In his victory speech on November 7, 2020, President-Elect Joe Biden proclaimed:

“We must make the promise of the country real for everybody — no matter their race, their ethnicity, their faith, their identity, or their disability.”

At that moment, my heart felt fuller than I ever knew was possible. I was listening to the 46th President honor and acknowledge so many people, including me, and my community. It may seem simple, but when your experiences are so often ignored and erased, hearing someone- especially someone in power, acknowledge the importance of your existence, and your equitable treatment in society feels revolutionary.

I’ve talked a lot about why I became an activist, and the struggles I have experienced living as a disabled woman in this world, particularly the fears and concerns I had about a continuation of the Trump administration. So, I wanted to take a moment to write down and document why this statement is so important to me, and millions of other marginalized people in the United States.

Let me start by saying very clearly that I am not naïve. I know that statements like these do not mean that our work is anywhere near done. They do not mean that oppression will suddenly disappear, and equity and justice will happen overnight. I know all that, but that doesn’t mean they’re not powerful, and it doesn’t mean they don’t matter.

I’ve often said, I became an activist because my life depended on it, and that’s the truth. My activism was born out of my own struggle to find my place in this world. It was born from disappointment and realizing that the promises of our great nation often did not apply to people like me. It came from realizing that hard work and determination would not be enough to get people to realize that my disability doesn’t make me less valuable than anybody else.

I dream of a world grounded in equity, where differences are not ignored, or glossed over, but rather celebrated. I dream of a world where our goal is not to pretend that everybody’s the same, and needs the same things, but rather where we acknowledge people’s different experiences, struggles, talents, and backgrounds, and truly believe that no one way of being is better or more deserving of respect and dignity than another. I pray and hope for a world where my disability is not seen as a bad thing, but as a valuable part of who I am. I hope for a future where people can acknowledge their privileges without defense and work on dismantling the structural oppression that keeps others down. This is the world and the America that I dream of. This is the nation I know we can be.

When Joe Biden acknowledged my community among those deserving of the promises of this nation, I felt seen, but I also remembered why I will never stop doing the work of fighting for equity and change.

The truth is, Joe Biden’s words shouldn’t be considered revolutionary at all. Instead, they should be expected. Those words should be a reality for every single person in this nation.

We shouldn’t live in a country where certain people have to work ten times as hard as others for half as much because of the identities they hold and the bodies they inhabit. We shouldn’t live in a country where people fear elections because their very right to exist is up for debate yet again.

I know I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating.

This fight isn’t about Republicans versus Democrats, red versus blue, or even Trump versus Biden. It’s about so much more than that. Activists are fighting for their lives and the lives of others. We are fighting for our right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. We are fighting to matter, and have our lives seen as valuable and worthwhile, not in spite of who we are, but precisely because of it.

So, you may be wondering what does all of this have to do with the words Joe Biden spoke on November 7, 2020? Well, let me tell you.

It has everything to do with it.

The first part of fixing a problem, and of challenging inequity is being willing to openly acknowledge that it exists, and we deserve better. With his speech, Joe Biden did just that. He acknowledged that the promises of the United States of America are not yet equally real for everyone regardless of their identities, and it shouldn’t be that way, because we all deserve better.

I became an activist because I genuinely believe that we are capable of better, and we deserve better, and hearing the next leader of our country acknowledge this gives me at least a little bit more hope that we can get there.

It is well past time that the promises of our nation become a reality for everyone, and I won’t give up, or stop doing the work that needs to be done until that dream becomes our reality.

Originally published at https://www.claimingcrip.com on November 8, 2020.

No matter what side you’re on, or who you voted for if you think that the fear and anxiety many people are experiencing because of the US presidential election is just about winning or losing or a difference in political opinion, you’re missing the point.

In January of 2017, 10 days after Donald Trump’s inauguration, I wrote an essay entitled, “An Open Letter to Those Who Love Me But Do Not See Me,” laying out my fears for what could happen over the next four years, and how those things would affect some people differently than others.

As a disabled woman, I wrote this essay to explain to family, friends, and even strangers how our differences in circumstance and identity meant that the decisions of this administration, and any administration for that matter, could have a vastly different impact and outcome for my life, then they would on the lives of people who are privileged in ways I am not. I wrote this essay, aware of my own privileges, but also fearful for myself, and every member of my, and any marginalized community. I wrote it because I wanted people to understand. I thought that if people really saw how politics impacts the everyday lives of others, in very real, and often frightening ways, they would better understand my objections to this new administration. Most of all, in some weird way I thought I had to explain and justify my fear and my anger, I thought I owed the world, and particularly those closest to me some kind of explanation for why I deserve the right to be my authentic self and feel like I was really a valued and respected member of society.

When I wrote this essay almost four years ago, I never imagined that we would be where we are today, sitting in the middle of a global pandemic, anxiously awaiting the results of an election that many people feel is a battle for the fate, and the very soul of our nation. I never imagined that we would still be trying to strip people of basic rights like healthcare, policing women’s rights to decide what they do with their own bodies, and arguing over whether people should have the right to marry who they love, regardless of gender and sexuality. I never imagined that I would be telling people that I fear for the future of the laws and legal precedents that let me as a disabled person live and work in my community.

These aren’t hypothetical debates, they affect real people’s lives, and they’re still up in the air. Take, for example, the fact that healthcare for millions could be at risk because of the Supreme Court case being heard on November 10, 2020, or the very real possibility that landmark cases such as Roe v. Wade, and Obergefell v. Hodges could be overturned, meaning that women will no longer have guaranteed access to safe abortions, and LGBTQ people will not be guaranteed the right to marry who they love. These decisions have real impacts on real people’s lives, and we all have to acknowledge that, no matter which side of the aisle we are on. I want to be clear that this isn’t about whether you agree with abortion, same-sex marriage, or anything else for that matter. You have the right to hold whatever personal view you hold on any issue, but those views should never dictate another person’s ability to choose what to do with their body, or how to live and love authentically. That’s not what America should be about.

It’s been four years, and there are still so many people who think that my objections and concerns about the current administration are simply a matter of politics, a matter of red versus blue, and right versus left. So at the risk of losing friends, and alienating family, I decided to write about this again, but this time I’m not trying to justify my fear and anger at the state of the country, this time I’m simply speaking my truth.

If you voted differently than me, please understand that this is not about whether I will love you when this is all over. It’s about something deeper. It’s not about my personal feelings towards anyone or my personal thoughts on any political party. It’s about what freedom really means, and whether or not you should have the right to legislate other people’s existence simply because they’re different from you in some way.

This is not me telling you what you’re supposed to believe, or even who you should, or should not have voted for. This is simply me reminding you that in this game we call life, not everyone was dealt the same hand, and that means that the same policies and decisions have very different impacts for different people. It’s important to remember that people’s experiences and identities shape the way they move through the world, and the way they are affected by the decisions made by our government, and if your very way of being always seems to be up for debate, you have every right to be frustrated, and even frightened.

I’m not asking you to apologize for anything, all I’m asking you to do is remember the privileges you have that mean you do not have to worry about losing your rights and freedoms because of how other people vote. I’m asking you to acknowledge that whether or not you like it, the outcome of this election could have life-altering consequences for people who inhabit different bodies than you.

To close, I will restate something I said in my original piece, with a bit of revision:

I’m not asking you to agree with me on every issue. In fact, when it comes to things that should be voted on and up for debate, I’m not even asking you to agree with me on one.

But here’s the thing, people’s rights to live, move, and love freely, openly, safely, and authentically in the world should never, not ever, be up for debate. You shouldn’t get to vote on whether other people who live, love, and move through the world differently than you should have the same rights as you do. That’s not justice. That’s not equality. That’s not freedom. That’s oppression, and I can’t sit back quietly and let it happen, to me, or anyone else.

Originally published at https://www.claimingcrip.com on November 5, 2020.

From the very beginning, I’ve always done the unexpected. Nothing in my life ever seems to go exactly according to plan, and after 30 years on this earth, I’ve realized I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I came into this world unexpectedly on Halloween day 1990. My parents were expecting a New Year’s baby, and instead, they got me, a Halloween baby, who would grow to be obsessed with all things magic, spooky, and witchy. I obviously don’t remember my birth, but I imagine it was filled with uncertainty, shock, and a bit of confusion, not only about the present moment but also about what the future held for a tiny, premature, baby girl, unable to even breathe on her own. I have to imagine my parents were at the very least somewhat frightened and caught off guard by my early arrival, but from day one they were my greatest supporters and advocates in the world that was certainly not ready for me or made for me.

They didn’t know it then, but the circumstances of my birth would mean that I would spend my life moving through the world differently than most people. I was diagnosed with cerebral palsy (CP) when I was less than a year old, and CP would define the way I experienced the world for the rest of my life, but I need to tell you now, that that is far from a bad thing.

Growing up visibly physically disabled wasn’t always easy. People often made assumptions and judgments about me without ever taking the time to get to know who I really was. To this day, it is hard to go down the street without being obviously stared at at least once, or seeing somebody whisper to their companions about my existence, but as I inferred above, this isn’t a sad story, and I don’t want you to feel bad for me. In fact, I tell you all this only to explain how I grew into the 30-year-old I am today. I tell you I was bullied and treated differently, only so you understand the beginning of the story, not to make you think my life is anything close to a tragedy.

I was born in the autumn of 1990, just over three months after the passage of the Americans With Disabilities Act, or ADA, a law that would greatly define my experience in the world as a disabled person. Growing up though, I was largely unaware that my existence in the body I inhabited meant that I was part of the history and a community that would ultimately change my life.

I was born different for sure, but I was also born with so many privileges, that would ultimately mean I was often protected from the ableism and prejudice of our world, especially as a child, although not completely. Growing up disabled, I often spent many hours wishing to be “normal” or “just like everybody else,” but as I came into adulthood, I learned that everything that made me different was not a weakness but a strength because it helped me see the world differently, and see potential where other people often only saw failure.

Through my disabled identity, I found community, and I found activism. I learned to use my voice, not to drown out anybody else’s story, but to amplify an experience that is often ignored. I learned to turn my shame into pride and to never settle for being treated as less than human simply because I didn’t fit into the dominant narrative. Living at least partially outside the norm of society, taught me to embrace my own strength and magic. I learned that I had the power to make a difference in the world, and change things for the better. I’m writing this today because I think that we all need to access our own magic and rise up to make a difference in our society.

As I begin my 30th year, I am so happy that I am no longer that little girl who wishes for normal, but instead, I am a strong woman who has learned to access the magic within me to make a positive difference in the world. I also now realize that normal, and the limited way that we choose to define it is probably one of the most oppressive constructs because it is intentionally designed to leave so many people out, and make them feel like they are less worthy or less desirable.

What does it mean to be normal, and who does the never-ending quest for normality that so many of us are engaged in really benefit anyway?

In the midst of a global pandemic, our focus should never be about returning to “normal,” but instead questioning who defined what was normal, who benefited, and who was left out. We have an opportunity to challenge oppressive constructs that often define our society, and work together to create a more equitable world.

Magic is the power to change things. At its core, magic is believing in your ability to make a difference, and being willing to go against the norm or what is expected of you. Magic means resisting the urge to accept the status quo, and using your power to fight for a better, more just, and more equitable future.

Today and every day, I encourage you to think about the changes you want to see in the world. I encourage you to think about your role in bringing about that change, and I hope you will reflect on how you can use your magic to create a better future.

Personally, I want to see a world where we actively fight to dismantle systematic oppression instead of upholding it.

I want to see a world where living in a body like mine is never seen as a bad thing, but instead part of the beautiful diversity that makes us who we are.

I want to see a world where the little girl that I once was never feels like she is simply a broken version of normal, but instead is taught to embrace everything that makes her who she is, and encouraged not only by her family, but also by the society around her, to find her power and magic, and use it for good.

Originally published at https://www.claimingcrip.com on November 3, 2020.

Originally published as, “The Transformative Power of Fat, Femme, Disabled Fashion” on Claiming Crip.

I’m pretty sure anyone who knows me would tell you I’m pretty much the embodiment of femininity. I love dresses and I’m makeup obsessed, with a lipstick collection that would rival any beauty store, and yet I still struggle to see myself as feminine or beautiful. Being disabled, I’m often seen as non-gendered, nonsexual, and wholly outside of any standards of beauty.

Growing up, boys would often tell me they felt comfortable saying inappropriate things in front of me, because “I wasn’t really a girl.” It took me years to understand what they really meant, and even longer to realize that who I am has nothing to do with other people’s expectations of who I should be, and everything to do with how I see myself.

As I got older, I realized being seen as non-girl when I strongly identified as a woman and a very feminine woman at that, had to do with the male gaze, and the idea that I couldn’t be seen as an attractive or feminine because I was visibly physically disabled, and far from thin. It sounds strange, but as I got older their words began to feel more real, and I struggled to see myself as “really a girl.” I also began to feel ashamed of wanting to be pretty, and started feeling pretty was a bad thing, especially if I wanted to be revolutionary, and change the world.

I began to question my ideas of beauty and what it meant for me to be beautiful as a fat, disabled woman. For a moment, I started to think that embracing femininity was wrong because it meant I was doing what society expected of me, but then I realized that nothing could be further from the truth. For me, embracing things that made me feel beautiful was radical because I live in a body that exists outside of what society thinks can be beautiful.

I wear dresses and makeup as a sign of my rebellion against the idea that I cannot be feminine. I choose to embrace my feminine side because it makes me feel comfortable in my own skin. I wear dresses and makeup and take selfies for me, not for anyone else. I have learned to embrace my body instead of hating it, and expressing myself with makeup and clothing is a game-changer for me in a body like mine, that is so often stripped of any gender or sexuality.

I’ve realized that I don’t have to reject the things that make me feel like who I am to be revolutionary. Instead, refusing to be erased, or rendered invisible or undesirable in my body is its own revolution. Proclaiming to the world that I see myself as beautiful is taking back and rewriting the narrative that says beautiful can never belong to someone like me.

Whether it’s femininity, masculinity, or something in between, embracing the things that make you feel beautiful and comfortable in your own skin is revolutionary, especially when you live in a body that society says will never be good enough.

I rock dresses with sneakers and do my makeup every day for me because it reminds me in a world that either erases or objectifies my body, that my body is mine, and my story mine too. Fashion reminds me that I don’t have to fit into anyone else’s narrative because who I am is enough.

I am learning to be who I am 100% of the time and accept myself in my own skin. I’m learning that my body is mine, and self-expression is powerful and beautiful. I’m learning that I may not always love myself 100% of the time, but I’m learning to accept who I am, and I think acceptance is 1000 times more powerful.

Originally published at https://www.claimingcrip.com on August 4, 2020.

Dear 18-year-old Karin,

As you enter young adulthood, there is so much I want to tell you. You’re just in the process of discovering who you are. Some of your identities are readily apparent to you and to others, and others of them will still take you a few years to figure out, and that’s okay. Identity is an ever-evolving process. I know right now you’re about to get your first of quite a few fresh starts you will have in the coming years, and I know your greatest wish is to just blend in. Sweetheart, I know this is hard to hear, but no matter how hard you try, you will never just blend in, and in a few years, you’ll learn that that is one in your greatest strengths.

As you embark on your journey to Miami, I want you to know that you will make great friends. Friends who will help you re-imagine what it means to have faith, and you will find a faith that will grow and change and evolve with you, but always be there to ground you in something greater than yourself.

I know right now you have a lot of shame around your disability, and I want to tell you that you will learn about things like ableism and oppression. You will begin this education in Miami, with the help of an amazing woman and mentor who will begin to show you that your disability is nothing to be ashamed of, and introduce you to the world of critical disability studies, a field that will shape and change your path in ways I can only just begin to explain.

In England, you will continue this education, both academically, by studying disability studies in a global context, and personally by falling in love with the most amazing, and yes also disabled, boy you’ll ever meet. Your relationship with him will not only teach you that you are worthy of being loved just as you are, it will also show you once again that sometimes what started out as your greatest struggles, can bring you your greatest joys and passions.

At Columbia, you will begin to tie it all together, realizing that yes ableism exists and has a major impact on your life, but that’s only part of the story. These concepts will help you make sense of your experiences both growing up and on an everyday basis.

You will learn about oppression and how it affects you, but you will also learn about privilege. When you learn about privilege, you may first feel defensive and wracked with guilt, but I’m here to encourage you to fight past that feeling and really engage with it. You will learn that your privilege is all things you don’t have to think about when you leave the house. What I mean is, your privilege comes in the shape of your white skin, your upper-class upbringing, your education, and so many more things. You will come to see that your experiences and identity are shaped as much by your privilege as your oppression.

You will learn about intersectionality, a term that will help you understand how your experience as a white person is so very different from the experience of people of color even though you still experience marginalization and oppression. You will come to understand the complicated layers of identity and how they affect the way people move through the world. You will reflect on your experiences and realize how much privilege allowed you to “buy normalcy” and be somewhat protected from the harshness of our society. You will want to change things, and you will take steps to do it, both in your own life and in the world around you.

I know right now you’re struggling, and all you want is to fit in and be like everybody else. Believe it or not, as you grow you will become more comfortable in your own skin, and even start to like and be proud of everything that you are. Disability, the thing that brings you the greatest shame, will become the cornerstone of your adult experience, bringing you to DC, England, and even Columbia.

Disability will connect you to your first love from across oceans.It will give you a new community of amazing friends, many of whom will become like family. It will be the beginnings of your activism, and your experiences as a disabled woman will stoke your passion for making a change in the world. You will learn about and experience systematic oppression in your own way, but you will know that it’s different for you because you are not a person of color.

You will learn that the greatest strength is not fitting into a broken system that treats people inequitably, but fighting against the system for liberation and freedom for all. It may seem strange to you right now, but you will decide that you want to devote your life to fighting against oppression, and you will do this by studying to become a social worker. On this journey, you will learn to question your place in society and your role in perpetuating oppression, racism, and other forms of injustice. You will learn that racism and other forms of oppression don’t always have to be active or done with intent, but fighting against them is always an active choice, never a passive one.

I have so much more to tell you that I can’t quite put into words, so I will leave you with this final thought: never allow anyone to make you complacent in accepting your own oppression, or the oppression of others. Your job as a social worker and activist is not to help people adjust to an oppressive system, but rather to come alongside them in fighting against it, and breaking it down.

I’m proud of the person you are becoming, and I think you would be too.

Love always,

29-year-old Karin

Image description: a graphic with two photos of Karin, the top photo is Karin at age 18, and features Karin smiling wearing a red dress and striped sweater. The bottom photo is Karin at age 29 and features Karin smiling in a blue dress. Text next to the image reads, “privilege, identity, and coming into your own: a letter to my 18-year-old self. At the bottom of the image is a web address for Claiming Crip.

Originally published at https://www.claimingcrip.com on May 1, 2020.

As the pandemic has unfolded, I’ve been thinking a lot about the importance of finding joy in the little things and holding onto the things that bring us light. Having joy and light in our lives is so core to our existence, but sometimes I think we overlook them, or talk about them glibly, or only in passing.

I’ve seen a lot of people talking about self-care, which is so important, and it’s definitely a part of finding your joy and your light, but it’s not all of it, at least not for me. To me, finding your joy and your light is about discovering those things that fuel you, and remind you that who you are is important and that your life matters. Yes, they are the things that bring you smiles, but even more than that I think finding your light and joy means finding those things that give your life purpose.

Let me explain.

To me, joy goes beyond simple happiness. Joy is a happy emotion for sure, but it’s a heavy one. It’s one you can hold onto, that carries you through the darkness and the uncertainty and makes you want to keep going. The things that bring you joy and light do not have to be complicated or profound, they just have to be strong enough to hold onto when the world around us gets dark.

I know things are hard right now, and we are collectively grieving the loss of what was, but that doesn’t mean we can’t find joy and hold out hope for what the future could be. In my darkest times, finding little bright spots of joy and light kept me going because the things that bring me joy and light always remind me that life is still worth living, even when it’s hard.

Everyone’s joy looks different. Perhaps it’s taking selfies and smashing standards of beauty or spending (virtual) time with friends, lovers, and family. Maybe it’s rereading a favorite book, finding new adventures and stories on TV and in literature, helping others however you can, practicing your faith, or a myriad of other things.

For me, finding joy and light is about those things that make me want to keep living, keep trying, and keep fighting even when everything around you is a bit impossible. Joy is not just about a fleeting smile on your face, but rather about finding the things that give you hope, remind you of possibility, and show you your purpose.

I know that finding joy is not always simple, especially in a world full of oppression and marginalization. When you live in a marginalized body, the world constantly tries to rob you of your joy, and there can be a lot of privilege in keeping joy, and I recognize that. I recognize that when you’re constantly being oppressed, finding joy can be extremely difficult, but even if you can’t find joy, I hope you can find your light. That thing that helps you keep fighting against the system, and keep going even when it feels like the odds are stacked against you.

Joy and light are often hard-won, but that’s what makes them so important.

This pandemic is hard, and things are changing rapidly, but that doesn’t mean life isn’t still worth living. Even if you can’t do all the things you used to do, you most likely can find something that brings you joy and light.

If you’re struggling to find your joy, don’t be afraid to make an actual list of things that matter to you in this world. That’s how I found my joy in my darkest days.

If you’re wondering what brings me joy, here are some of the things on my joy list:

● Rediscovering the importance, value, and beauty of breakfast. As someone who has struggled for years with my relationship with food, I now find a lot of joy in being able to properly nourish my body every morning.

● Taking selfies and reminding myself to live by my own definition of beautiful and worthy.

● Video chats with friends and family who share my passion and concern for the world.

● Listening to cheesy pop music and dancing around my room, or listening to angry punk music, and screaming along.

● Puppies. Enough said.

● Activism, advocacy, and helping others. I genuinely find joy and light in trying to make the world a more equitable and just place.

● My faith, and my belief that we are not going through this for nothing, and we are not going through this alone.

● Writing and sharing my story to help remind others that no matter what we go through we are never truly alone.

These things and too many more to list, bring me joy and light. These are the things that keep me going when everything around feels dark. These are just some of the things that remind me, that life is now, and will always be, worth living.

Find your joy, whatever it is, and hold onto it like a life raft. Find those things that give you light, and don’t let them go. When things are hard, and it feels like the world is at its darkest, it’s important to remember that life still has purpose, beauty, and meaning.

[Image description: A black and white text image reads, “Find your joy, whatever it is, and hold onto it like a life raft. Find those things that give you light don’t let them go.” The quote is attributed to Karin Hitselberger. In the bottom of the image is a web address: www.claimingcrip.com]

As the pandemic has unfolded, I’ve been thinking a lot about the importance of finding joy in the little things and holding onto the things that bring us light. Having joy and light in our lives is so core to our existence, but sometimes I think we overlook them, or talk about them glibly, or only in passing.

I’ve seen a lot of people talking about self-care, which is so important, and it’s definitely a part of finding your joy and your light, but it’s not all of it, at least not for me. To me, finding your joy and your light is about discovering those things that fuel you, and remind you that who you are is important and that your life matters. Yes, they are the things that bring you smiles, but even more than that I think finding your light and joy means finding those things that give your life purpose.

Let me explain.

To me, joy goes beyond simple happiness. Joy is a happy emotion for sure, but it’s a heavy one. It’s one you can hold onto, that carries you through the darkness and the uncertainty and makes you want to keep going. The things that bring you joy and light do not have to be complicated or profound, they just have to be strong enough to hold onto when the world around us gets dark.

I know things are hard right now, and we are collectively grieving the loss of what was, but that doesn’t mean we can’t find joy and hold out hope for what the future could be. In my darkest times, finding little bright spots of joy and light kept me going because the things that bring me joy and light always remind me that life is still worth living, even when it’s hard.

Everyone’s joy looks different. Perhaps it’s taking selfies and smashing standards of beauty or spending (virtual) time with friends, lovers, and family. Maybe its rereading a favorite book, finding new adventures and stories on TV and in literature, helping others however you can, practicing your faith, or a myriad of other things.

For me, finding joy and light is about those things that make me want to keep living, keep trying, and keep fighting even when everything around you is a bit impossible. Joy is not just about a fleeting smile on your face, but rather about finding the things that give you hope, remind you of possibility, and show you your purpose.

I know that finding joy is not always simple, especially in a world full of oppression and marginalization. When you live in a marginalized body, the world constantly tries to rob you of your joy, and there can be a lot of privilege in keeping joy, and I recognize that. I recognize that when you’re constantly being oppressed, finding joy can be extremely difficult, but even if you can’t find joy, I hope you can find your light. That thing that helps you keep fighting against the system, and keep going even when it feels like the odds are stacked against you.

Joy and light are often hard-won, but that’s what makes them so important.

This pandemic is hard, and things are changing rapidly, but that doesn’t mean life isn’t still worth living. Even if you can’t do all the things you used to do, you most likely can find something that brings you joy and light.

If you’re struggling to find your joy, don’t be afraid to make an actual list of things that matter to you in this world. That’s how I found my joy in my darkest days.

If you’re wondering what brings me joy, here are some of the things on my joy list:

● Rediscovering the importance, value, and beauty of breakfast. As someone who has struggled for years with my relationship with food, I now find a lot of joy in being able to properly nourish my body every morning.

● Taking selfies and reminding myself to live by my own definition of beautiful and worthy.

● Video chats with friends and family who share my passion and concern for the world.

● Listening to cheesy pop music and dancing around my room, or listening to angry punk music, and screaming along.

● Puppies. Enough said.

● Activism, advocacy, and helping others. I genuinely find joy and light in trying to make the world a more equitable and just place.

● My faith, and my belief that we are not going through this for nothing, and we are not going through this alone.

● Writing and sharing my story to help remind others that no matter what we go through we are never truly alone.

These things and too many more to list, bring me joy and light. These are the things that keep me going when everything around feels dark. These are just some of the things that remind me, that life is now, and will always be, worth living.

Find your joy, whatever it is, and hold onto it like a life raft. Find those things that give you light, and don’t let them go. When things are hard, and it feels like the world is at its darkest, it’s important to remember that life still has purpose, beauty, and meaning.

[Image description: A black and white text image reads, “Find your joy, whatever it is, and hold onto it like a life raft. Find those things that give you light don’t let them go.” The quote is attributed to Karin Hitselberger. In the bottom of the image is a web address: www.claimingcrip.com]

Originally published at https://www.claimingcrip.com on April 19, 2020.

[Image description: Black text on a white background reads, “Activism is not a luxury, it is a necessary tool of survival when you are marginalized.” The quote is attributed to Karin Hitselberger. At the bottom of the image is the web address www.claimingcrip.com]

In the midst of the pandemic, I’ve been thinking a lot about activism.

I’ve been thinking about why and how I became an activist in the first place, and about how activism is more essential now than ever if we want to survive.

For me, becoming an activist was not an easy journey, or the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. It was born out of struggle, and the will to survive, and thrive in this world.

Growing up, I never aspired to be an activist. In fact, one of my greatest wishes was just to blend in and be like everyone else, but the reality is that was an impossible dream. Growing up in a disabled body meant that I was not like everyone else, and I lived in a world that constantly reminded me of that fact.

Ableism plagued my daily existence before I ever knew the word, or even understood the concept. From the stares on the street, to the people who would look at my parents with eyes full of pity and say, “I don’t know how you do it. I could never handle child like that.” The world made it very clear to me that I was a problem, but I was one of the lucky ones.

Before I was willing, or able to fight for myself, and my right to exist in this world, my mom was always in my corner. She fought with teachers and school administrators for my right to be in a regular classroom, she made sure I always got the accommodations I needed, and she was an advocate for other kids too, not just for me.

She knew part of the secret that I would later learn. Most people come to activism out of necessity, not out of luxury. Growing up though, I didn’t care about changing the system, because I didn’t yet realize that was the problem. I was focused on changing myself, so I could fit into the dominant narrative, and check the boxes that others had created.

I truly believed that if I was smarter, better, faster, stronger my wheelchair wouldn’t matter. I bought into the false narrative that I could overcome disability if I try hard enough.

I never wanted to be an activist, but now, I can’t imagine any other way of life.

I became an activist over time, as I learned the history of disabled people and other marginalized groups, and began to realize that my body wasn’t the problem, society was.

I became an activist as the microaggressions of ableism mounted, and I realized that being a “good” disabled person would still never be enough to make me equal.

I became an activist when I realized I was privileged to have a platform, and I had a responsibility to use it to elevate other marginalized people’s experiences.

I became an activist over simple things, really. I became an activist because I realized there are still too many people who look at certain bodies as less valuable than others. I became an activist because I wanted to survive.

That’s the thing about activism, it’s not about one action, one march, or one moment necessarily, it’s a dedicated way of life, and the decision to use your voice to say that everyone’s existence should matter and people’s identities are not the problem.

I didn’t want to be an activist, I didn’t even choose to be.

However, as I began to realize that being marginalized meant that I had to fight for basic rights, like the right to go to school, have a job, or keep living, I realized I had to join the fight. not just for myself but for everyone else not yet ready.

Activism is not a luxury, it’s a necessary tool of survival when you are marginalized.

I became an activist because my life depended on it, and whether or not you realize it today, yours does too.

Originally published at https://www.claimingcrip.com on April 11, 2020.

About three years ago, I wrote these words,

“When you’re disabled, refusing to hate your body is one of the most radical things you can do.”

I was talking about selfies, and what I have come to term, “anti-inspiration porn.”

I was talking about disabled people reclaiming the narrative of our bodies through grassroots representation.

I was talking about pride.

I was talking about being disabled and unashamed for the world to see

I was talking about all those things, and posting smiling selfies, but I was at a tenuous place in my own journey of self-acceptance.

Today, as we’re nearing the end of Eating Disorders Awareness Week, those words that I wrote three years ago popped up in my timeline, and I felt compelled to share the rest of the story, because refusing to hate your body goes beyond the selfie.

Refusing to hate your body goes beyond being disabled and unashamed, and cheeky not tragic.

Refusing to hate your body means learning to stop apologizing for the space you take up.

Refusing to hate your body means nourishing yourself, even when it’s hard.

Refusing to hate your body, does not mean loving your body all the time, or even at all. It means accepting that your body is yours, and you don’t owe anyone an explanation for why it is the way it is, the size it is, the shape it is.

When I wrote those words three years ago when I called refusing to hate your body “radical,” I knew what I was saying in the deeper parts of my story, but I wasn’t quite ready to give it voice.

Today is different.

Today I’m going to talk about why refusing to hate my body is such a radical statement for me as a fat, disabled woman.

I’m going to try to be honest, and show you the scars, take you behind the scenes of the smiling selfies into my journey.

For as long as I remember, I had a contentious relationship with my body.

Being born with CP, meant that in the eyes of the world, my body was broken. From the very beginning, I was given a body where something was not quite right. Instead of letting my body be, I tried to force it into the nondisabled boxes created by society. I was ashamed of my wheelchair, even though it was bright pink and adorable. I hated my walker, but I was determined to use it, and secretly above all else, I was determined not to be noticed, not to be different, not to be too much.

As I got older and bigger, I was constantly reminded, usually by professionals, how my body, and in particular its size impacted others. I was told in so many implicit ways that my body would never be my own. Since I needed help, my body existed for public consumption, and it need not be an inconvenience to others. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get small enough, and so I found myself constantly worrying, hating my body once again for failing me, for failing to meet other people’s expectations.

This is the part of the story I usually don’t tell, but today I am going, to be honest.

I’ve starved.

I’ve binged

I’ve purged.

I’ve destroyed my body from the inside out, distorting it to fit in other people’s boxes. I’ve done all these things, but it was never enough, I was never enough.

Whether it was my legs that wouldn’t work right or my stomach that just wouldn’t disappear, I was always at war with my body.

I bet this is the part of the story where you expect me to wrap it all up in a nice neat bow, tell you how I found self-love, and now I’m totally fine with who I am. That would be a really lovely story, but that’s not the truth.

Refusing to hate my body is a choice, and a radical one in a world that tells me I am broken in so many ways, but it is a choice I have to make every single morning, every single afternoon, and every single night.

In learning not to hate my body, I had to learn to focus my energy, my anger, my frustration outward, on something other than myself. This is why understanding systemic oppression is so vital for marginalized people. Before I understood ableism’ and fatphobia, for example, I spent my whole life believing I was the problem that needed to be fixed.

Now I know differently.

I know that refusing to hate yourself is a challenging and radical choice, but it’s also the only choice if you want to do more than just survive. When I say using to heat your body is one of the most radical things you can do as a disabled person, that is because refusing here body is refusing to see yourself as the problem.

I refuse to hate my body anymore. I refuse to apologize for existing. I refuse to break myself and my’s soul to fit into society’s oppressive boxes.

.I made the hard choice and choose to accept myself as I am. I make the radical choice of declaring that I am enough, and I keep fighting.

I hope you do too.

Image description: black text on a white background reads, “when you’re disabled, refusing to hear body is one of the most radical things you can do.” The quote is attributed to Karin Hitselberger