Uncategorized – Liel K. Bridgford

Becoming Comfortable With Being Uncomfortable

Content note: this piece contains mentions of military violence, military occupation and indoctrination.

By the time I leave this earth in my current form, I hope our societies have changes somewhat – to become more just and equal. With time and learning, my understanding and knowledge of global and local injustices only increases. This can come with an increasing sense of doom, as the load of a just world feels heavier by the day.

Change does not spontaneously happen – it happens only when we bring it about. This is why I consider speaking out, learning and trying to do better – as moral obligations. Trying to figure out the most effective ways to create change is the hardest part. There are many questions that come to mind. Recently I’ve mulled over this one – Do we have to publicly explore the trauma we’re working to prevent in order to create justice?

Recently I finished reading The Mother Wound by Amani Haydar, and it has convinced me of the answer to this question. In The Mother Wound, the author explores the various personal implications of her and her family’s trauma. She shares specific violent incidents, occasionally in graphic details, but always in an empathetic way that leaves the reader no choice but to feel the experiences, to step into the shoes of her mother and herself. The details around the lives of her family in Lebanon, and the way her grandmother was killed, were vivid. The pastoral village life, her grandmother’s love and resilience become crucial in my understanding, as the reader, of their motives, wishes, values and aspirations. I related to their extremely common human needs for safety, love, community, and purpose.

Then when the violent and inexplicable attack on civilians is described in the most details available, I could not help but feel outraged, shocked, angered, and extremely sad. Soon many other feelings surfaced, including hopelessness, desperation, and a deep desire to translate the work to Hebrew so that every Israeli can read it.

Because Haydar shared her family’s trauma, a significant shift has occurred in my mind. Despite being aware of the occupation by the Israeli government of Palestine, until reading this book I thought the majority of methods used by the military were genuinely necessary, and executed with high care for human life and international law. This idea, that has taken roots in me via years of informal and formal education, media and cultural beliefs, was at once shattered.*

Suddenly, the military ‘protecting’ my country of birth and citizenship, was painted with a completely different brush. The military I was taught was essential to protect the Israeli people and that was the most powerful whilst humane in the world, the military every Israeli citizen must join at 18, the one I served in for nearly three years – was not what I was always led to believe it was.

This military was suddenly exposed as the one who sends secret agents that brutaly kill Lebanese civilians simply because they identify with the liberation of Palestinians. The same army we were told always considers human life at their highest priority, was suddenly exposed as the army that bombed a clearly marked civilian line of vehicles. Those vehicles carried women, men, children. The youngest victim of this attack was only a year old. An innocent baby. There were no military targets in the area. The traumatic implications of this violent attack naturally reverberates through generations and continents, yet no government or military personnel have taken responsibility. This cannot be described in lesser terms then the unjust act of cruelty by a hating, racist oppressor. My entire worldview has shifted.

This book immediately challenged not only everything I thought I knew about my country, our soldiers, our ‘safety and security’ policies, our governments, but it also completely challenged my perception of who we are as people, and by extension, of who I am, who I was, and many of the decisions I have made in the past. I’ve always struggled with integral aspects of the culture I was raised in. But this book brushed my already non-favourable perceptions with a metallic, bloodied red.

If the author would have left this part of her story out, this perception change would not have happened. Being uncomfortable with our beliefs, looking at people, ideas, values and actions from a different angle is difficult. It is challenging and can make any of us feel uneasy. We have a psychological bias to search for information that confirms what we know and believe, and experiencing anything outside of that is always a conscious, effortful choice. Without this discomfort though, we as communities and humans will never progress. Stepping out of our comfort zone to read an opinion we disagree with, or watch something we wouldn’t normally choose, is how we learn, develop, and grow.

As long as we remain living in unjust, unequal and unsafe communities, trauma must be explored, expressed and revealed to the public. This is certainly not to say that we should trauma dump**. Nor do we need to constantly or carelessly share our and our people’s traumas. Care and consideration is key, but the sharing is crucial. By sharing how a traumatic oppressive system, relationship, event or person has affected us, we help others understand. We can help someone else step into our shoes – feel, relate and perhaps even shift their perspective. This is essential if we want to see any social change. Change will not happen on its own, but by the power of people choosing change. Only with opening our eyes, our hearts and our minds, will we ever progress towards a just, equal world.

If you believe in the pursuit of justice, if you believe that every human deserves to live their best life, to have access to safe communities, welcoming spaces, equal opportunities, and to be free of harm, then you must become comfortable with being uncomfortable. Tuning into others’ experience to understand is our duty to our fellow world citizens.

Until next time,

Liel K. Bridgford

*Note that although even the recent war in Israel/Gaza involved killing of children, the Israeli government and army officials have insisted on the care and importance of the military targets behind the attacks. Furthermore, Israeli propaganda tells citizens that families are always warned and given opportunities to keep safe. My levels of belief in these messages were shaky but still somehow intact until I read The Mother Wound.

**trauma dump refers to the exercise by which one shares unedited traumatic experiences without warning, structure or purpose beyond personal unloading.

P.S. note that I don’t advocate to trauma dump or disregard your own right to safety when engaging with others’ lived experience. Rather, healing is a communal responsibility. As the sharer, it is one’s responsibility to make apparent what it is you will be covering (for instance through trigger warnings or content notes) and provide sources of support. As the audience, it is our responsibility to always look after ourselves before, during and after we engage with others’ stories. This will mean different things to different people, but can include engaging with material in safe spaces and times, or reaching out to others for support, encouragement or debrief.

The Meaning of No and Big News

I’ve written ever since I can remember – early notebooks of my childhood are scattered with poems, short stories, magazines and even multi-chapter stories. Writing has always been an outlet through which I expressed feelings, thoughts, experiences, and shared them with others. I prided myself on my rhymed Bat-Mitzvah speech and on poetic cards for every occasion.

Thinking of writing as a career though is only something I’ve seriously considered in the last few years. Although I must admit to a childhood dream to write a book about my experiences growing up. It was a kind of comfort at hard times – imagining that at least I could write about what happened, to make the future world a better place.

But taking writing more ‘seriously’ and submitting pieces to places inevitably led to receiving rejections – the No’s. You often hear stories of writers who became famous immediately. But for a lot of people, the road is more complicated. Trying to publish my writings in the Australian literary world has been a challenge, and that’s partly because I’m inexperienced, and don’t know the industry well, nor the people in it. But it’s also because there are still a lot of preferences in the industry for writings by Australian-born, Christian and non-disabled people.

My writing style is different to my peers, I know that because I can read their stuff, and I’ve been told I use English in unusual ways. I also write of ‘unusual’ subjects like the realities of being a disabled, immigrant parent or what it means to be a female in our patriarchal world. Writing for me is about many things, one of them is a tool to inspire change – for the better. And it’s also who I am – I write truthfully, because it’s how I like to live life.

Receiving multiple No’s when sending out my writings has been hard, although I got used to it! At first, the meaning of No was a potential indication of the value of my craft or ideas. Slowly though, I’ve learned to re-assign meanings to the No’s. Recognising privileges helps, although it also enrages me at times. I know I need to work harder than some in order for my pieces to be considered for publication. (although I still have privileges that help me, like being white and at a socially acceptable body weight).

I’ve reassigned the meanings for No’s by listening and reading other writer’s journeys, and deciding it’s ok that some places don’t want to publish my pieces. It also helps to think of the industry as a business – which it is – and realise that at that point in time, a particular person or people, didn’t think my piece was going to sell enough.

Expectation is another huge factor in how we react to life events, and so I changed my expectations rapidly since the early days of sending out my material. Although holding onto hope is useful, tampering my expectations and looking at the statistics help me feel grounded and deal with the No’s better. I have received many more No’s than Yes’s, thus far, so I now expect a No, and just feel pleasantly surprised when this expectation is proven wrong.

Recently there have been a few Yes’s which I’m very excited about. A few aren’t yet announced in public, so you’ll have to wait a little longer. In case you’re not following me on social media (which is a loss for you), here are a few Yes’s that you can check out:

I’ve written several blog posts for SANE Australia, which has been enjoyable and fruitful. I’ve learned a little more about the industry in the process, and loved combining my writing skills together with my mental health knowledge and lived experience. Here is a summary of the blogs:
- Disability, mental health and wellbeing – exploring the relationship between disability and mental health, alongside useful strategies to look after oneself.
- How to recognise and manage perinatal anxiety – exploring the ways one can recognise if they’re feeling anxious in pregnancy or after having a new baby, and strategies to manage such a common experience.
- How to talk with children about your mental health issues – exploring the benefits of talking with children about mental health challenges, as well as ways to start and handle such conversations.
As for the biggest Yes I’ve ever received, I have been honoured to be selected to the TOP 5 ARTS Residency by the ABC. I will be working with and learning from some of the best in the media and publishing industry, and I cannot wait to commence in September. You can find out more here. This is by far the biggest Yes I’ve ever received, and I feel privileged and humbled to be selected among a group of talented people to this unique program.

As for the No’s, they keep coming. Slowly though, their weight decreases, while I focus on the writing itself, and the beautiful Yes’s that come in other forms to formal publications: when someone clicks their fingers during my poetry reading, or comes up to say they enjoyed it, or laugh while I perform. A Yes can look like a comment on a social media post or a new subscriber to my blog. Although those Yes’s don’t pay the bills, they fill my heart with hope that my words are valuable – at least sometimes, at least to some.

Until next time,

Liel K. Bridgford

Besties Chat About Immigration – TEASER

The first season of (Un)marginalised has already finished, but lucky for you, I’ve produced a special, bonus episode! In this episode I am chatting with one of my best friends, a fellow immigrant and book lover, Shira.

We talk about immigrating to Australia, slang, accent, making friends, and so much more. We had so many laughs, and I’m sure you’ll find it interesting.

This episode is released only to my supportive patrons who help make sure this website exist, the podcast to be available for free, and my writings to continue.

For the price of one coffee per month, you can access the full episode, as well as support the ongoing making of the podcast:

You can also connect with me, and find more of my writings and art on my socials: Instagram: / Facebook: or Twitter: .

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 6:14 — 11.4MB) | Embed

Subscribe: RSS | More

Dear Israelis (ex-fellow citizens),

CW: war, violence, military occupation, death, and complacency.

I am writing to you today with a heavy heart and an aching soul. Writing these words is difficult, knowing that many of you would feel attacked, or feel that I betrayed you, or that I don’t understand.

It is with great sorrow that I’d like to direct your attention to a crucial part of the country’s reality. I am not saying our country, because – well, it doesn’t feel like it’s mine anymore, nor have I felt that I could belong there, or that my voice mattered, for years.

I used to believe there was hope for change. Back when I was a kid watching teenagers wear white t-shirts with the slogan Peace Now, singing the peace song. But a lot has changed since those days, and my votes for peace-promoting parties have drowned in millions of votes for violent, militant, dividing parties.

It hurts me that the basic understanding that Palestinians and Arabs deserve the same rights and opportunities that we do, is still up for debate. Actually, it almost isn’t up for debate, it is seen as plain wrong. The rhetoric that Arabs all hate and want to kill us, is so pervasive that I’ve been continuously nauseated over the last week looking at the news.

We used to say that ‘by the time it’d be your turn, there won’t be a military anymore’ but now we’ve stopped saying it. You tell your children this is normal – that a military occupation, a stripping of human rights, a constant war or an impending war, death by rockets and racial violence, are normal and unavoidable. You ask children as young as four what they want to do in the army.

You have been voting for parties that do only harm. Voices of those who want equality and to end decades-old violence drown, are ridiculed and are labelled as ‘Arab-loving’ or unrealistic. Meanwhile the world sees children losing their lives, families, hope for a basic, free, safe life. The Israeli government refuses a cease fire.

Yet your children tell me ‘I’ve had enough of Hammas’, because your media only shows the damages on the Israeli side of the fence, and only if it’s far enough from it. The violence and dispossession of property in your cities isn’t reported about, or if it is, it is accepted, like a normal part of every country’s reality. You don’t make any sound about police, army or civilian violence against those who aren’t Jews. A small minority of you makes a little noise, but it isn’t loud enough, not even close. And the violence continues.

This week you are attacking those with an international platform, like Gal Gadot, for not speaking up to defend Israel. Here’s a newsflash – YOU are doing absolutely nothing to defend Israel or ensure long-lasting peace. Most people do not see the current war as anything to worry about. The media presents it as an ‘operation’ and you all tell me it will be over in a few days.

‘It’ won’t be over, because you do not speak up and make your leaders accountable, because you do not demand justice. Because you allow the government to be violent towards peaceful protesters. Because you keep electing a corrupt and violent prime minister for fifteen years. Your idea of an alternative is another military commander whose policy is exactly like the current government’s. You have let human rights, peace and equality be utterly de-prioritised.

You are promoting violence, with the absurd expectation it will lead to no violence in return. You do not make the basic connection between the military occupation, discrimination, dispossession, and racism, to the violence you and your children endure.

I’m tired of the expectation to defend your country when all you do is say everything is fine. I am tired of hearing criticism of my decision to live overseas, when life in the region is filled with a cycle of colonisation, violence, dispossession and hatred.

I am tired of the complete lack of accountability. Everything is always someone else’s fault. Even when the Israeli government rejects a ceasefire, you are silent and blaming someone else. I am tired of hearing that you don’t care about the lives of those behind the fence, and are just happy to send your children to die there in the name of ‘the land’.

I am exhausted by the toxic rhetoric that we cannot get along. I am exhausted by the decision over generations to ignore how our children are being indoctrinated against anyone who isn’t an Israeli, who isn’t a Jew. I am sick of the discrimination against Arabs, Muslims, and Palestinians. Of the racist jokes.

I am ashamed. It’s always been scary to admit I was born in Israel, or raised Jewish, but now it is plain embarrassing to let the world know that that is actually the country I’m a citizen of.

I cannot ‘stand by Israel’ like the slogan running through social media is promoting, because Israel as a nation isn’t standing by basic human rights, and hasn’t been for a while.

You wonder why Wonder Woman hasn’t been speaking up to defend Israel, but I’m not surprised. I can’t speak for anyone else, but for me, living outside of Israel, and wanting the war to stop, I feel helpless. I feel alone in the cause – because you don’t seem to want the same thing.

If you really want the rockets to stop, if you really want to protect the next generation, and the next – start making noise. Start looking in and seeing the real problems. Start demanding change, start a conversation to make sure that everyone gets to live. And live free, and safe. Not behind walls and with guns to their faces, not in reliance on Israeli governments’ allowance of electricity or water.

I am tired, and so is the world. The (still-alive) children of Gaza, the West-Bank, Jerusalem, Tel-Aviv and Ashkelon are tired, and scared.

If you’re tired too, do something.

Liel K. Bridgford

P.S. I know some of you would now label me as an ‘Israel hater’, which is a part of the huge problem. But I am writing this out of love – love for the people and children, everywhere. All children deserve a safe place to call home.

Who Gets to ‘Save Lives’?

CW mention of ableism and internalised ableism.

Yesterday at work I got to critique an Australian health campaign for its accessibility. The video focused on cervical screening, and ended with ‘It saves lives’, although it doesn’t actually save lives. This made me reflect on how this euphemism is used, and who gets to be labeled as ‘life saving’ in our cultures?

Medical health professionals are the first to be labelled as ‘saving lives’. It makes sense – doctors literally re-start hearts that stopped beating and prescribe life-sustaining medication. But we also use this phrase for tests, or even when a friend babysits for us. Today I’m proposing to expand your idea of life-saving.

Life isn’t just about staying breathing or having blood pumping through our veins. Despite what medical, ableist TV shows tell us, it also isn’t about being able-bodied, or funciniong in a spcific body shape. Life is about feeling things that make us human, and still want to get up in the morning. It is about grieving the loss of loved ones, or rip in anger and still keeping faith that humans are worth saving. It is living through intergenerational trauma and thriving through hatred, and all the isms around us – sexism, racism, antisemitism, ableism. It is about speaking up, learning, loving and birth and deaths and so much more.

Because life is about all of those things, our definition of ‘life saving’ should drastically change. I have spend countless hours of my childhood in hospitals – under anesthesia, in rehabilitation, in check ups, in cast building. Despite this, my life wasn’t saved between those cold hospital walls. My mobility was the only focus of the medical health professionals.

When I was discharged, after the major treatments for my leg were completed, I felt ashamed. I was hiding all the time and felt worried about what people thought when they saw parts of my body. I dealt with shame and stigma in silence, and I judged myself for being me. I craved acceptance from others but I couldn’t give it to myself.

Only when I started reading and listening to the stories of others like me, was when I could feel all the feelings, thrive inside my body, and feel truly and fully alive. My life was saved by Laura Hershey, Vassar Miller, Carly Findlay, Imani Barbarin, Eliza Hull, and other disabled creators and activists. Their stories and words was what allowed me to live in this body without shame, acknowledge the pain, and find a home in the world. Their poems, books, articles, songs and sentences have helped me finally embody an essential truth – that I am enough.

Of course we need blood in our veins and oxygen in our brains to function, but none of that would matter without stories, feelings, aches, joys and pleasures. Regardless of what our bodies look or feel like, connecting with other humans and feeling good about ourselves is what makes life worth living. Knowing that we belong, that we are accepted, celebrated and loved, is living. Helping any person to feel a little more safe, a little more loved or a little more whole, is saving a life. And as the Bible says, saving one life is like saving a whole world.

Stories save lives. [Image description: a children’s section of a library. Bookshelves are filled with colourful books and behind them a bright orange wall is panted with a tree, flowers, starts and birds. By the bookcase stands a colourful armchair.]

The spaces, the value, the money, the prestige that we assign to health professionals and creators are all too divergent. The work of a musician, a poet, a filmmaker, an artist, or an advocate, are just as important as the work of those keeping us physically alive. Who would have survived 2020 without movies, poetry, music, podcasts, or books?

In a world were hatred is still rife, where many of us don’t feel safe in our bodies, countries, or homes, hope lives in our stories. Through stories we can learn about ourselves and each other, and through stories we can create empathy, equality, and safety for all.

So I urge you to contemplate – who is saving your life, who is making your life worth living? I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.

Until next time,

Liel K. Bridgford

(Un)marginalised: S1, E6 with Jennifer Hankin

In the final episode for the season, Jen and I explore how the intersection between gender and invisible disability drives a person’s health, employment and education experience. We also talk fashion, music, the Australian disability support system, and what to do when people ask ‘how are you?’.

CW: ableism, mental health issues and family violence
For an exclusive bonus episode and to support the making of the podcast, go to
Complete transcripts available on http://lkbridgford.com/unmarginalised-podcast
If you need support after listening, you can contact Lifeline on 13 11 14. Outside Australia, you can find support here:

To continue the conversation, go to my Instagram / or Facebook

Please note the views expressed by the interviewee do not necessarily reflect my own.

“To flourish as a person I can’t feel like I have to force my way into spaces. I need to feel like somebody had made that space for me.” – Jennifer Hankin on the (Un)marginalised Podcast.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 47:42 — 87.4MB) | Embed

Subscribe: RSS | More

(Un)marginalised: S1, E4 with Pascha.

CW: ableism, internalised ablsiem, fatphobia, the holocaust, and eugenics of disabled children.
To support the ongoing making of the podcast, go to my Patreon account on:
You can also just make a one time donation on my blog on: http://lkbridgford.com/support-me
To connect with Pascha, find her on Instagram: @ThreeToedMartian
Complete transcripts of the episodes available on http://lkbridgford.com/unmarginalised-podcast
If you need support after listening, you can contact Lifeline on 13 11 14. Outside Australia, you can find support here:

To continue the conversation, go to my Instagram / or Facebook

Please note the views expressed by the interviewee do not necessarily reflect my own.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 46:50 — 85.8MB) | Embed

Subscribe: RSS | More

How a Book Can Change Everything

Last night my yellow hand-made bookmark lost its place inside Growing Up Disabled In Australia (GUDIA). I spent a good ten minutes trying to remember where I stopped the previous night, before realising – I finished it already. That was disappointing. GUDIA is a book I never wanted to end. It kept drawing me back in, for more. And when I finished, I wanted to go back to the start and read it again. With so many poignant components, it became the fastest anthology I’ve ever read.

I loved so many pieces in the book, and strongly related to the majority of them. That rarely happens when you’re a disabled person. Well, maybe now it’s going to happen more.

It was important to me to write about this, because the gravity of publishing this book cannot be underestimated. For many people, this would be the first time they see themselves represented in Australian literature. For many disabled people, there’ll be moments of first – first time someone accurately expressed their feelings, experiences or thoughts. First time someone found an accurate metaphor for living in a body that others see as broken. First time someone shone beautiful and colourful lights on their bodies, souls, sorrows and joys.

Admidtingly, I’ve previously read other anthologies by disabled people, published overseas. Even so, I found GUDIA to be unique and broad in terms of topics covered, as well as types of disabilities. I’ve learnt new things, laughed, teared up and folded far too many marks – I wanted to highlight and return to most pieces. No doubt I will be reading most of the stories and poems again. I found parts of my story in many pages of the book, and felt so deeply seen by various authors’ expressions of struggling with ableism in its many forms. I enjoyed the caricature story and the poems, which nicely broke the sequence of the essays. The diversity within the experiences, writing styles and emphases was excellent, and I particularly appreciated the cultural diversity within the texts. The various ways in which ableism is exposed and challenged are so fundamental – to understanding ourselves as disabled people and for people living alongside us to learn what it’s like.

Some particular lines, metaphors and ideas are still in the back of my mind. I won’t name favourite pieces because there were too many, but my favourite themes were fighting internalised ableism, detailed and relatable descriptions of medical ableism in the system and in families, and disability pride and joy in various forms including speaking up, connecting with the disability community, sewing parachutes and dressing for a disabled life – a well lived life.

The only thing I would have liked to see in the anthology were content notes or warnings. I’ve seen those in one previous disability-focused anthology and felt they were helpful. There are essays that mention for instance self-harm, medical ableism, bullying etc – so a little specific info like that could have been useful.

If it’s not clear by now, I highly recommend everyone read this book. But in particular, if you work in the disability field, health, or the education system, and/or if you have a child with a disability – you must read this book.

A book like GUDIA, where disabled people’s experiences are the centre, can and will change everything. It may finally make someone’s penny drop about giving their child choices in their treatment. It may generate empathy where there is none to invisible pain and trauma. It may probe a health professional or a friend to ask about how someone is experiencing their disability, rather than assuming. It may teach a parent or a teacher to explore disability with their able-bodied little humans, and provide language for disabled people to ask for help or explain how they’re feeling. It may plant a seed of hope in the heart of many who feel alone, and shine a light down a path where their experiences are validated and others are confident to reach out a hand.

This is how a book can change everything.

Until next time,

Liel K. Bridgford

P.S. this book has been edited by Carly Findlay and published by Black Inc. Books.

I am all sexy, thanks very much.

CW: internalised ableism, ableism, patriarchal beauty standards, exercise, dieting.

When I was growing up, I internalised the idea that to be sexy meant to be able-bodied, thin etc. (You know, all those ableist, fat-phobic ideas we learn from patriarchy). Although it’s no wonder I’ve internalised such toxicity, it’s worth exploring how it likely happened, so we could do better.

As I was growing up, disability was a bad thing. What I had on the other hand, wasn’t a disability, adults would say, but a ‘problem’ – something one can fix, then move on. I always knew I was different, and that that difference was something to avoid talking about, or showing, if you could help it. It was something I needed to ignore and overcome, in order to become the ‘normal’ human I was destined to be. I’ve learned early on to hide my leg behind long pants if I could, to place it behind me to avoid my own and others’ gaze, to hold it in attempt to cover, as much as possible.

As a teenager I slowly filled with trepidation that no one would ever love me because of my ‘leg problem’ – romantically that is. I looked up to characters on my screen, in my books and through my headphone – all were skinny, beautiful, ‘perfect legged’. I saw Brittany Spears, Avril Lavigne, Beyoncé, Sharkira, Alicia Keys, Katey Perry, to name a few. Israeli TV was filled with similar skewed and unrealistic beauty standard. My friends and I read magazines that told us how to become worthy – we were instructed to eat lettuce three times a day, do a hundred push ups just to 30% angle to produce a flat tummy, to name a few strategies. We taught each other specific exercises for each area of the body we needed to ‘tone’. What I feared most, but told no one, was how no amount of exercise would make my legs look like those in the glossy magazines. I was doomed. My only chance was to be as skinny as possible, and hide my leg as much as I could.

I wished I could be me, just with another leg – a regular leg. Every other ‘flaw’ seemed insignificant compared to how ashamed I felt about the leg. I remember thinking surely he would have liked me/stayed with me if I had a regular leg. When my current passion got together with someone else, who always had straight legs with five toes on each foot, it twistingly confirmed that I could never be accepted as a desired, sexy person.

I gradually planned to find someone who wouldn’t know about my leg. I’d hide it for as long as possible, and by the time I’d tell them, hopefully they would’ve fallen in love with my. That way I could get my happily ever after. Needless to say, this was before I had enough of an understanding about the huge issues with such myths.

In my late teens, towards the end of my ‘treatments’ (i.e. the lengthening and straightening procedures), I could mostly hide my disability. Only with my leg, foot and limp hidden, I could feel sexy and confident enough to imagine being desired. After years of on and off crutches, leg braces and casts, I have gained my sense of sexuality by pretending my leg wasn’t there at all. I’d camouflage it with jeans or thick leggings and get on the dance floor, flirt with the guys and get into bed. Every time a sexual relationship didn’t work out, I’d think it’s because of my leg. When in bed, I’d avoid looking at my leg and place it as far from mine, and my partner’s body, as possible.

Now I am over thirty, happily married and a parent, and am still in the process of unlearning this internalised ableism. Unfortunately it is still radical for a disabled female to feel sexy, express our sexuality, or even acknowledge it. I think this has to do with a lot of things, some of them very powerful. If we’re beautiful and sexy as we are – what does that mean for all the systems benefiting from us hating ourselves? What would do all the surgeons telling people and parents they can fix us? What would happen to the diet industry? How would so many feel ‘successful’ at being ‘perfect’? What would happen if we were all just perfect, as we are? There will need to be a lot of unlearning and re-learning, but it will be worth it.

Only in the last few years I’ve come to not just accept, but celebrate the whole of me. Now I can take a photo with my foot out, and feel sexy. Without cropping, looking away or pretending. This took about thirty years – and that’s too long. The next generation of disabled people shouldn’t have to deal with such ludicrous and soul-crushing internalised ableism.

The way I’ve been challenging these ideas is through reading, connecting, introspecting, and by filling my screens and pages with real, diverse people. I’ve come to realise how messed up these ideas are, and how they benefit only a small amount of people. It’s suddenly clear how we can become a society in which sex, sexuality and erotica would be celebrated and expressed freely, and safely.

This change starts with each of us, and today I’m glad to report I do feel sexy. I don’t need to hide my leg or avoid looking at it to experience arousal. I’ve also come to realise that there is no me, without this leg. I wouldn’t be who I am. Parts of me that I find sexy are my determination, straightforwardness, humour and an ability to think big, to shift my perspectives and challenge myself and others to grow. All these qualities wouldn’t exist as they are, without my particular DNA, and specific experiences I’ve gone through because of it.

We have come a long way since the 1990’s and early 2000’s, but we’re not there yet. Representation of disabled people is still scarce and often narrow. We don’t get to see disabled people often enough as the centre of a story, living a full life – filled with love, sex, heartbreaks, friendships, careers and parenting. But things are starting to change.

Feeling Sexy. [Image description: Liel standing in front of a long mirror, smiling. She is wearing patterned grey, black and yellow leggings and a grey and white crop top. She is barefoot and the right foot is small with four curled toes.]

I’m disabled, and I’m sexy. In fact, I’m sexy because of everything about me, including my disability. Not despite it. And if you need to avoid looking at my leg or foot to think so, this post is for you.

Until next time,

Liel K. Bridgford

P.S. I’m pleased to report I also now have a positive relationship with food and eating, as well as other parts of my body.

P.S.S if this was hard to read or triggering, I encourage you to get some support. If you don’t know where to start, you can contact me through the ‘contact’ page.

Strict Motives Wrapped in Self-Acceptance

Last night my toddler and I sat in my bed, cuddling under the covers and reading childhood classics I had read many times as a kid. It was beautiful, until the ending of one particular story. This practice is common in many cultures – the passing of classical stories or myths between generations. As a modern day parent, I think we should always apply judgment and critical thinking when we tell stories to the next generation. Some people argue that we shouldn’t judge works of the past by today’s moral standards, others disagree.

The classic I will be referring to here was written in 1993 – almost three decades ago. One would argue that our current moral standards still apply, while other social ideas of today may have been unheard of or considered overly progressive at that time, in the Israeli culture. When we re-tell past stories, it is therefore important we consider and acknowledge the tradition and historical context they were created. I’m not suggesting we shouldn’t read classics or engage with classic art, but only that we execute our own judgement and explain to the next generation how old ideas can, and often should, change (like – women’s right to vote or accessibility being the law). This is especially important when we tell stories to children who are learning about the world and themselves. Here I will exemplify how you can do that – by critically thinking of stories and dissecting what messages may be hidden inside.

The Israeli culture, like many others, highly values its classic children’s books, which are still sold and read widely. One of these that we read last night was The Elephant Who Wanted To Be The Most. Alongside its apparent aim at taming vanity, it sends messages of idealisation conformity and sameness, as well as condemnation of individuality or breaking of expected social roles.

The plot goes like this: a young elephant is sad about being grey like all the other elephants in his flock. With the world being so colourful, he feels low at being given the “old boring grey” to live in

A sad protagonist. [Image description: an excerpt from a picture book page. On the white page is an illustration of a sad looking little grey elephant and a few bigger elephants, alongside black Hebrew text.]

A bird nearby sees his sour face and tries to convince him the colour suits him, but then helps gather colours from nature, helping the little elephant become the colourful self he is dreaming of. A little mirror appears on the page of my child’s board book to show the young elephant finally happy in his colourful, gay skin. His joy isn’t rooted in vanity, but in self pride and celebration of who he wants to be: “Look how pretty I am/ The colorful little elephant.”

Joyful little elephant. [Image description: an open Hebrew picture book with Hebrew text and an illustration of a colourful elephant on a white page. The opposite page is a mirror and a vague image of the colourful elephant is visible through the mirror.”

When our little protagonist returns to his flock, the older elephants mock him so terribly that he regrets the decision, wanting to avoid shaming and asks to return to grey. The others spray him with water, ending the story with a repetition of the mantra “Grey is a good colour, perfectly suitable for elephants”.

Last night this ending suddenly saddened me, as it stood out as punitive and policing – discouraging the elephant, and anyone identifying with him, to express themselves. Although there is a mention of the elephant wanting to be the most beautiful, and critiques argue vanity is the main target of the author’s criticism, other reasons for self-expression and breaking social norms and expectations are also wiped along the way. The elephant is so beautifully colourful and happy after the bird paints him with her feather. The reasons for wanting to get rid of the colours are not because he changed his mind or deeply connected with self-love to his original color, but simply because he didn’t want to be mocked: others said the colours only suit “the circus” (i.e. this isn’t how you’re meant to look) and so he responded with “I don’t want to be a clown in a circus.”

Perhaps unintended, or perhaps calculated, is the message about conformity and sameness. Written in Israel of 1993, many critics and teachers today still interpret this as a story of self-acceptance. I argue that although it may have been the intention, the story can also be read as the exact opposite. The little elephant does not feel right in his body – which is considered a ‘normal’ body (one that conforms to social expectations). There is nothing to indicate the elephant feels he doesn’t conform enough or having a desire to resemble someone else. Instead, he wants to be more colourful like “the world”. This to me, reads that he inherently feels colours would be natural for him, and having a desire to be more colourful, more out-there, different and defy cultural expectations. The inferred expectations could be based on the protagonist’s gender, race, class, disability or others. Once bravely acquiring the colours of the world, he says “Look how beautiful I am, a colourful little elephant!” It seems that indeed, he has found himself and tapped into his internal beauty and found a way to express his true personality.

Anyone in our society’s who has felt judged for how they dress or look – I’m sure can read this as a celebration of self-expression, self-acceptance and even pride. Especially those of us who may feel at odds with society’s expectation of our bodies. As a disable person, society has often told me to blend in, and as a female we are so often told to present a particular way – like every other ‘good’ woman should. The condemnation by the elephant’s peers is a small example of how oppressive systems work in our society – the way our ableist, sexist and racist systems work to keep all of us in line within our expectations – mocking a vulnerable individual to keep them obeying social rules. The little elephant is left with little choice but wash away his colours, and he then “calms down”, looking downwards in defeat.

Happy ending only for the bullies. [A picture from the discussed picture book. A white page with an illustration of large grey smiling elephants washing colours off a small elephant who is looking down. A Hebrew text paragraph in black is on the left page.]

If this was a story of self acceptance, you’d expect the little protagonist to feel at ease or peace with his body, or who he is. Instead, when the others wash his colours away, he simply feels relieved for the mocking has stopped. Very little space was given to the protagonist’s feelings or thoughts about the re-transformation, and his face wears an expression of defeat or relief. Little Elephant didn’t come to self acceptance or celebration, rather, he has just felt obliged to conform with the social expectations to stop the mocking and bullying. He did not have any ally on his side to support his rightful self-expression. After returning to grey, he feels relieved that the criticism stopped, but he isn’t elated, nothing like what he felt when coloured up. He was pushed into place by bigger forces – all but him are happy at the end.

There is no doubt children’s literature plays a huge role in children’s understanding and views of the world. Any protagonist is written to be identified with, at least to a degree. And any child (and adult) identifying with our little elephant, would eventually realise how little choice they had, and that self-acceptance front wrapper is filled with strict rules for individuals’ behaviour within society.

Many of us feel we have to hide who we are, or parts of ourselves – because of messages like these. Normalising bullying, advocating for conformity and strict roles and appearances – do so much damage to the mental health and wellbeing of anyone who doesn’t fit into the boxes built by societies. Many people face ableism, transphobia, fat-phobia, racism and sexism on a daily basis – and this example feeds into those harmful ideas.

When reading this book with my child from now on, I will either change the ending for my child -maybe get rid of the mocking and say the elephant retuned to his flock to find acceptance and celebration of who he was. Or I will add an explanation that it is not ok to laugh at how people present. That we should all celebrate who we are, and feel safe to express ourselves freely (as long as we don’t harm others), remembering that who we are is beautiful and strong. As always, I will tell my child – if you want to dress or behave differently from what others think you should – go for it. And if anyone mocks you, I will come get them.

Until next time,

Liel K. Bridgford