Part 1: Being Seen

As I sit here in the park, I’m realizing something I didn’t fully understand before.

Every time I used to come here, there was this quiet weight I couldn’t shake. I told myself I was just a little down, maybe a little anxious. But the truth is, having my hand exposed like that was a constant reminder of 2010. Of cancer. Of everything that came with it.

It pulled me out of the moment more than I realized.

Today feels different.

I’m sitting in the same place, but I’m wearing a prosthetic. I’m looking up more. Saying hi to people as they walk by. Not because I suddenly became outgoing, but because I’m not carrying that same constant reminder in front of me.

The truth is, that voice is still there.

It hasn’t disappeared. It’s just quieter.

When I didn’t have the prosthetic, walking around with one hand felt like I was constantly being watched, even when I probably wasn’t. It made me feel different in a way I couldn’t ignore. Like I was aware of myself all the time.

Most days, that meant I’d look down, avoid eye contact, and try to move through spaces as quietly as possible.

And then other days, I’d swing the complete opposite direction and overcompensate. I’d be overly friendly, overly energetic, almost throwing myself into conversations just to prove that I was okay. That I was normal. That someone with one hand could be normal.

People around me would tell me everything was fine. That nobody noticed. That everyone is different.

And I understand what they meant.

But that wasn’t my experience.

For me, it was a constant awareness of being different. A constant feeling of being looked at, even if no one was actually staring.

I felt like I had to prove something just by being out in the world.

And it wasn’t just about me. I felt like I had to manage other people’s reactions too. At a counter, at a store, in passing. Like I needed to make them comfortable before they even had a chance to feel uncomfortable.

That’s exhausting.

So every time I left the house, I came back drained. Not just from existing, but from constantly managing how I was being seen.

I remember one of the first times it really hit me.

I had just been diagnosed and had my hand amputated. I was going to Gainesville every two and a half weeks for chemotherapy, and on the way back home, which was about a three-hour drive, we stopped at a Trader Joe’s.

I don’t remember exactly what was said. But I remember a family walking by, and a little girl, maybe 10 or 11, pointing at my hand and saying something. It wasn’t meant to be cruel. But it wasn’t kind either.

And it was the first time something like that had happened.

I wasn’t used to it yet.

I remember we were already on our way out, my mom and I. But she became protective, and we both said something out loud. Not directly to them, not really confronting them, just loud enough that they might hear us.

There was no pretending it didn’t happen.

It had.

And it felt like just another moment in a growing list of heavy, discouraging ones after losing my hand.

In that moment, something I had feared became real.

Yes, I was different.
Yes, I looked different.

And the truth is, even before I lost my hand, I already felt different from everyone else.

This just made it visible.

What I had always felt internally was now reflected back at me from the outside.

I didn’t feel like myself.

I felt like something people looked at. Like something being observed. Almost like an animal in a zoo.

Even now, sitting here in the park, I catch myself looking at people walking by and wondering if I need to compensate for them too.

But it’s different now.

That voice is still there, but it’s quieter.

It gets quieter each time I leave the house, each time I try something new.

Because I’m starting to realize something simple.

Everyone is just living their own life.

The people in this park aren’t thinking about me the way I thought they were. They’re just trying to get through their day.

And now, so am I.

There are moments where I feel that shift clearly. Even something as simple as walking from my car to this bench, a couple hundred feet. I stand taller. I look up. I move through the space differently.

Before, I carried myself smaller. More guarded.

And that difference matters.

It’s not perfect. That feeling still comes back, especially in crowded places like stores.

But it’s not as loud as it used to be.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m starting to believe that maybe it doesn’t have to be.

To understand why that voice got so loud in the first place, I have to go back to 2010.