Many of my earliest memories are of doing physio exercises (or trying to get out of doing them).
My dad and I would sit with our legs outstretched, trying to touch our toes. Dad would count us down from ten, we’d relax for a moment or two and then repeat the stretch as many times as my physio plan dictated.
My physiotherapist would give us a new plan at each appointment. I dreaded those appointments because I associated them with pain, discomfort and the inescapable fact that my body often wouldn’t or couldn’t do what I wanted it to.
I knew I was in for at least half an hour of therabands I could barely stretch and exercises my legs wouldn’t like. Perhaps worst of all, I’d miss out on school to go to the appointments, which marked me as different from my classmates. Back then, my spasms were less frequent, my gait less uneven and my fatigue less intense, so I could pretend, for the most part, that I was just like everyone else. Physio appointments reminded me that I wasn’t.
My physiotherapist showed me I didn’t have to be. With Myff, I started to look forward to my physio appointments. My body still rebelled, but Myff dispelled my shame. While she stretched my legs, assessing their strength and range of motion and other things I didn’t understand, she’d distract me with conversation.
Like me, Myff liked reading. We’d talk about the books we’d recently enjoyed and what they meant to us. Myff listened to and respected my ideas, beyond our shared tastes in literature.
I could show up to our appointments exactly as I was. Often, in my adolescence, that meant I felt flat, tired, and on the verge of tears. When Myff asked me how I was, I felt safe enough to answer honestly, because she never minimised or dismissed my feelings. If a stretch hurt too much, we stopped. When I wanted to understand the mechanics behind a stretch, Myff would answer my questions with plain language and patience.
Adolescence is an awkward, disempowering time. No longer a child and not quite an adult, I wasn’t sure where or if I mattered. By holding space for me in my entirety, acknowledging the impacts of my cerebral palsy without framing it (or me) as a deficit, Myff helped me build confidence and the foundations of what I now know to be disability pride.
When I went to Japan on a school trip in Year 10, she worked with me for months to make a plan for how I would manage spasms and minimise pain. In our last appointment, she demonstrated an exercise and said, “you could do this one while you read a book.” It’s a stretch I still do.
Myff is a pediatric physio, so I don’t see her anymore. I tried a few physios before I found my current physio, Ferne. Her approach is similar to Myff’s, though our dynamic is a little different.
I’m much better at listening to my body now, at recognising my access needs and asking for them to be met. Ferne wears a mask for our appointments, as do I. We choose times where the hydro pool is quiet and she takes COVID safety seriously. When I’m spasming badly and shame and anxiety creep in, she asks about my cat, knowing that the thought of Giles will help me stay calm.
Myff and Ferne take a patient-centred, strengths-based approach to their physio practice. They respect my autonomy and they don’t question my experiences. They normalise disability as a natural part of human diversity, thereby challenging my internalised ableism and showing me that another way is possible.
That disability pride is not only possible, it’s powerful.
And so am I.
