I could handle using a wheelchair to get around. And yes, they
might not have been the epitome of fashion, but I could even handle wearing
basic, clunky custom-made orthopedic shoes. Sure, it could all be frustrating at
times, but I’ve learned to adapt to the physical challenges of being disabled.

But no amount of surgeries or hospital stays could have prepared me to face life
outside those white walls. Inside the hospital, I felt safe and accepted, but
outside the hospital? Well, that was a completely different story. It’s a story that
I’ve only just begun to unpack in the last few years. It’s a story about identity
and how our society views disabled people. And, ultimately, it’s a story of a
society that is harsh and unforgiving and toxic (not to mention full of mixed
messages) when it comes to beauty standards.

Of course, these toxic beauty standards aren’t something I learned overnight;

turns out, it was a far more insidious process, one that started when I was young.
I watched Disney movies with beautiful princesses and put on elaborate fashion
shows with my Barbie dolls. I even idolized models in magazines, with their
flawless skin and perfect hair. Everything from TV shows and movies to the ads
I saw in magazines sold this idea of beauty that women, especially, should
aspire to. I kept seeing this message over and over, popping up like a neon sign
that flashed, “You must look like this!”

By the time I reached my early 20s, what had started out as just an idea of
beauty had turned into a full-fledged standard — and a toxic standard at that.

How you should look.

How you should dress.

How you should wear your hair.

Our society has a very narrow definition when it comes to beauty, and if you’re
not flawless with perfect proportions, then you’re left out of the pretty people
club. There’s no room for even the slightest deviation, which makes it all feel so
oppressive sometimes.