The year I first identified as disabled, I picked a word to set my intentions for the year.

I had no idea that these words would become my anchor in a chaotic tide. As I grasped for control in a cycle of mourning and rebuilding, I found this practice my grounding force.

For a decade, I’ve continued this tradition, carefully picking a word at the start of each year to guide my decisions and priorities for the 365 days to come.

Here is a glimpse into the last decade: the worlds I chose, why they mattered, how they shaped my year – and how this practice could shape yours too.

2016: The Year of Expectations

My muscles weaken and paralyze with use, due to a rare neuromuscular condition.

So, I have learned to prioritize, delegate and sit with discomfort. I have to learn how to manage, create and tailor expectations.

2016 was the year I left university, ended a four-year relationship and moved back home in need of care, with no clear path forward. I began to notice where expectations showed up, I started filtering those which were encouraging and inclusive, from those which were not - discerning unrealistic standards placed upon myself and releasing those of others.

2021: The Year I Chose Consciousness

In the most locked down city during the pandemic, I was conscious of splitting my resources between loved ones, community and my dogs.

I took advantage of the world-wide investment in accessibility and intentionally plugged back into the social consciousness through online learning spaces, zoom quizzes and communication apps.

2022: The Year I Committed to Connect(ion)

My “connect” year was a turning point. It was the year I found my ‘why’.

Hidden in a playlist of podcasts, one interview with a disability advocate spoke to the inherent value of the last 8 years of my life. The first 8 I’d spent disabled.

This interview would be the start of my journey to true connection. It stayed in my mind, guiding me through moments of isolation, early advocacy and empowering me to join an International Women’s Day campaign.

Later that year, I was scrolling Instagram and stumbled upon an online poetry course. I hadn’t written poetry since high school. Nervous to join and scared to fall short, my rational mind encouraged me to keep scrolling past the post. But one word wouldn’t leave my mind. Connect. That word — that promise to myself from January 1 — pulled me to apply, resulting in a new career trajectory.

2023 and 2024: Years of Creation and Expansion

As I left 2022 behind and entered into 2023, I realized these words don’t cease to have significance on December 31^st, they bleed into the following years. Every word is a tool for becoming the person I want to be.

Connection is my why, creation became the how and expansion was the grace to follow the winding paths.

Art and memories manifested in larger investments:

I saved for tour tickets.
I took a course to develop my artistic and writing skills.
I entered an art competition - then won it and was asked to judge the following year.
I quieted my self-doubt and joined an inclusive agency (ZBD Talent) and told authentic stories.

Creation. Expansion.

The words stuck with me as I navigated the financial challenges, health obstacles and doubts, to undergo an egg freezing cycle. I hoped the sacrifices could result in a future family and worked to accept if they didn’t.

Creation. Expansion.

In the smaller gestures of spontaneous movie nights, calls, open mics and interviews – I took comfort in hearing that my voice spoke to something inside of others.

2025: Trust-fall

Lean in.

My life evolved to include cost vs benefit risk analyses. I now located exit signs when entering any room. I didn’t know what might lay ahead but I learned to lean on those I knew had my back.

I loosened my grip on the relationships I was strangling from fear and trusted they would survive. I entrusted friends and mentors with my manuscript and embraced their feedback.

Another trust-fall.

When floods of rejection came my way (66% this year) and unsold art stacked in my bedroom, I trusted it was part of the process… then received a state grant for poetry.

And when the opportunity for a spontaneous trip overseas to pursue a career opportunity arrived, I trusted the funds would too. We filmed the project in the freezing winter ocean, my phone encased in a zip-locked bag as I bantered with my cinematographer. There in the icy ocean, I remembered my word of the year.

Trustfall.

And I knew the footage would materialize.

The Word on My Mind as We Enter a New Year : Tapestry

This year’s word was inspired by my poetry memoir. I envision the ‘tapestry’ threads of my story entwining into a unique, strong and meaningful picture, making space for the chaotic moments.

This year, I am throwing my arms open to messy developments, collaboration, representation and nurturing the radiators.

Tapestry is about discerning which thread to drop and which to pick up. Intentional presence and decisions, each word woven into our larger tapestry.

An invitation for you:

A word of the year doesn’t need to be ‘productive’. It can show up in endless ways: helping to narrow focus, encouraging self-advocacy, inspiring acts of service or simply as the push you need to try something new or take the rest you need.

If you’re thinking or choosing a word for your year, I recommend trying one or two on for ‘fit’, check if it sits snug with your current life stage, rhythms and goals or if it’s being shoved into alignment. Once you choose it, go all in. Write it somewhere you’ll see everyday and watch it transform your year.

With each passing year, my words guide me towards the life I envisioned, one choice at a time. A propulsion forward, when everything else feels still.

Tayla Richardson is a multidisciplinary artist, poet, actor and disability advocate based in Melbourne, Australia. She lives with a rare neuromuscular condition and explores narratives to connect and untangle perceptions of the nuanced human experience. You can find her on Instagram @taytay.jade

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41 years. More than four decades of living in a body that doesn’t always play by the rules. For me, life with a rare disease has always meant walking a path that is both challenging and beautiful. A journey of uncertainty balanced with perspective, resilience, and hope.

Every birthday feels like a milestone, but with a rare disease, each one also carries layers of meaning.

Gratitude for making it here. Ambiguity about what the future may hold. Resilience for what I’ve already overcome. And hope, always hope, for what is still possible.

A rare disease has shaped me in ways both visible and invisible. It has taught me lessons many people don’t encounter until much later in life: how to celebrate small victories, how to adapt gracefully when plans shift, and how to pause long enough to notice joy in the present moment. My days are not without frustration, fear, or fatigue – but they are also filled with laughter, connection, and a quiet strength that grows with each year.

Life with a rare disease is a balancing act: between advocating fiercely and resting when I need to, between accepting my reality and still allowing myself to dream beyond it.

With age, I’ve discovered a new kind of peace. I no longer measure myself by timelines or expectations that were never meant for me. Instead, I measure my life in memories made, relationships nurtured, advocacy pursued, and those quiet triumphs that only I can fully understand. Like the relief of a day when my body cooperates. Or the pride of helping someone else feel seen in their own rare journey.

41 is not just a number. It is living proof that I have faced every challenge my body has placed in front of me and still managed to find joy, meaning, and connection. My rare disease is part of my identity. But it is not the whole of me. It is woven into my story, but it does not define the entire narrative. I am still writing new chapters—with gratitude for the path behind me and determination and hope for the road ahead.

This November, I will mark 41 years of life. 41 years of living differently, but fully and authentically. With a resilience born only from the rare path. My journey may be rare, but it carries a reminder of something universal. Every single life has value, and every story, no matter how different, deserves to be seen, heard, and celebrated.

Here’s to 41 years of rare, resilient, beautiful life—and to the many chapters still unwritten.

Kendra Gottsleben is a disability and rare disease advocate, author, and speaker. She is the founder and executive director of Rare by Design, a nonprofit promoting authentic representation and inclusion, and serves as Marketing Communication Specialist at the Center for Disabilities at the University of South Dakota Sanford School of Medicine. Living with a rare disease, Kendra raises awareness, builds community, and empowers others to embrace their uniqueness. You can find her on Instagram @kegottsleben or her website.

Getting ready in the morning shouldn’t be an obstacle, but for so many disabled consumers, it is. From packaging that requires two strong hands to shade ranges that exclude entire communities, it can be easy to feel forgotten by the beauty industry.

Thanks to a new wave of brands proving that beauty can be inclusive, functional, and still aspirational, that’s finally starting to change.

For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Mariadeliz Santiago. I’m a 30-year-old beauty creator with a limb difference. I focus on making beauty more inclusive and accessible for everyone but my passion for accessibility started long before I became a beauty creator.

The five years I spent studying social work ingrained a deeper understanding of DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion) and marginalized populations and grew my passion for both. Both my lived experience and my education have made my standards “getting it right” very high.

Accessibility, for me, goes far beyond packaging, it’s about genuine effort from brands.

Are they willing to hire disabled creatives in marketing and product development? Do they support initiatives that uplift disabled people? Are they providing opportunities for disabled individuals to grow into leadership roles? Do they provide necessary accommodations to employees? Do they treat disabled workers fairly and with integrity?

The good news is, there are brands that answer yes to those questions. Here are the ones I believe are setting the bar.

Rare Beauty

As a beauty guru myself, I love high quality (and buzzy!) products. So the fact that Rare Beauty is such a leader in accessible beauty is a huge win.

The brand’s signature soft matte packaging makes products super easy to grip and open and their marketing features real people of all backgrounds. The brand has even consulted with Casa Colina Hospital and Centers for Healthcare, ensuring their products evolve with accessibility in mind. They don’t stop at creating usable products, they continuously improve, proving that accessibility is a living, breathing process. **Adds another liquid blush to my cart**

Currently in my makeup bag: The new Rare Beauty perfume: the tap-to-spray design is so easy, and the scent is warm and cozy with pistachio, caramel, and vanilla. The Soft Pinch Liquid Blush is another favorite. It blends like a dream and gives the perfect natural flush without feeling heavy, which is great for my sensitive skin.

Meloway Makeup

Meloway is a recent favorite brand that quickly made its way into my makeup bag. Their Hi-Rise Matte Lipstick has been my go-to lip: the capless, one-handed design is genius and the formula is hydrating and bold at the same time. Their Your Way Mascara, Brow Creation Gel, Meloliner, and Your Way Eyeliner + Remover are all designed to make my routine easier, with smart applicators and thoughtful touches that actually make a difference. If I’m honest, their packaging is a bit extra sometimes, but I love the formulas of all these products. They make my beauty routine fun, comfortable, and really accessible.

Human Beauty

When you’re looking for accessible brands, you’ll find brands like Rare who are “mainstream” brands making a strong effort to be inclusive, and you’ll also find brands like Human Beauty, whose primary mission is accessibility.

I believe there’s a place for both. Ultimately, if I can find products that don’t sacrifice performance or function, that’s a win.

Human Beauty stands out for this exact reason. From packaging to product formulation, the brand emphasizes that beauty should feel natural, intuitive, and human for every consumer.

I’ve been obsessed with their Makeup Therapy Palette — it’s literally shaped like a little notebook. Not only is it cute, but the layout makes it so easy to use and travel with. I love how the design feels intentional, like it was made with real people in mind. And their mission aligns with a bigger vision: beauty that embraces everyone, not just the able-bodied ideal.

Cleanlogic

I had the privilege of working with Cleanologic myself, and have seen firsthand how their mission is more than marketing.

That mission? “To be really good people, who make a really good product, that gets you really clean.” They’re the real deal.

Their body care products are assembled in the U.S. by people with disabilities and feature thoughtful design elements like easy-to-use packaging and larger print. I personally love their Dual Texture Face Cloths and Body Exfoliating Mitt. They give you more control when washing and are super easy to slip on and off, plus I love that every package includes braille.

Tilt Beauty

Tilt products continue to impress me.

Their Grip Stick is a total game-changer—the packaging is easy to open, and the formula actually feels like a real balm, softening my lips all day with sensitive-skin-friendly ingredients. Tilt really shows that packaging and usability don’t have to be an afterthought.

What makes them even more powerful is the way they center disabled people in their marketing campaigns. Their approach blends bold creativity with a commitment to making sure everyone can take part in the fun of beauty. See my full review of their lip liners here.

Barriére

While not **technically** a beauty brand, Barriére is redefining what wellness looks like in the beauty space. Their vitamins and supplements are packaged with accessibility in mind (and are so cute!), making daily health rituals easier for people with disabilities or chronic conditions. By bridging wellness and beauty, Barriére shows that accessibility isn’t limited to what goes on your skin, it’s also about what goes in your body.

Breromi

Let’s talk hair. Breromi takes inclusivity seriously, both in product development and messaging. Their mission centers disabled consumers in design, while their hair clips for all hair types show they’re thinking about inclusivity in every form. Breromi represents the future: a brand where accessibility is baked in, not bolted on.

My journey from studying social work and dedicating five years to DEI advocacy, to becoming a beauty creator and disabled model, has shown me that accessibility is never just about the product in your hand. It’s about systems, voices, and opportunities. It’s about whether a brand values disabled people enough to invite us into every stage of the process, from product design to boardroom decisions.

As consumers, we hold power. Every time we support brands that treat accessibility as a core value rather than an afterthought, we push the industry forward. And as a disabled beauty creator, I’ll continue using my platform to celebrate the brands doing it right while challenging others to do better.

Accessibility isn’t charity. It’s justice. It’s creativity. It’s business done with integrity. And it’s the future of beauty.

What are some of the accessible beauty brands you use and love?

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When I first started following other disabled folks on social media, I was 17 years into my disability, and I had never once heard of a… Life Day1.

I spent the first almost two decades of my disabled life keeping my disabled identity at arm’s length. I lived almost 20 years with my disability before ever engaging with the community.

And it makes sense: When I had my accident, I was 14. And at 14 you want to fit in. So much of my approach to the world was shaped by that desire.

So, if you had told teenage me – or even the me of three years ago – that I would be celebrating the 20th anniversary of my accident with 23 of my closest friends, I would have laughed at you and listed all the reasons why you were wrong.

But hey. Life is full of surprises. And last week I did exactly that.

When I first started planning the evening, I didn’t have a theme as much as I had a feeling. I wanted the night to feel like my life does now: full of beauty, joy, and people who make me laugh and feel loved.

I didn’t want it to be a heavy milestone. I wanted a celebration full of warmth.

So I took that feeling to my friend Alicia, who also happens to be one of the most thoughtful event planners in Vancouver. Together, we turned the jumble of pins on my “Life Day Ideas” board into something I’ll never forget.

The courtyard at Brix & Mortar became the backdrop. It was warm, cozy, and glowing. Estefani from De La Flore created the floral arrangements that brought the early hues of fall indoors. Koncept Events and Bespoke Decor pulled it all together with details that made the space feel both intentional and entirely mine.

I couldn’t resist adding my own very personal touch to the table. I wrote a card for each of the guests, with a heartfelt note of thanks and a big, bold declaration of how much I love them. The way these notes came so easily to me, and how I felt so absolutely surrounded by love during the evening, was a testament to how intentionally I’d chosen this amazing group of people.

Just before dinner, I gave a short speech where I struggled to hold back tears. (I had to stop myself while writing it multiple times because I got choked up.) I spoke not to mark the accident itself, but to honor everything that’s come after, including every single person in that room.

Here are the starting and ending pieces:

“It’s a funny thing, marking the anniversary of the most life-altering event of my life. August 25, 2005 – 20 years and one month ago, exactly – is a day I’ll never forget because it was full of fear and unknowns. It’s a day that changed my life in ways that I couldn’t have even imagined. It rewrote the future for 14-year-old Ali Cameron.

Today isn’t about celebrating what I went through on that day (that would be weird) but it is about celebrating the life that day led to. A life that feels so full and rich because of all the people in this room.

(I then went on to explain all of the things I would have missed out on by not meeting each person in the room.)

You have all shown up so intentionally and with so much love and understanding as I’ve changed my relationship with my disabled identity. You made me feel so safe to have new conversations and have been so open to evolving our friendships.

I feel so lucky and held.

So, again. Thank you all for being here with so much joy and love. This courtyard feels resplendent in it.

14-year-old me would never have believed me if I told her this is where we were headed.”

When I look back, that’s the part that matters most: the people I’ve met and forged friendships with along the way. My Life Day isn’t just about celebrating the past, it’s about claiming the future with all of its joy, identity, and community.

I hope you take this as your own reminder to celebrate the moments that have redrawn your path. Because the people that matter will show up to celebrate them with you.

Ali Cameron is a brand and content coach for disabled creators. Based in Vancouver with her husband and two pups, she’s the face behind the @seated.perspectives brand, where she focuses on celebrating disabled joy and building community with other disabled folks.

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As a visual artist, I want my work to be awe-inspiring. I want that heart-stopping moment when I’ve gone into a cathedral and seen entire walls of stained glass lit up by the sunlight.

Intense colours and fractured light. This is what has always inspired me, and I dreamed about bringing that experience into an art gallery.

But my art isn’t like that. My art is the size of a dinner plate.

I was born with the genetic condition Osteogenesis Imperfecta (aka ‘brittle bone disease’). I measure at a grand 3’7” tall and have been a power chair user since I was 6 years old.

I’m also a fine art painter.

When I first picked up a paintbrush, canvas size didn’t particularly matter to me. I was painting for myself, so I opted for ease. I chose canvases I could hold and lift comfortably, smaller ones, rarely measuring bigger than 12 inches.

But the further I journeyed into the world of painting, the more I observed the work of other artists. I couldn’t help but notice the size of their work. Paintings that were 24 inches, 36 inches, and some even bigger. Canvases that, if I had them in my own hands, would feel like painting a mural for me.

How was I ever going to be able to paint at that scale?

I became obsessed with this conundrum.

I first bought myself a tabletop easel to hold larger canvases, but I still struggled with my arm’s limited reach. I found holding my painting hand up for extended periods physically exhausting and largely impractical.

Then, when working on one of my paintings, titled “Loi Kratong,” (still the largest original painting I’ve ever done at 16x20”), I laid the canvas flat on a table and put to practice a trick I borrowed from a fellow disabled painter, Chuck Close. I’d read that he would sometimes turn his canvas upside down to make it easier to access different parts of it from his wheelchair.

This trick helped. But as I painted, I realized large canvases seemed to produce more problems than inspiration for me. Still, I wasn’t ready to give up.

In my next attempt to “go big”, I abandoned the idea of trying to paint on larger canvases. Instead, I tried creating canvas reproductions of my small original paintings. Initially, this seemed like a brilliant idea because it meant that I could work at a comfortable size and still have that visual impact I desired.

I debuted my first solo art exhibit at my wedding. It was titled “Find Your Heart(h)” and featured original pieces and prints inspired by my relationship with my husband. I populated the exhibit with a grab bag of original paintings and these 24x24” canvas prints. The show was a hit with our handful of wedding guests and the general public, who saw the exhibit at the community arts hub, where we held our ceremony.

While I was thrilled to have had my first solo exhibit, I found I was less excited about the prints. One of the coolest parts of seeing original art in a gallery was getting to see the artist’s hand in the work. But when I blew up my little paintings into these big reproductions, my hand as the artist was getting lost.

There had to be another way.

I took this exact question to a fine art consultant. I figured she might have some ideas for better ways to enlarge my paintings so that galleries and funders would be more interested in my work. What she said surprised me.

“Stop trying to paint bigger paintings. You’re a small artist, so paint small.”

It was simple. Obvious, even. But that advice changed everything for me. I stopped trying to be something that I wasn’t and started leaning hard into exactly who I was.

In August 2024, I opened “The Extraordinary, Ordinary Nature of Interabled Love,” a grant-funded solo exhibit that was an evolution of the show we’d done for our wedding. It had 44 pieces of artwork—four were 12x12” and forty were 8x8”. Each piece highlighted the ordinary moments that made up our lives together.

I’ve been told that my paintings often feel much larger than they are, and I love watching people lean in to look at all the tiny details that I put into my work.

I know in those moments that I am still having a big impact.

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When I first started wearing a prosthetic leg, I thought the goal was to make it look as close to a “real leg” as possible.

I was given a flesh-colored socket, and I’ll never forget the wave of sadness that hit me when I saw it for the first time. Instead of feeling like myself, I felt like I was supposed to hide in plain sight. The socket wasn’t even my skin tone, and with the black metal pylon sticking out beneath it, everything looked wrong. As I took my first shaky steps, embarrassment and shame washed over me.

That same day, I decided to use a walker and hobble around the mall with my sister. I was wearing shorts now and proudly showing my new leg as I practiced walking. As I made my way through the mall we passed an older woman. She looked at me, then my leg, and scowled. I could feel her look follow me as I made my way to our next stop.

That was the moment I realized: people were going to stare. And if they were going to stare, I was going to give them something worth looking at.

My sister, Trish, is an artist. She painted a shark with flowers on my prosthetic: bold, playful, impossible to ignore. Suddenly, my leg wasn’t a secret I was trying to keep. It was a story, an invitation, and in a strange way, a beacon of my strength. That shark reminded me I had survived something brutal and came out with grit, determination, and a mission to empower others on their limb-loss journey.

From there, I started to get bolder. Each new socket became a canvas: bright colors, wild patterns, art that felt like an extension of my personality. What started as a way to reclaim confidence turned into a practice of joy and an act of self-love. People didn’t look at me with pity anymore. They smiled, asked questions, and celebrated the designs with me. What once isolated me was now a bridge to connection.

My favorite leg so far has since been retired: a full shark design, inside and out, complete with a foam shark cover and glowing eyes. The first time I saw it, I cried. Equal parts gore, art, and beauty. It was stunning. It made me feel connected to my leg in a way I never had before. For the first time, I loved being bold. So bold that strangers stopped me to take photos.

That socket also gave me one of my most treasured memories.

In the summer of 2024, I spent a week as a mentor for Scarlett’s Way, a nonprofit that brings together kids with fibular hemimelia and veterans with limb loss, showing how shared challenges can lead to shared strengths. During camp, I met a boy who changed me forever. He was brave, bold, and – like me – loved sharks. A couple months after camp, his mom sent me a photo of his new prosthetic: a shark design, just like mine. Tears of joy rolled down my cheeks. And still, when I recall the first time seeing the photo, I find my cheeks wet with tears.

It was the first time since losing my leg that I felt truly understood. His new “leggy” was exactly like mine – I no longer felt alone in my limb loss journey. He continues to inspire me to keep being bold.

It’s funny how a shift in style can ripple into identity. For me, prosthetics went from being a medical device to being a form of self-expression. They became less about “fixing” who I am and more about celebrating all that I am.

Now, every time I design a new socket, I think about the version of myself who felt overwhelmed with sadness at that first flesh-colored leg. I wish I could tell her: “You don’t need to disappear. You get to stand out. And it’s going to be bolder, and better, than you can imagine.”

Kayla Inman is a motivational speaker and disability advocate who turned the loss of her leg into a story of resilience and self-expression. From the TEDx stage to community spaces, she champions bold prosthetics, peer support, and the power of turning struggle into strength.

Follow her journey on Instagram @thehappyamputee

It’s here. The start of a new semester.

And I find myself reflecting on where I was this time last year: a newly graduated high school senior with no idea what was coming my way. What I did know was that I was moving 15 hours away from home and knew nobody. I also knew that where I was going was accessible (this was a game changer for me).

As a person with cerebral palsy, access is something that runs through my brain constantly.

So when it came time to apply for colleges, finding a university that could support me physically was really important. The University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign1 has truly given me all of that and more, including the freedom to focus on being a college student first and a disability advocate second.

As I think about my first year college, there are some things that I’ve learned that I want to share with any incoming disabled college students and their support systems:

1. Know what your resources are. This is a big one. Knowing who to go to if I needed help was key. Daily things like making sure I had accessible desks in my classrooms, lifts to different floors of buildings, and coordinating personal care assistants were all very new to me. I wouldn’t have felt as confident in figuring them out if not for meeting these people ahead of the school year. Having resources is so helpful for independence, and knowing where to find them is usually half the battle.

   
   Pro tip: When I was on the college hunt, I made an effort to visit each prospective school’s disability services office. This allowed me to meet people hear about their programs face to face, and ultimately played a big role in my choice to attend the school I ended up at.

2. Try things you’ve never done before. When I got to college, I knew there would be a lot of new experiences. Still, I was hesitant to do things by myself in those first weeks. Even taking the campus bus seemed like a risk: would I get stranded somewhere? Would I know where to go or who to call? I quickly realized that everyone wants to be helpful. And, once I’d done it a couple of times, it wasn’t so bad. Before I knew it, I was flying home for breaks on my own and taking the Amtrak to Chicago to visit a friend. These were all things I had never done on my own before. It was so empowering to know that I was capable of new challenges, and as a result, the world now feels so much more open to me.
   

3. Don’t be afraid to be a new version of yourself. This doesn’t mean reinventing yourself completely, but chances are, you’re probably going to be a little different than you were in high school. Lean into that! I made lots of friends and connections that I didn’t expect or that didn’t feel like the people I would “normally” hang out with. That’s the beauty of being in a new place with new people. I got to learn a lot about different people and myself in the process, and I’m so happy with the new friends I’ve made.
   

4. It’s okay to have no idea what you’re doing. When you’re in college, lots of people ask about your plans for the future. I often feel a lot of pressure to have everything figured out: the resumes, the internships, the five year post-grad plan. The thing is, no one really knows what they’re doing. College is where we start to figure that out, but nothing is concrete. Many friends in my circle have changed their major, found something they loved more than they thought, or still haven’t set up a LinkedIn profile yet (who has?). No one truly expects you to be good at being an adult, or know exactly what you’re doing all the time.

5. Everyone is in the same boat. THIS ONE. It’s easy to feel like you’re the only one going through a messy little cocktail of feelings and new experiences, but you’re not alone. Everyone is hoping to make friends, find people to walk to class with, go be invited to a party. Even after freshman year, it can feel strange, exciting and nerve wracking to go back. Join a study group to keep yourself accountable, find friends who’ll walk to class with you, or try out a new club. You never know what you might end up loving!

Whether you're heading into your first year of college or are simply navigating new terrain as someone with a disability, I hope you find these tips helpful and remember to breathe through this time. It’s a huge change, and with that comes a lot of new feelings, but hopefully you’ll be ready to rock this semester!

Happy move-in :)

Hannah Gallivan is a college student and aspiring filmmaker. She has cerebral palsy and loves hanging out with her friends and service dog, Gabby. Find her @hannahgallivan.

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I’m popping into your inbox to give you an exciting new update! You can now be a contributing writer for Disabled&!

When I was dreaming up Disabled&, one of my biggest goals was always to share more stories from this community - to share your stories. While our shared experience as people with disabilities unites us, our lived experiences are all so diverse. And it’s these stories - the raw, powerful perspectives that you hold - that I've been eager to spotlight.

So I’m so thrilled to announce that starting this month, Disabled& is welcoming guest contributors. You’ll be hearing from brilliant disabled creatives I deeply admire. Expect tender essays on love, spicy career pivots, hilarious school memories, brilliant accessible beauty hacks and the kind of reflections that make you feel a little less alone.

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Their voices are honest, stylish, and refreshing – just like you’ve come to expect here – and I can’t wait for you to meet them.

And by the way, if you’re interested in contributing, we’d love to hear from you! Just fill out this short contributor form and we’ll be in touch.

More soon. As always, thank you for being here.

x April

P.S. - We want to keep you, our community of disabled creatives, at the forefront of our content, so we are excited to expand our storytelling on Instagram. If you’re interested in creating any content (day-in-the-life peeks, routines, interviews and more), email us at disabledand@gmail.com with a brief bio and link to your Instagram or DM us on Instagram (@disabledand)!

But first, let's back up a bit.

For most of my life, I didn’t want to talk about my limb difference. Partially because I was embarrassed. But also because I just wanted to feel normal. I rejected even thinking of myself as disabled, so the idea of embracing other disabled friends felt so distant. I didn’t want to be part of a group that made me feel different. I wanted to blend in.

That all changed when I started posting online three years ago. What began as sharing outfits turned into sharing parts of myself I’d hidden for years. And to be honest, I wasn't even ready to share a lot of it, but I kept pressing send. And the craziest thing happened…

People responded.

Not just with likes or sweet comments, but with real connection. Messages from other disabled fashion girls and stories from moms raising kids like me filled my DMs. But what I was sharing online didn’t always reflect my internal confidence (or lack thereof). Not even close.

When I got invited to my first event for disabled women two years ago, I was terrified. I didn’t know what to expect, and the thought of walking into a room full of disabled community made me... anxious, and uncomfortable. Because, it wasn't my norm. It was unfamiliar. But I kept thinking: you post about this online. You should go. So I did.

Walking into that room was a new kind of nerve-wracking, but something clicked. My discomfort turned to peace. Ease. It was the first time I was around people who just got it, without me having to explain a thing.

These women also happened to have a lot more in common with me than just the fact that we were both disabled. They loved art, design, fashion and storytelling. And suddenly I realized: these weren’t the kind of friendships I was scared of growing up, these were the ones my soul had been waiting for.

It stirred something I hadn’t felt before. I wanted to say yes more often. To go to the events. To actually seek out other disabled women, which is something I never thought I’d do.

At the same time that I was experiencing these epiphanies around the disabled community, I was discovering a gap in my own life. I was lonely. I’d just left my corporate career in the beauty industry to pursue content creation full time, and although being a content creator was (and is) my dream job, it was isolating. In my corporate days in influencer marketing, I was with people all the time. In meetings, at events, during lunch breaks. And I missed that. I missed having a built-in community.

So I spent last year doing something about it. Saying yes. Going to every nonprofit event that I could. Hosting small, casual dinner parties. A few friends here and there. Bringing young girls with limb differences together to just be girls. It wasn’t formal, it was often last minute - but I just wanted to experience as much as I could.

And every single time, I’d leave with that full-body exhale. This is what I want more of. This is what we need more of.

And then people started asking “where can we sign up for these events?” or “how can I get my daughter to one of these?” – which made me realize, it isn’t just me, April Lockhart, the disabled fashion girlie, that needs this kind of community. It’s so much bigger.

So I sat. And dreamed. And Disabled& was born.

That’s what Disabled& is. A community for disabled creatives to show up fully. With their style, their voice, their ideas, their weirdness, their brilliance. Disabled& will host community-driven events around the things disabled creatives actually care about: fashion, art, music, storytelling, connection.

It's not about overcoming disability. It’s about expanding what it means.

We poured our heart and soul into this project and truly can’t wait for you to sign up, grab tickets, and come hang out with us IRL.

At the official launch tomorrow, you’ll be able to join the community, sign up for upcoming events and shop merch on our new site. Plus, we’ll post our official launch video on Instagram.

Here’s an exclusive sneak peek of the site: disabledand.com. So check back in to the site tomorrow for merch and more events.

This is just the beginning, and I’ll share more soon, but I wanted you, my Substack friends, to be the first to know. You’ve been my sounding board, my mirror, and my safe place. You’ve helped me find the words, even when I wasn’t sure I had them.

So — come in. I saved you a seat.

Love you,
April

P.s. - some bts moments and a merch reveal for paid subscribers to be first to shop below!

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If I’m being honest, it wasn’t that long ago that I started to own my limb difference. Two years? Maybe one? I’m still learning how.

When I first posted my disabled fashion girlie series three years back, I pressed “post”... but I was still internally insecure. The confidence you saw online? It wasn’t fully there yet.

Recently, my husband told me he’s seen a real shift in me this past year. That something changed after I started connecting with other disabled women in person. That I was actually letting go of the insecurity — not just performing confidence, but living it. It meant a lot coming from him. Because from the outside, it might’ve looked like I had it all figured out years ago - but he saw me on the days it didn’t look as pretty.

For me, the turning point was community. Meeting people IRL who looked like me, and also happened to be really cool. Women I admired, and aspired to be like – right there in front of me. Not just on the internet. Not just in my own little echo chamber.

So I got curious… what did that turning point look like for other disabled women?

Here’s what they said:

1. Trisha Nguyen
Content creator and Spinal Muscular Atrophy advocate

“Academia taught me to hate being disabled. It sounds absurd to tie negativity to such a vibrant place of learning. But while I learned multiplication for the first time, I also learned multiple ways to feel shame. Body language signaled to me that I didn't belong in conversations, academic time structures told me to embody someone else, and school-wide activities revealed who they were really built for.

When I transitioned to college, those long lessons later led me to question everything academia taught me. My disability wasn't the problem; inaccessibility and ableism are. The same system that taught me to hate being disabled became the fuel to my journey to disability acceptance and disability pride.”

@trishamnguyen

2. Bri Scalesse
Model, writer, and wheelchair user living in NYC

“For a long time I did not want to be a part of the disability community. I didn’t even use the word disabled. It wasn’t until my early 20s that I found myself craving friendship with other disabled women. Once I opened the door to disabled friendships and loving other disabled people, I really started to heal my relationship with my own disability. I realized that if I did not see anything bad or wrong with other people’s bodies, why was I so harsh on my own? After accepting came self love, and after that came owning my disability as a beautiful, important part of myself.”

@briscalesse | briscalesse.substack.com

3. Madi Snow-Gould
Fiber artist and disability researcher based in Waco, TX

“It took about a decade of chronic illness for me to realize I was disabled, and longer to own it. After a long, complicated slog through the swamp of self-reflection, I accepted that ‘disability’ was the language for my experience, but once I did, I was nervous for twenty different reasons. Was I ‘disabled enough’ to use that word? Was I appropriating an experience that wasn’t mine? And if I truly was disabled, what did that mean? What was possible for my life? Could I still be beautiful, be capable, be myself?

Ultimately, it was the love of others that unraveled those knots of fear and internalized ableism. I spent some time as a caretaker, made disabled friends, and immersed myself in the written work of people with experiences like mine. In the warm glow of community connection, I considered for the first time an alternative to the deficit narrative I’d always accepted. What if instead of wrapping myself in resentment and shame, I could love my body for its difference? What if my resilience was cause for self-respect? Maybe I could reject a culture that hated my body for its vulnerability. Maybe it was time to be proud.

It became much simpler then, to use my cane, call myself disabled, and look someone in the eye when I asked for what I needed. My path to owning my disability was about connection, the joy of kinship, and reimagining the meaning of my body. That journey was the most important of my life, and I am so grateful to be exactly the way I am.”}

@confetti.weaves | funnybody.substack.com

4. Victoria Villar
Writer, translator, Type 3 Gaucher disease warrior

“I suppose I started really embracing how I was different when I had a bad accident at 21. For the first time ever I was faced head on with the fact that I had been disabled my whole life, but it wasn’t until that moment. That I didn’t have a choice, but to face it. From that day forward, I began to realize that what made me different is what made me unique. Plus, I realized that life was boring trying to be like everyone else. I see the world differently, not in-spite of it but because of it. It’s made me a kinder more gentle person. I truly believe that I wouldn’t be the person that I am without it.”

@victoriavillar94

5. Lauren Grier, 33
Disability advocate, clothing brand owner, model, and Ms. Wheelchair NY brand ambassador, who was born with Cerebral Palsy

“I began to embrace my disability during high school, but that confidence wavered in college as I tried to blend in with my non-disabled peers. Having attended a school exclusively for disabled students throughout my childhood, my disability rarely crossed my mind, except in public settings where my family would bolster my spirits against stares or unkind remarks. However, college challenged my self-perception, making me question whether I could still identify as the proud disabled girl I once was. Despite forming friendships, I felt the weight of my differences, anticipating the stares in class and the misunderstandings during presentations.

It was a journey to rediscover my confidence, prompting me to reflect on what had empowered me before. The answer was fashion; dressing up always instilled a sense of control and self-assurance. Fashion not only allowed me to express my creativity and connect with others but also served as a source of strength during tough times. When I look good, I feel good, and fashion became my remedy, enabling me to navigate life with a renewed sense of purpose.”

@theofficial_liberianqueen | @vyctoribylauren

6. Misty Diaz
Misty is a Southern California-based athlete and model born with Spina Bifida

“Honestly, not until my late 20s. I was born with Spina Bifida, but I didn’t meet anyone else with my disability until my early 20s... and even then, she was much younger than me. This was long before social media, before hashtags could connect you to a community, before TikTok or Instagram showed you people who looked like you living full lives.

My teenage years and early 20s were incredibly tough. I battled depression, and I constantly struggled with the reality of having a disability. I was the only student with a visible disability at my school all the way through high school. It felt isolating and was a constant battle.

For years, I refused to own a full length mirror. When I finally had my own apartment in my 20s, I still avoided them, I couldn’t bring myself to fully face the crutches, the leg braces, the way my body looked. It wasn’t until my 30s that I stood in front of a full length mirror and really saw myself. And that moment changed everything.

But it didn’t stop there. True confidence didn’t come until I found something that gave me purpose and allowed me to share my story — which was running. For years, I was the only visibly disabled person at most races. Crossing those finish lines gave me not only a platform but a powerful sense of confidence. Every time I told my story, I reclaimed more of my identity. Which led me to speaking a little louder, and fully embracing the strength it took to live this life.

Owning my disability didn’t come easy, it’s still something I face daily as I age. It took heartbreak, healing, therapy, and even antidepressants. But the journey brought me to a place where I could turn my story into power and use it to educate, uplift, and connect with others walking their own path.”

@lilmistyDiaz

7. Margo Gignac
Actress, wheelchair user, spinal cord injury survivor

“I finally started fully owning my disability when I realized, the more I made it an insecurity for myself, the more insecure it made others feel about it, and didn't like the way it was making me feel. I still have my ups and downs, and mind you, it did take me maybe eight years post injury to get to that point! I think there was just a moment internally where I was just ‘over not being over it’ if that makes any sense. I just wanted to be me again, not me AND my disability. Also, getting to be on sets, whether for modeling or acting where I am fully seen physically and visually and emotionally, has really brought out my confidence in owning my self, and of course having the most beautiful community base!”

@Margo_Gignac

8. Karolína Kristína Chorváth

Multimedia storyteller, trauma practitioner, chronic illness/disability advocate, and 2024 Public Narrative LSA Teaching Fellow

“If I speak (or type) from a place of honesty, then I have to admit that I started to own my disability when there was no longer any other option. I simply got too sick to pretend otherwise. I am dynamically disabled and spent most of my life invisibly disabled. There's a lot of privilege that comes with that, as well as confusion over what community I belong to and what kinds of very necessary accommodations I feel I can ask for.

That said, owning my disabilities is one of the best things that has ever happened to me. Naming this aspect of myself helped me find my people and helped me start to envision a whole new life for myself.

You see, I believe disabled people are inherently creative. We create a world for us, inside of a world built against us. Since owning my disability, I no longer see roadblocks or impediments, but opportunities to get creative and try things I thought could never be possible.”

@karolinakristina | Musings on the Moon Newsletter

People have always tiptoed around my limb difference, trying to navigate their curiosity and my feelings in one clumsy swoop.

“April’s just a little different, sweetie.”
“She has a special arm - isn’t that so cool?”

Except it never felt cool. It felt weird. Performative. Cringe. And even as a kid, I could feel the discomfort baked into those words.

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