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My body holds maps of my significant moments, my personal anniversaries. The first time I smooched my partner, the days I came out the first time and the second time, the day of the injury that evolved into disability and my first book’s publish date. I feel them all viscerally and when I don’t consciously prioritise that pause to reflect, my body reminds me.
Recently I quietly celebrated two years since deregistering as a civil marriage celebrant. I loved being a wedding pixie – creating ritual and weaving story into ceremony. I wanted to understand love. I engineered my life so that I could stand in close proximity to the magic of it, when people are hopeful and filled to the brim with their best, brightest selves.
This work was the first thing I fell in love with after needing to step away from my dream job in Auslan interpreting. Early in my career, chronic pain became disability, and it felt like a great part of me had been ripped away. I had no choice in it.
Two years ago, I walked away from a successful business and work I was skilled in because I was hopeful and had a new dream. When my annual registration bill arrived, my wife encouraged me to back myself and stop avoiding my calling as a writer. To rejoin the program under the Attorney General’s department would mean a huge financial outlay and a year’s study, so it wasn’t a bridge burned lightly.
I haven’t looked back. For the first eighteen months I’d often ghost write ceremonies for busy celebrants, and now I’ve let that go too. I’m fortunate that the income I make as a writer, speaker and broadcaster has overtaken my financial metrics of success as a celebrant. But it’s not all about money. Money isn’t real. We rarely see it and it represents freedom - or lack thereof.
Remembering the day I made the leap to the literary world reminded me of the myriad ways I’ve felt stuck over the last two decades of disability. Sometimes literally stuck because I had no accessible way of getting from A to B, other times feeling trapped in romantic and platonic relationships or well-worn habits that felt easier than the resources required to rebuild without them.
Being a disabled person in world that didn’t get the memo about the social model of disability makes walking away a complex notion. There’s no wiggle room when it comes to being able to ensure we can afford healthcare and management of our daily lives to a basic standard of safety.
There can be a baked in perception that a harmful track we’re stuck in is less risky than something new. Whether it’s possible to take that leap depends on what reliable supports we have, how frightening the change is and the real dangers involved.
So many people feel trapped in a hamster wheel that diminishes their capacity to feel joy, to be as well as possible and to locate their own metrics of success. Stopping to catch your breath can feel impossible, let alone finding the headspace to redefine what you want in life or in the moment.
My body reminds me that the day I allowed myself to hope, to believe the finite hours I work and live in a meaningful way could be less about everyone else, and that it was a choice. This was not something taken from me. When I sit at my desk I feel so peaceful and energised. I’m in the right place - never stuck for ideas or projects to sink my teeth into. Even though my previous job was wonderful, writing is something that serves me wholly and authentically for where I’m at.
None of us are guaranteed cruisy circumstances, but if we’re lucky and have the capacity to dream of putting some steps in place, we might just be able to break those steps down into more manageable morsels. To use a physical metaphor, a marathon next week isn’t possible, but I can take a little walk a few times a day. I can lift dainty hand weights regularly on the way to getting completely ripped. Just like I can think of the career I want, the relationship I need, the type of friend I haven’t met yet but know is out there somewhere, or the cake I want to bake and share.
Balancing hope and reality was a skill I needed to build slowly. I’d previously been convinced my loyalty to something that miraculously fit in around my needs had to be my primary concern. I had to devote myself to this thing that helped me find a place to be. But there’s so much more to it than that.
Perspective through lived experience of trouble and strife is not the only information to consider. How much of that pain would shift, how much energy and clarity would you gain, if you took a single step toward pleasing yourself? And if it all goes wrong, it’s just one little step you’ve taken. Reset, take a breath, try again. Your body and all its systems and parts will thank you. And if that little step goes well, keep going. Two years on, you might have something your body reminds you to celebrate.