Disabled Doesn't Mean Invisible

After writing my blog about the duality of community and loneliness, I found myself thinking about another aspect of disability that I don't think gets talked about enough: feeling invisible.

The reality is that becoming disabled doesn't just change what you can physically do. It changes the way people interact with you too. Sometimes that change is positive. People can be incredibly kind, supportive and understanding. I've found a wonderful community online full of people who genuinely understand what it's like to navigate life with a chronic illness or disability. The support I've received from strangers on the internet has often been overwhelming in the best possible way.

At the same time, there are moments when I feel as though I've quietly faded into the background of other people's lives.

One thing I've noticed is how accessibility can sometimes make people hesitate to include disabled people. I don't think it comes from a place of malice. In fact, I think most of the time it comes from people trying to avoid making us feel uncomfortable. They worry a venue won't be accessible, that there will be too much walking involved, or that we won't be able to participate in whatever activity they're planning.

The problem is that sometimes those worries mean we're not invited at all.

What many people don't realise is that being invited and being able to attend are two completely different things. I might have to say no. My health might not cooperate. The venue might genuinely be inaccessible. But there is a huge difference between having to decline an invitation and never being given the choice in the first place.

I think that's where some of the loneliness of disability comes from. It isn't always about being physically alone. Sometimes it's the feeling that life is carrying on around you while you're watching from the sidelines. Friends make plans, people go places, opportunities come and go, and you can't help but wonder if people stopped asking because they assumed the answer would be no.

The other day I found myself feeling exactly that way. I was thinking about how much my life has changed over the last few months and how much extra planning, preparation and accessibility consideration every outing now requires. There was a moment where I felt frustrated that things which seem so simple for many people have become so complicated for me.

But after sitting with those feelings for a while, I realised something important.

Whilst disability has changed many aspects of my life, it hasn't made me invisible.

I see it in the friends who still check in on me. I see it in the people who ask what I need rather than making assumptions on my behalf. I see it in the disabled community that has welcomed me with open arms and reminded me that my experiences are shared by so many others. I see it every time someone takes a moment to read my blog, leave a comment or send a message saying they relate to something I've written.

My life looks very different now than it did a year ago, and there are still days where I grieve that. There are still days where the loneliness feels heavier than usual. But there are also days where I am reminded that inclusion doesn't always look the way we expect it to.

Sometimes it's an invitation. Sometimes it's a message asking how you're doing. Sometimes it's someone taking the time to learn about accessibility. Sometimes it's simply being remembered.

If there's one thing I hope people take away from this, it's that disabled people don't stop wanting connection just because our needs have changed. We still want to be included. We still want to be considered. We still want to feel like we belong.

Disabled doesn't mean invisible. It simply means the world may need to make a little more room for us, and we deserve that space just as much as anyone else. 

Thank you for reading,

Faeryn

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Why Accessibility Helps Everyone

When most people hear the word accessibility, they immediately think of disabled people. Wheelchair ramps, disabled parking spaces, lifts and accessible toilets. Those things are important, of course, but I think accessibility is often misunderstood as something that only benefits a small group of people.

Since becoming disabled, I've become much more aware of the world around me. Before I needed mobility aids, accessibility was one of those things I didn't think about very often. It wasn't because I didn't care, it was simply because I moved through the world without encountering many barriers. If a building had steps, I used them. If a venue was a long walk from the car park, I walked. Accessibility wasn't something I had to consider because my body allowed me to do those things without much thought.

Now I find myself noticing things I never would have paid attention to before. I notice when a shop has a step at the entrance and no ramp. I notice when tables are packed so closely together that a wheelchair couldn't fit between them. I notice when accessible toilets are used as storage rooms or when a venue claims to be accessible because it has a ramp at the entrance, but then the toilet is up a flight of stairs. Once you rely on accessibility, you start seeing all the places where it is missing.

See the image alongside this blog. I was in Sports Direct with my partner while he was picking up a few things for himself. Simply getting around the store was a challenge. The layout was so cramped that I seemed to bump into almost every rail, constantly having to manoeuvre around displays and narrow gaps. When we reached the lift to go upstairs, things became even more frustrating. The lift was being used as storage for shoes on sale, with stacks of boxes taking up a large portion of the space. I could barely fit my wheelchair inside and ended up with my feet awkwardly contorted just to squeeze in. My poor partner was left wedged between the wall of the lift and my wheelchair. It might seem like a small inconvenience, but moments like this are a perfect example of how accessibility barriers don't always come from a lack of ramps or lifts. Sometimes the accessible feature exists, but it's been made difficult to use because accessibility wasn't considered beyond simply ticking a box.

I think that's one of the biggest misconceptions people have. Accessibility is often viewed as a special accommodation for a small minority of people, but the reality is that it benefits almost everyone at some point in their lives. A ramp helps me use my powerchair, but it also helps parents with pushchairs, delivery drivers moving heavy trolleys and people recovering from injuries. Lifts are invaluable for wheelchair users, but they're also helpful for elderly people, pregnant people, people with chronic pain and anyone carrying heavy luggage. Even something as simple as having benches available can make a huge difference, not just for disabled people but for anyone who needs a rest, whether that's because of age, illness or simply having had a long day. This effect of helping everyone, not just disabled folk, is called the 'curb cut effect'. After curb cuts the lower part of curbs in the uk was designed for wheelchair users, yet now they help the elderly, those on bikes, parents with prams and more.

I think many people imagine accessibility as something that only matters if you have a permanent disability, but most of us will experience a time in our lives when accessibility becomes important. People break legs, have operations, develop chronic illnesses, become pregnant or simply grow older. None of us can guarantee that we will always be able to move through the world in the same way we do today.

Something else I've come to realise is that good accessibility often goes unnoticed. When somewhere is genuinely accessible, people don't usually stop to think about it because everything works as it should. It's only when barriers appear that accessibility suddenly becomes visible. Nobody notices a door that's easy to open until they encounter one that isn't. Nobody thinks about whether there is somewhere to sit until they desperately need a seat and can't find one.

The truth is that accessibility isn't about giving disabled people an advantage. It's about making sure people aren't excluded unnecessarily. It creates options. It gives people the opportunity to participate, whether that's visiting a café, attending an event, going to work or simply spending time with friends and family. The more accessible a space is, the more people are able to use it comfortably.

Since becoming disabled, I've often found myself wishing that more people understood this. Accessibility isn't a niche issue that only affects a small group of people. It's something that makes the world easier, kinder and more welcoming for everyone. We all benefit when spaces are designed with different needs in mind, and I think the world would be a much better place if accessibility was viewed as a normal part of good design rather than an afterthought.

I didn't fully understand that until I needed accessibility myself. Now it's something I notice every single day, and the more I see of it, the more convinced I become that creating accessible spaces benefits far more people than most of us realise.

Thank you for reading,
Faeryn

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The Duality of Disability: Community and Loneliness

One of the strangest parts of becoming disabled is how you can feel so loved and so lonely at exactly the same time.

I have found an incredible community online through disability and chronic illness spaces. Some of the kindest people I have ever met have been fellow disabled people. There is something so comforting about speaking to people who simply understand without needing a long explanation. They understand the grief, the appointments, the pain, the mobility aids, the frustration and the endless balancing act of trying to build a life around a body that doesn't always cooperate. Yet despite all of that love and support, there are days where the loneliness still hits me like a train.

Yesterday was one of those days. I was sorting through old belongings as my mother had kindly been helping reorganise my things to make more walking space now and found ballet medals, trophies, certificates and photographs from years ago. I sat there and cried. Not because I don't appreciate my life now, and not because I spend every day wishing things were different, but because I was looking at physical reminders of something I have lost.

Whenever disabled people talk about grief, there is often someone who rushes in with solutions. "You can find a new hobby." "You can do something else instead." "You can always try something different."

I know people mean well, but sometimes I think we are far too uncomfortable with grief.

If somebody lost a beloved pet, would you tell them to just get a new one? Of course not. We understand that grief is not about replacing what was lost. We understand that sometimes something mattered deeply to us and there simply isn't a substitute for it.

That is how I feel about so many parts of my old life.

I probably will find new hobbies. I probably will discover new passions and interests. In fact, I already have. I love reading more than ever, I enjoy anime, writing, content creation and all sorts of things that bring me joy. But none of those things erase the fact that I still miss ballet. They do not erase the fact that I miss the freedom of moving my body without pain or the independence of simply deciding to go somewhere and then doing it.

I think there is this expectation that disabled people should always focus on the positive. We should always be inspiring, always resilient, always grateful. While I understand where that comes from, I don't think it is healthy to force positivity all the time.

We are human beings. We are allowed to feel more than one thing at once. I can be grateful for my wheelchair while mourning the reason I need it. I can love my disability community while feeling isolated. I can be hopeful for the future while grieving parts of my past. Those feelings do not cancel each other out. Today has been another reminder of that.

Today I was officially made redundant. The entire office was. The reality is I haven't actually been in work for almost two months because the office was no longer accessible for me. My mobility has deteriorated to the point where climbing stairs is no longer realistic. Some days even walking short distances feels impossible.

While everyone else was going through this together, I was experiencing it from home. There were conversations I wasn't part of, moments I wasn't there for and friendships carrying on in person while I watched from the outside. Nobody did anything wrong. Life just carries on. When somebody is no longer physically present, they slowly become less visible. Disability has taught me that in ways I never expected.

There was a goodbye social planned today and I was so excited to go. I had everything organised. I woke up at 5am to get ready and work around all the logistics that now come with leaving the house. My partner needed to transport my wheelchair, timings needed to align and every detail had to be carefully considered.

Then came the weather. 5am HEAVY down pour. Flooded streets. Every weather app insisted it would continue throughout the day.

My wheelchair is not waterproof and I cannot afford to take risks with it. If something happened to it, I don't have thousands of pounds sitting around to replace it. For disabled people, mobility aids are often the difference between participating in the world and being trapped at home.

So I cancelled, saved all the trouble for my partner who I relied on for the logistics of it all.

As I sit writing this at 1:30pm, it hasn't rained since around 8am this morning.

The weather apps were wrong. The social is currently going ahead. Everyone is posting photos, sharing memories and saying goodbye to each other and posting in the coworker group chat while I lie in bed in pain, watching it all happen through a screen.

That feeling is difficult to describe to people who haven't experienced it. It is the feeling of watching life continue without you. The feeling of wanting desperately to be somewhere but knowing your body has made the decision for you.

The one of the hardest parts of my disability besides the agony and pain daily, is the dependence. I miss independence more than I can put into words.

I miss deciding to do something and simply doing it. I miss showering without needing assistance. I miss leaving the house without coordinating multiple people, mobility aids, weather forecasts and backup plans. I miss feeling capable.

I look at those ballet trophies and I don't just see dance. I see independence. I see freedom. I see a body that did what I wanted it to. Now life is alot like sleeping heavy and waking up stiff and you move your arm but it's "gone sleep" that's how my body moves daily but add in the pain of doing a super hard gym session the day before all the aches, bruising and pain. That is now my everyday reality. When I look back I see a version of myself who never had to think about any of the things I do now. Everything has to be so calculated and considered. I can't shower alone. I can't make food without assistance. I just can't do so many basic things anymore. Yet my body was once  one of champions, award winning.

That version of me is gone and some days that hurts.

Tomorrow I will probably feel differently. Tomorrow I might be excited about a new book, laughing over a ridiculous anime scene or sharing something positive online. The sadness isn't permanent and neither is the grief.

But today, I am allowing myself to feel it.

Because grief is not weakness. Mourning is not negativity. We are human and we are one dimensional. It is healthy to feel all of our emotions and not force positivity every moment of everyday.

Acknowledging loss does not mean you are ungrateful for what you still have.

Sometimes the healthiest thing we can do is stop trying to turn every difficult feeling into a motivational lesson and simply admit that it hurts.

Today it hurts and just for now I think that's fine.

Thank you for reading,
Faeryn

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The Reality of Being Disabled in Your Twenties: "But You Don't Look Disabled"

One of the comments I hear most often as a disabled person in my twenties is, "But you don't look disabled." Most of the time it's not said with any malice. In fact, it's usually meant as a compliment or an attempt to be reassuring. People see a young woman who is happy and on the outside, seemingly well, and they struggle to connect that image with their idea of disability.

The problem is that disability doesn't have a particular look.

Growing up, I think many of us are taught to recognise disability only when it's obvious. We learn to associate it with wheelchairs, white canes, guide dogs, or other visible signs. What we don't learn nearly enough about are the countless conditions that can't be seen at all. Chronic pain, fatigue, neurological conditions, autism, anxiety disorders, seizures, connective tissue disorders, and many other disabilities often exist entirely beneath the surface.

Living with Hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome has taught me just how misleading appearances can be. From the outside, people don't see the joints that dislocate, the exhaustion that follows even simple activities, or the pain that accompanies almost every day. They don't see the medical appointments, scans, tests, medications, mobility aids, or the constant calculations that happen in my head before I decide whether I can manage a particular activity. What they see is a person who doesn't match their expectations.

Being disabled in your twenties comes with a unique set of challenges because society often treats youth and disability as though they are opposites. There's an assumption that young people should be healthy, active, independent, and building their future without limitations. When your reality doesn't fit that narrative, people often struggle to understand it. I've lost count of the number of times I've felt the need to explain why I use a wheelchair, why I can't walk very far, or why I have to carefully manage my energy just to make it through the day.

What makes the phrase "You don't look disabled" particularly frustrating is that it can unintentionally feel dismissive. While most people don't mean it that way, it often comes across as though they're questioning your experience because it doesn't fit their expectations. After years of medical appointments, investigations, worsening symptoms, and adapting to a body that doesn't always cooperate, it can be difficult to hear your reality reduced to how you happen to appear at that moment.

One of the strangest assumptions people make about chronic illness is that being sick and being beautiful are somehow mutually exclusive. As though pain, disability, fatigue, seizures, inability to hold my joints together and medical appointments should automatically strip away every other part of who we are. The truth is that disabled and chronically ill people still enjoy looking 'pretty'. We can be struggling behind the scenes while still taking pride in our appearance. Looking well isn't the same as being well, I see alot of women on social media wear makeup and style their hair to give birth. It doesn't make the childbirth any less of a painful and sometimes traumatic experience just because they look 'pretty', and being disabled doesn't mean we stop wanting to feel confident in our own skin. I didn't say I was ugly, I said I was unwell. 

The truth is that many disabled people become incredibly good at hiding their struggles. We smile when we're in pain, attend events despite exhaustion, and push ourselves to participate in life because we don't want our conditions to define us. Ironically, the better we become at coping, the more likely people are to assume we're not struggling at all.

I know that when people say "You don't look disabled" they're often trying to be kind. What they're usually trying to communicate is that I look happy. Those sentiments are genuinely lovely, but there are much better ways to express them. Telling someone they look great today, saying it's nice to see them, or simply asking how they're doing acknowledges them as a person without unintentionally questioning their disability.

One misconception I've encountered since starting to use a wheelchair is the idea that I've somehow "given up" on walking. The reality couldn't be further from the truth. I still walk when I'm able to, but my mobility is limited by a body that simply doesn't cooperate. I cannot walk more than a few metres without significant pain, overwhelming fatigue, breathlessness, or my knees and legs threatening to buckle beneath me. Using a wheelchair hasn't been about giving up on walking, it's been about finding a way to continue experiencing the world when walking alone is no longer enough. My favourite response is usually to ask whether they've given up on walking too as they use a car/bus/bike/plane etc or if they gave up seeing because they wear glasses. Most people quickly realise that using a tool to support your body isn't giving up at all, it's simply adapting to reality when I use those funny comebacks.

One of the biggest lessons I've learned throughout my own journey is that disabled people do not owe the world visible suffering. We don't have to look unwell to be unwell. We don't have to abandon our hobbies, our fashion sense, our makeup, or our personalities to prove that our conditions are real. Disability can exist alongside colourful hair, pretty outfits, laughter, travel, friendships, and joy.

The reality of being disabled in your twenties is that you're often navigating a world that expects disability to look a certain way while trying to build a life that doesn't revolve entirely around your health. It's learning to advocate for yourself when people make assumptions, finding confidence in mobility aids when society tells you they're something to hide, and understanding that your experiences remain valid whether other people can see them or not.

Disability doesn't have a look, and perhaps the sooner we stop expecting it to, the easier it will become for disabled people to exist without constantly feeling the need to justify themselves.

Thank you for reading,
Faeryn

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My eTech Freedom Elite AF Review After Using It With chronic illness

After my chronic illnesses diagnosis and dealing with seizures, finding the right mobility aid became really important for me. I didn't just need something that looked good on paper. I needed something practical, reliable, comfortable and capable of keeping up with real life.

After using my eTech Freedom Elite AF, I can honestly say it's become such an important part of my life. This post isn't sponsored in anyway just sharing my experience, if you want to buy your own click here.

One of the first features that stood out to me was the automatic folding function. When your joints like to behave like they were assembled by an overconfident toddler, reducing physical effort matters more than people realise. Not having to manually fight with a complicated folding system is such a relief, especially on higher pain or fatigue days though honestly my partner or mother deal with the load/unloading in and out the house or car for me, due to my seizures I am mostly accompanied for safety.

The lightweight folding design has also been a massive plus for me. Mobility aids are supposed to increase independence, but sometimes transporting them can become its own challenge. Having something designed to be more practical for cars, outings and storage makes a huge difference.

The battery setup has honestly been one of my favourite parts. I personally have two airline safe batteries, which gives me so much more confidence when planning longer days out, conventions, content days or trips away. Having the flexibility to swap batteries and extend range means I spend far less time worrying about charge levels and far more time actually enjoying what I'm doing.

I got extra of the airline safe batteries. Which is such a huge bonus because accessibility shouldn't stop at travel. Knowing the chair is designed with travel in mind opens up more possibilities and makes future plans feel less intimidating. However I actually am unable to travel as I get very sick on planes but it's good to know that the chair is flight safe.

Speed wise, I really appreciate that the chair feels responsive without feeling overwhelming to control. It hits a max of 4mph which is about a jogging pace for my partner for an able personed comparision. Being able to adjust your pace depending on your environment matters a lot whether you're navigating shops, convention halls, outdoor paths or just everyday errands. Sometimes you want slower, precise control indoors and other times you just want to get moving without feeling like you're crawling across a car park.

Comfort was another non negotiable for me because chronic pain from chronic illness in my case ehler danlos, seizures, Raynaud's etc bodies tend to be incredibly painful about seating. I've found the chair supportive enough for longer use, which matters when you're out for extended periods or conserving energy.

As someone who loves cosplay and conventions, accessibility makes a massive difference. Events are exciting, but they can also be physically demanding, crowded and exhausting. Having mobility support means I can focus more on enjoying the experience, creating content, seeing friends and wearing the costumes I love instead of silently calculating pain levels and energy reserves every hour.

Of course, a powerchair doesn't magically remove disability. I still have mostly bad days when my body buckles and breaks. I still deal with symptoms. But having the right support changes how much of my life those symptoms are allowed to steal.

One thing I genuinely didn't expect was how much of a difference the chair would make emotionally as well as physically. Conserving energy means I can actually use that energy elsewhere. Instead of spending everything on simply getting around, I can put it into things I love.

Due to spinal pain I can't take care of my dog, this falls to my mother and partner however just being able to get into the garden to watch my dog playing again means so much to me. Cosplay and conventions without immediately mentally calculating whether my body is about to mutiny. Longer outings feeling more achievable. I don't feel as though I'm watching life go by I get to still be apart of things.

I also really like that the Freedom Elite AF doesn't feel bulky or overly clinical. It feels modern, practical and designed around actual usability, which sounds like a small detail until something becomes part of your everyday life. 

I hate to sound vain, but the look of my chair genuinely mattered to me. I know that can sound silly when you're disabled and need mobility support, thinking, "Would this actually look good?" but at 29, as someone who's always loved fashion, cosplay, dressing up and expressing myself through aesthetics, suddenly finding myself looking through endless clinical, bulky, plain black powerchairs honestly made my heart drop a little. With every bland device I looked at, I felt like my personality and style were fading away alongside my mobility. Then I found this gorgeous champagne chair. It's sleek, stylish and modern, and instead of feeling like some awkward medical add on, it genuinely feels like an extension of me. It supports my needs without making me feel like I had to sacrifice my identity or personal style to access mobility support.

No mobility aid magically removes disability. I still have pain, fatigue, seizures and difficult symptom days. But having equipment that works with my body instead of constantly demanding more from it has genuinely improved my quality of life.

My eTech Freedom Elite AF hasn't taken away my independence. It's helped me protect my energy, expand my world a little bit again, and make more space for the parts of life that actually bring me joy.

Thank you for reading,
Faeryn

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Will I Need a Wheelchair? My Honest Thoughts

I've been going back and forth about writing this because saying it out loud makes it all feel more real. I think I've reached a point where I need to stop avoiding it and just be honest with myself.

I don't think the question is "Will I need a wheelchair?" anymore."Not anymore," because if I'm being honest, I think I already do.

It feels heavy to admit that, not in a dramatic way, but in a quiet, settling way, like something clicked into place that I wasn't ready to face before.

This wouldn't have even crossed my mind a few months ago. I was always on the move and doing things, and I knew my body would keep up with me. That's just how life was: if something hurt, I would rest and get better. Now it doesn’t feel like that at all.

I have a connective tissue disorder right now, and my body just doesn't feel stable anymore. Additionally I have seizures which make walking a risk even if my body wasn't in chronic pain. My joints don't feel supported, my muscles are always working extra hard to make up for it, and there's a level of pain that never really goes away. Also, the tiredness is so bad that it's hard to explain unless you've felt it. It's not just being tired; it's the kind of tiredness that makes everything I try to do harder. I also have Raynaud's which means my limbs get extremely cold as blood doesn't flow properly or normally making my feet very painful to walk and even numb to the point I trip up because I cannot feel the ground or each step.

At the same time, I’m still in the middle of ongoing hospital investigations, which makes everything feel even more uncertain. I’ve already had an ECG, I’ve got an MRI coming up, and there are still a lot of unanswered questions about what’s going on and how things are going to progress, so it feels like I’m stuck in this waiting period where I know something is wrong but don’t fully have the full picture yet.

While all of that is happening, I’ve already had to adapt a lot of my daily life. I use my cane, I’ve got a shower chair, grab handles, tools to help me reach things I can’t anymore, and even my bed setup has changed so I can manage more comfortably. These things have genuinely helped and made things more manageable.

Alongside that, I’m actively trying to improve things where I can. I’m starting physiotherapy and hydrotherapy, and I’ve already been doing acupuncture, all while managing everything with a bit of a cocktail of medications to try and keep symptoms under control. I’m doing everything I can to support my body and not just give in to what’s happening.

But even with all of that in place, it’s been suggested that I look into using a wheelchair for the harder days, especially when moving at all is painful and pushing through just makes everything worse. That suggestion stuck with me more than I expected.

Because when I really look at my day to day life, I can see the patterns I can’t ignore anymore, like the days where walking hurts from the moment I get up, or the times I avoid doing things because I know the energy cost will completely wipe me out. I plan my days around what my body might allow rather than what I actually want to do, and that shift has been one of the hardest parts to accept.

It’s not just about pain, it’s about how much of my freedom feels limited by it. That’s what has made me start seriously thinking about a wheelchair.

At first, I pushed the idea away because it felt like too much and like I was admitting defeat in some way. I kept questioning myself, wondering if I was overreacting or if I was somehow not “bad enough” to need one, and I worried about how other people might see me.

The more I’ve sat with it though, the more I’ve realised those thoughts aren’t actually helping me. A wheelchair wouldn’t be taking something away from me, it would be giving me options and parts of my life back that I feel like I’m slowly losing.

I also know that if I do this, it wouldn’t be a manual chair. I understand my body well enough now to know that pushing myself around would likely cause more damage, especially to my shoulders, arms, and back, which already struggle. The idea of adding more strain just to stay mobile doesn’t feel sustainable.

An electric wheelchair makes more sense for me because it would support my mobility without putting extra pressure on the parts of my body that are already struggling. Choosing that option feels less like giving up and more like protecting my body long term so I don’t make things worse.

There is still fear there, especially around how visible it is and how people might react, and I know adjusting to it would be a big change.

At the same time, there is also a growing sense of relief when I think about it properly, because the idea of having that level of support and being able to go out without constantly worrying about pain or energy feels like it would give me a level of freedom I haven’t had in a while.

I’m still figuring everything out and waiting on results, and I know things might change as I learn more, but mentally I feel like I’ve reached a point where I can’t ignore what my body is telling me anymore.

I’m not really asking if I need a wheelchair at this point, I’m trying to figure out when it’s the right time to take that step.

Thank you for reading,
Fae

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Coming to Terms with Needing Mobility Aids

 

I still have a version of my life in my head.

The one where I could just leave. No planning at all. No pacing. I didn't have to think twice about whether my body would cooperate that day.

I haven't let go of that part of myself in a single moment. It's been a long, painful process. One that I'm still in.

The truth is that needing mobility aids isn't just about the things themselves. It's about what they stand for.