Body image and the amputee

Do you remember when you first became aware of what you look like in a mirror, enough to draw the curves and edges from memory? What about the first time you realized others had become aware of how your body looked? Did it feel good to be seen, or did it make you want to crawl into a loose sweater and hide between the knitted strands?

I imagine being born with a limb difference or experiencing limb loss during early childhood would mean learning that you look different from other kids at a time in life when you aren’t quite sure who you are yet. Words of encouragement can carry just as much weight as discouraging ones when your mind is a sponge soaking up everything you hear and see. As children, we count on our caregivers to teach us just how special we are, different or not. The impact of these lessons stays with us for years to come and helps us mold our body image. If you’re lucky, you’re taught by someone who sees your sparkle and shows you how to stand confidently in the sunlight. Then you grow up, and life throws you a bunch of other curve balls that can make being unique feel like a bad thing. This world will always tempt you to try and blend in. Look like everyone, act like everyone, only speaking up when others do first. It’s much easier than putting in the work to build up your relationship with your body.

My leg was amputated in adulthood, and the loss of my right leg made me relive the insecurities I thought I left behind in high school. I still held the memories of how my body looked my whole life. Every time I changed outfits, I remembered how my body once filled the pant legs they slid into so easily that I could get dressed in the back of a hatchback sedan with no trouble at all. I had to learn to love my body again and let go of the image I had tied to who I was. I’m still Alex, but now I’m the Alex who survived and then took it one step further and chose happiness, despite looking nothing like the girls in the magazines.

A healthy body image doesn’t have to mean admiring every part of your body, including the missing parts. It’s about acceptance and love for who you are and what you see when you look at yourself. I’m proud to be me. Now I see my scars and skin as an autobiographic poem, telling the story of my resilience. Somedays, I feel less than beautiful, but I wouldn’t want to be anyone else even on my worst day. Picking up the broken parts and making peace with the jagged edges of our body isn’t easy, but it sure is freeing. It’s the kind of freedom that you want to shout from the rooftops. I don’t hide behind the baggy sweater. I wear a gold glitter-covered prosthesis because the world won’t dull a sparkle this bright.

This article was originally features on The Liner Wand website at this link