When God says “twerking’s just not for you, babe.”

One thing about being a middle eastern dancer in the 90's is that the Algerian pop music scene was happening, and I was there for it way more than a teen girl from Michigan should have been.

I discovered I was hypermobile when I started an Arabic dance class at 16 years old. I could bend in ways no one else could… and also just could never develop the muscles in certain places to do certain things.

While this led to frequent muscle spasms in my lower back starting at 19 years old, in between spasms I was quite the brilliant dancer. But nowadays, I have literally had my twerk joint removed, thanks to the hypermobility. I had some hopes of finding just the right therapist who could teach me to compensate and dance safely around the missing joint without causing damage to the remaining spine, but the pursuit of that is what let me know my hip had gone past the point of no return.

People don’t talk much about the grief that disabled people go through, with every new chronic diagnosis to incorporate into your sense of self, every new boundary you encounter with your body, every time you have to miss a social event you’d never have missed before your condition worsened… disability makes you a new person in a lot of ways, and not with your consent. And working through that hits absolutely every stage of grief, and definitely not in anything resembling any linear progression.

This usually comes with the loss of friends and sense of community, too - you’re not a coworker anymore. People ask you what you do for a living, you have to tell them you’re too disabled to work, not about the awesome job you have. Or even about the mediocre job you have that at least makes you seem productive in the conversation. Can’t go out with the girls? They’ll keep going out without you, and you won’t talk as much. Etc, etc.

And when you were raised to be a “girl boss” who just needs to “hustle harder,” there’s now a lot of work you need to do around the idea of personal productivity and value/worth, along with wondering who the hell you are now that you aren’t an employee or or a volunteer or in a book club or a long-distance hiker.

I’m not writing this because I have any answers, I’m personally three years into the really big disability questions, and I feel like a pinball in action, emotionally. I’m writing about it mostly just to get it out, talk out the feels, and hopefully my talked out feels make someone else’s unspoken feels feel less alone.

And here’s to who I am becoming! 🥂 I have absolutely no idea what that is, but I know it’s something and I know I’ll get there eventually once I properly mourn the old me and put her to rest, and get to a place of acceptance of the new me. Whenever that is.