I'm not your confession booth

Another thing nobody warns you about after becoming disabled:

People lose their filters.

Suddenly strangers and care workers feel the need to tell me about their bowel routines, their weird rashes, their sister's cousin's friend’s medical drama.

As if rolling into a room means I signed a contract agreeing to hear about every gross body function they've ever had. Don't even get me started on some of the comments I got from a cab drivers. That's for another blog entry.

Let’s be clear:

I am not your diary. I am not your "relatable moment."

I’m just trying to live my life like everybody else.

Respect still applies.

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Reclaiming My Power—now it took over 10 years but I'm finally doing it.

I used to sit quietly and let people talk down to me. Not anymore.

Now, I advocate for myself.

When a care worker talks to me like I’m in kindergarten, I politely (but firmly) say things like:

> "I appreciate your help, but please

I'm an adult and would like to be treated as one."

Or if I'm feeling especially spicy:

> "I'm disabled, not five years old. Please adjust how you're speaking to me."

Boundaries are not rude.

They are necessary.

I also carry grounding techniques with me for those moments when everything feels overwhelming—like "5-4-3-2-1" sensory grounding and box breathing.

(And no, you don’t need a yoga mat and incense to breathe.)