The Mask I Wore for 22 Years (And the Stroke That Set Me Free)

I had an epiphany today:

I was able-bodied for 22 years… and it nearly killed me.

I don’t just mean the stroke I had at 22.

I mean the pressure.

The razzle dazzle.

The show.

The relentless, contradictory checklist of how to “be a woman” in this world.

It’s no wonder I had a stroke—this life comes with zero room to breathe.

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You have to be extraordinary—but somehow you doing it wrong.

You have to be thin—but don’t say that, say “healthy”… while still being thin.

You have to be a boss—but not too bossy.

A leader—but don’t crush any egos.

A mother—but don’t talk about your kids too much.

A career woman—but also the emotional support human for everyone else.

You have to be pretty—but not too pretty.

Smart—but not intimidating.

Grateful—but aware the system is rigged.

Real—but never messy.

Strong—but never angry.

And never tired.

Because if you fail at any of this…

It’s still somehow all your fault .

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I didn’t come up with all that.

Some of it came straight from the Barbie movie.

But the reason it hit me so hard is because it’s TRUE.

I spent 22 years masking, and the past decade trying to get that mask off, what can I say, old habits die hard.

Then when I had the stroke

And in the most unexpected, painful, irreversible way…

It gave me permission to take the mask off.

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In the disability world, the standards are completely different—almost unrecognizably so.

No one expects you to do all the things.

No one expects you to “have it all together.”

There’s a quiet freedom in being underestimated.

And for the first time, I was allowed to just not try so damn hard all the time.

To kinda relax

It’s wild how disability made space for authenticity.

Ironic, isn’t it?

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Now, don’t get me wrong—ableism still exists.

Stigmas. Assumptions. Being treated like I’m fragile or less-than.

But the pressure to perfectly perform femininity?

That melted away with my mask.

And what’s left?

Me.

The real me.

Not who society told me I had to be. And thank God for that because that person was a selfish, judgmental, tyrant.

I still feel those old expectations clawing at me sometimes.

They’re engraved deep.

But now, I get to decide what I carry—and what I finally leave behind.

So yeah, weirdly…

Luckily, I had a stroke.

Maybe because it broke the mold.

And let me be free.