Growing up, I never failed to understand what it meant to be “disabled.” I knew it wasn’t easy, one size fits all, and that it didn’t define an individual. In fact, my mom, the strongest and most lively person I know, has battled rheumatoid arthritis ever since her diagnosis fifteen years ago. Despite her bones aching with every movement, she never missed a dance recital, theater production, or school award ceremony. She emphasized the importance of living, rather than existing, by doing what you love with the people you love. With such a warrior for a mom, I knew for certain that disabled people are so much more than the label they’ve been given.
Across the world in Beirut Lebanon, I learned the versatility that the word “disabled” held. My uncle Adel’s disability wasn’t invisible like my mom’s. When he was only eight months, one misplaced vaccine paralyzed him for the rest of his life. His full body paralysis prohibits him from moving without a wheelchair, or speaking, so I use my voice for him.
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