It took me over 20 years to get used to people staring at me.
I was born without a left hand — my arm stops just below my elbow — which means I face lingering eyes and probing questions most places I go.
No matter how much I try to cover up my arm, I know that the intrusive discerning public will still be there waiting for me when I choose to show myself again, so I decided a long time ago that I wasn’t going to live my life hiding away out of fear of some gawking eyes.
However, there was a time that I made it my mission to hide my disability. I’d wear long sleeves, even in boiling hot summers, or tilt my body so that it hid my arm in photos, or even fold my arms so that it looked hidden under the other.
I had a prosthetic made for me when I was 15 — another attempt to cover up — but I had only worn it a few weeks when my arm started to ache; the false limb was cumbersome and heavy, and so after that I was set on embracing my uniqueness.
I was relieved when I began to feel more comfortable with my body. It felt unnatural trying to cover up all the time. I never wanted to go back into hiding.
Still, no matter how I felt about myself, I couldn’t control how other people felt about my body or, more shockingly, what they would say to me about it while I worked a public-facing customer service job.
Every day seemed to offer new surprises and things were said to me — often in the guise of “help” — that I never thought I’d hear come out of people’s mouths.
Once I was assisting a customer and he suddenly blurted out, “Can I send a prayer for you?”
At first I was confused. I didn’t understand why I needed a prayer sent on my behalf, and I wasn’t particularly religious, so I declined his offer. He then explained that he’d like to pray for me because of my “missing hand.”
Ah! I should have known!
When he said that he wanted to ask God to end my struggle. I internally rolled my eyes and told him there was no need.
“I manage fine with one hand and I’m comfortable with who I am, so I don’t need a prayer,” I told him while, ironically, feeling incredibly uncomfortable — not with who I was, but with him and his insistence. After all of that he said he would go home and send me a prayer anyway.
Another time I had been newly appointed to a managerial role. I felt extra pressure because one of the other employees had also applied for the same position, but it was given to me, and I now had to work with her.
She stood behind me within earshot when a customer told me she wanted to speak to the manager. I responded, “you are,” and the customer almost let out a laugh as she side-eyed my arm, which was fully visible in my short-sleeved uniform. I didn’t turn to face my colleague but I could feel her silent judgment on me.
Thanks to my mom, who has always been my biggest cheerleader, I had some strategies to deal with these kinds of interactions. I grew up with her telling me to make faces at anyone who stared at my arm or to tell them, “thank you for admiring my beauty.” But even with her support, there was only so much I could take.
I became exhausted by the torrent of “what happened to your arm?” and the uncomfortable gawking, which seemed the worst at work. There’s something about having a disability that makes other people feel entitled to know about it, often before they’ve even asked what your name is.
When you’re working in customer service, people constantly want things from you and you find yourself in countless situations that leave you open to their requests and demands. It’s the perfect breeding ground for patronizing behavior and discriminatory microaggressions.
I worked in a camping store and was stacking a shelf with boxes of tents when a customer came up behind me, picked up a box, and placed it on the row in front of me. Another time, at a supermarket, I sat behind the checkout conveyor belt scanning a customer’s groceries when a hand suddenly reached over and started swiping with me. I looked up to see the customer avoiding eye contact as she hurriedly slid her items across the scanner. It was unbelievable.
The U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC) reported that in 2020, the highest number of discrimination claims filed were related to disability, followed by those related to race and gender. The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics found in 2023 that “across all age groups, people with a disability were much less likely to be employed than those with no disability,” and “across all levels of education, people with a disability were much less likely to be employed than their counterparts with no disability.”
This isn’t surprising to me because often, before I have been given the chance to show my abilities, it’s assumed that I can’t do something. Even when I am successfully performing my duties, as I have noted, I am often still seen as incapable when compared to what an able-bodied person can do.
A lot of the time disabled people are able to do things just as well — or even better — than our able-bodied counterparts, but we do them slightly differently, or perhaps a little slower. Instead of receiving more time or understanding for differences, we face confused onlookers and condescending attitudes. But it doesn’t have to be this way.
When I first met my friend Hilary, she told me that an injury impaired her walking, which means she moves at a slower pace than most people. As a naturally fast-paced walker, I had to reduce my strides whenever we were together. One day she apologized to me for this and asked if I minded walking at her pace.
I actually really enjoyed walking slower than I usually did. It gave me a chance to be more mindful of my surroundings and I instantly felt a lot calmer walking with Hilary because I knew we could just stroll and chat with an easy gait.
I didn’t mind walking slower because I wanted to do it for my friend. I also learned something new and got to experience something I wouldn’t normally.
What if we all viewed disability through this lens — not as a barrier to working, serving or living, but as a way to experience something in a different way?
If we could see every situation as a chance to learn, we would understand that a disability is not a hindrance, but something that forces us to see past our own perception. Each new opportunity can direct us toward a different way of being and a more open-minded point of view.
It took me a long time to be comfortable in my own body and now I refuse to ever feel ashamed of it, but I’d love to not have to worry about confrontations from strangers at work. I can’t change how people see me, but I can speak up in hopes that others will learn more about people with disabilities and what we’re capable of. I’d suggest not assuming you know more about a person’s disability than they do; keep an open mind and you might be surprised by what you learn.
Emily Tisshaw is a freelance writer and journalist based in Cornwall, U.K. Her work has been published in Stylist, Metro and Business Insider. Her main topic of interest is disability, as she can draw stories from personal experience, however Emily also covers sobriety, addiction, mental health and books. Emily enjoys writing personal essays about her lived experience as well as features that center around popular cultural phenomenons and how they intersect with disability.
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