Navigating your 20s is tough, but with a lifelong disability, it's a masterclass in resilience - and denial. This is my story of working towards accepting my disabilities.
It all began when I was three years old when I won the autoimmune lottery with a dual diagnosis: Rheumatoid Arthritis, causing joint inflammation, and Uveitis, an inflammatory eye condition.
Even at 3, I had a curious way of processing what was happening around me. My mum recalls me turning to her before my first surgery and asking, "Why am I going to hospital? The hospital is for sick people, and I'm not sick." Pain was all I'd known, so I didn't see myself as sick - I was just me.
Primary school was rough. High-dose steroids gave me a "moon face" and excessive hair growth, and I wore glasses so thick they could double as magnifying glasses. Classmates often asked, "What's wrong with your eyes?" That word, "wrong," planted a seed that my differences were negative. I brushed these comments off and convinced myself I was just like them.
Compartmentalising became a survival skill, and at the time, it served me well. But their word choice had a deep impact on how I would come to view myself.
When the time for high school arrived, my moon face had faded, but my eyes were still the first thing people noticed - and it was unbearable. I would cry when I looked in the mirror. Conveniently, punk rock bands like My Chemical Romance were popular, so I used a fringe to hide my eye. It worked; I found my people among the alternative crowd. I sidestepped "disabled" and opted for "edgy."
But I couldn't run from a reality check for too long. At 16, my ophthalmologist told me I couldn't get a driver's license because I was legally blind. That label was life-altering.
Being legally blind meant I was officially disabled, a label that made me realise how much independence I'd be denied. That realisation filled me with anger. I was furious at the world for drawing a line I hadn't chosen to cross. I was mad that this milestone would be celebrated by my friends and not me and I felt crippled with the concept of lifelong dependency. Driving wasn't just a rite of passage; it was freedom. It was one of the first times I truly felt the weight of my disabilities.
After high school, I hit breaking point. I couldn't cope with my eye deformity and pain in one eye. I asked my ophthalmologists to remove the eye so I could get a prosthetic. They weren't on board with this request but offered a haptic shell - a covering that looked "normal." Though the pain would remain, I was excited to blend in rather than stand out.
My journey toward acceptance truly began when I was studying for a Bachelor of Communications, Digital and Social Media at UTS. Learning about digital accessibility inspired me. Suddenly, conversations about disability and capability were part of my daily life. I started sharing my own experiences, and it felt empowering rather than embarrassing. Instead of feeling like my disability was a hindrance, I began to see it as an advantage - my lived experience gave me a unique perspective, one that enriched my understanding of the world and my place in it.
But acceptance is not a straight path.
As my responsibilities grew, the weight of my disabilities became more apparent. Balancing university, work, moving out, and friendships was emotionally and physically draining. I was torn between embracing assistive tools to make life easier and clinging to the desire to appear capable, avoiding anything that drew attention to my limitations. The thought of choosing between acceptance and ease felt like an impossible tug-of-war.
If I'm honest, this internal battle continues, a reminder that acceptance is a journey.
Some days, I'm proud of how far I've come. I'll openly discuss my disability with new people or tweak my workstation settings to suit my needs without hesitation of others seeing it. Other days, I spiral, questioning how someone else will think I'm beautiful when they see my real eye. I claim my disability doesn't define me, but deep down, I know it shapes almost every aspect of my life.
Acceptance is a rollercoaster of highs and lows, shaped by others, my mental and physical health, and my ability to pursue the life I want.
But here's what I've learned: acceptance isn't about reaching a destination. It's about navigating the ride, finding moments of peace amid the chaos, and recognising the strength that comes from showing up every day as yourself. I may still struggle with negative intrusive thoughts, but I'm amazed at how far I've come since that three-year-old who declared she wasn't sick. I didn't know what lay ahead, but I also didn't know how resilient I would be.
My journey with acceptance is ongoing, but for the first time, I'm okay with that.
Natalie is a freelance writer and content creator with a passion for inclusive design. As someone who is legally blind, Natalie draws on her lived experience to advocate for accessibility and inclusion in all aspects of her work.
