My Left Foot

On masking and unmasking disabilities seen and unseen

Dear Nurturing Neurospicy Mamas reader: Thanks for supporting my Substack! This is a space to share personal stories and build community around themes of neurodiversity, parenting, mental health, and self/community care.

I tend to write here about what’s weighing on my heart and mind. If you have ideas of relevant topics you’d like to see explored more in this space, please let me know.

Also, *** Check out my new Substack blog, The Memory of Soil!

A Novel Introduction

Subscribe now for human stories and essays that discuss culture, identity, and privilege in the Americas - sharing what brings us together, and examining what tears us apart.

---

The Girl with the Brace

A small family pulls up in their wood-paneled station wagon to the Palace of Fine Arts, near the Eastern edge of San Francisco’s famous Presidio.

Reminiscent of ancient Rome, the Palace is an impressive piece of architecture built in the early 20^th century. Its aesthetic rotunda and giant columns rise above an expansive green plaza, with pathways that meander around a reflective body of water.

The mother carefully removes a toddler from her car seat, carrying her toward a bench next to the pathway. The father follows, bringing an umbrella stroller and a bagful of supplies. I can picture them in my mind, shades of sepia and burnt orange, a blurry late-70s Polaroid.

The mother sets the girl down on the bench, carefully unfastening a large, clunky, white brace the girl wears around her hips. The father lifts her up, gently setting her down on the pathway.

Unsteady at first, the girl takes tentative steps toward the water. A smile curls on her pink, bow-shaped lips. Spotting a mallard at the water’s edge, she totters toward it, giggling with delight. Her pace quickens as she recognizes her newfound freedom.

Lopsided but content, the toddler weaves around the pathway, large Roman columns towering above her. After she tires of jogging, she comes to a slab of concrete that extends toward the water. A large group of ducks approaches. Unafraid, she tosses pieces of bread crumbs toward them, glee alight on her face.

For half an hour, she is free. The brace is gone. She is a normal toddler.

Pain with No Cure

Many years later, this same girl, now a 30-year-old woman, is hiking along the central California coast with a friend. The woman has held her secret – of her disability and the brace that corrected it – inside herself for her entire life. She has tried, so hard, to appear strong and athletic. She has captained teams, run half-marathons, mountain biked these same oceanside trails. She has also rediscovered her power through yoga practice, doubling down on strengthening those same hips that failed her decades before.

No one knows that, just below the surface, she feels structurally flawed and deeply inadequate.

It’s another ubiquitous spring-like day here at Wilder Ranch, an open space just north of Santa Cruz. The sun shines down upon hills flecked with technicolor floral dots: blue-indigo of lupine; fiery orange California poppies; yellow buttercups. A breeze ruffles the grasses, causing them to ripple and wave on the distant hillside.

The woman and her friend hike up, down, and up again for miles, as they’ve done together here and elsewhere so many times. As they finally make their way back down toward where they began, the woman notices a painful sensation in her left big toe joint. At first, it feels like a slight dull ache. As she descends, it grows more persistent with each step. By the time they reach the parking lot, she is wondering what is wrong with her foot.

Pain is not new to this woman, but this is different. It seems serious. Perhaps she has gout?

She books an appointment with a podiatrist a couple weeks later. He is an old-school sort, at least sixty by the looks of it, rather overweight and completely set in his ways. He’s not passing the vibe check, but she lets him look her over, anyway.

He gives her a diagnosis. Hallux rigidus, he declares. Arthritis of the big toe. There is no cure. In other words, she has a festering bone spur that will cause unpredictable pain with every step or bend of her big toe joint, for the rest of her life. If she wants relief, her options include surgery to clean out the joint, which is highly likely to fail, or surgery to fuse the joint.

If she chooses the latter option, she’ll basically never be able to do yoga again. Or run.

The old man suggests, with a complete lack of empathy, that she stop practicing yoga. He suggests she stop running, minimize walking, and avoid doing anything that’s high impact. No more high heels. No more dancing.

The woman walks out of his office. She ignores his advice, moving on with her life.

A year later, she moves to a different state and finds a new podiatrist.

The Rest of the Foot Story

In case you hadn’t guessed it already, the little girl and woman are me.

In my thirties, a couple years before having children, I decided to have the surgery to clean out my big toe joint.

Before surgery, because I’m a stubborn mf**er, I did one last half-marathon relay. What does it matter if I screw up my joint worse, since I’m getting a new one? I figured.

For about a year, the surgery helped increase mobility and decrease pain.

Then, the bone spur returned with a vengeance.

After my failed surgery, I decided that I didn’t want to go back to a podiatrist ever again – because I knew what they would tell me.

Stop running, stop practicing yoga, stop doing anything that causes impact. Stop wearing shoes with any heels on them. And consider getting another expensive surgery that will fuse your joint forever, rendering you unable to do half the activities you love!

No thanks, I decided. Until they come up with something more innovative and less barbaric for the feet, like stem cell therapy or toe replacement, I’m raw-dogging this.

So I have. It’s now been thirteen years since the surgery. As if to thumb my nose at those pesky podiatrists, I just virtually hiked the Pacific Crest Trail (and am now 40 percent done with the Appalachian Trail).

And also, I added my big toe condition to a little list of hidden disabilities that I never talk about, tell anyone about, or admit.

Masking Disability

Why don’t I mention these disabilities? And why the heck don’t I slow down? I mean, I suppose I could get some sympathy. I could probably get out of a military draft should this WW3 thing materialize further (I mean, the President did, right? Don’t get me started. Oh yeah, and also, I’m a middle-aged woman).

But no – my approach has always been to keep barreling ahead, ignoring professional advice, and doing the things I love.

Perhaps I’m like one of those cigarette smokers they told to quit who ignored the professionals and kept doing it anyway, because it’s such a part of who they are. And this probably isn’t a good thing.

Perhaps I just think I know better, because I’m that stubborn and delusional.

While all of these uncomfortable things may be true, what I intend to drill into more in this post is why I’m so chicken-s*#t scared of talking about my weaknesses and hidden disabilities.

And here it is, in a nutshell – based on observations I’ve made throughout my life, admitting you’re weak or have an issue when it isn’t glaringly apparent or clearly debilitating, has mostly ended badly.

No one has the patience to listen to one relatively functional person’s sob-story.

And based on what’s currently happening in the world, I’m pretty sure I made the right decision – at least, the right version for the former version of me.

Case in Point, ADHD

I wrote on here recently about how disclosing my ADHD and requesting accommodations at work likely had something to do with me losing my job.

As soon as I informed HR of my diagnosis, and requested things like flexible work hours, I noticed my supervisor questioning things she hadn’t before in our three years of working together. Shortly after my diagnosis, she decided to hire someone new in a parallel position. Right after, she wrote me a Performance Improvement Plan pointing out some isolated examples that supposedly illustrated my poor critical thinking, time management, attention to detail, and strategic decision-making skills.

I’m still convinced that it’s because she saw my weakness and preyed on it.

Again, this assumption could be wrong. But why, in three years of supervising me, did she never comment on these obviously ADHD related issues before my ADHD diagnosis? Why did I receive an “outstanding” performance review the quarter directly before disclosing my diagnosis?

I don’t know, and I certainly don’t want to dwell on it. My point here is that, for many of us who do disclose hidden disabilities (especially in a work environment), the outcome is not positive.

There are too many people out there who sniff out weakness and pounce on it to further their own agendas. In many ways, we still live in a brutal, dog-eat-dog world.

In the face of this tough reality, it takes a lot of bravery to admit weakness or difference.

“Coming Out” with my Physical Disabilities

Yet, it feels like the time has come to come “out of the closet” about my very real – but highly invisible – physical disabilities. I’ve lived long enough with the crushing knowledge that my body is rather wonky and probably experiences more pain and inflammation than most bodies.

I actually wrote about the connection between neurodiversity and hypermobility spectrum disorder several months ago, here on Substack. However, I did not fully acknowledge the extent of my own disabilities. I wasn’t ready.

But now I am.

Why now?

I want my deformed hips and my wonky big toe to be part of my story. It’s time to let go of these layers of shame and integrate these pieces of myself with love and acceptance.

My disabilities are a part of who I am, and who I am becoming. Why shouldn’t I talk about them? They are a bridge that connects me more closely with so many others who face physical challenges – big and small – in their own lives.

I can’t be the only one out there who’s ever felt alone, scared, and weak. I can’t be the only one who’s been terrified of a surgery, of an uncertain future, the possibility of unending pain. There are so many of us who mask our issues, bury our shame, and carry on with a happy face.

But where does this get us, pretending everything is fine?

Avoiding the vulnerability of perceived weakness only keeps us separate.

I want my yoga students to know it’s OK to modify their poses. It’s OK to not be able to do a pose. It’s ok to lay on their back for an entire class.

How do my challenges, my disabilities, diminish my accomplishments? If anything, they magnify them. I should be proud that I’m carrying on, adapting and modifying, still doing the activities that bring me joy and happiness. The brace I wore, long ago, has permitted me to have a

As it were, I have modified and let go of things I really don’t need, so I can still do the things I really care about. I don’t wear heels anymore unless I’m going to a wedding or out for a big-deal occasion (I must admit this happens much less frequently now that I’m pushing 50). I don’t run. I minimize high-impact activities like jumping and deep lunging.

But you know what? I still practice yoga - every single pose my little heart desires. I strength train, I cycle, and I hike.

And I honestly believe that my toe is no worse now than it was that day the grumpy old podiatrist told me to stop doing everything I love.

Your Turn

How have hidden — or visible — disabilities shaped your life? Add your stories and thoughts in the comments.

• What challenges have you faced?

• How easy or difficult has it been for you to unmask?

• In what ways has opening up about disabilities shaped your personal story?

---

Dear Readers: Thanks for your support!

If you enjoyed this writing and would like to support my work you can:

• ❤️ Like my post

• ☕️ Buy me a virtual coffee

• 💡 Leave me a constructive comment

• 💌 Share, recommend, or restack this post

• 💵 Become a paid subscriber (access to all archives and exclusive content for paid subscribers coming in 2026)