Don’t Call Me Strong

Words by Teddi (he/she/they)

I don’t think many people know that I was a professional martial artist. I was working in a dojo and training seven days a week. Six of the days were fourteen hours long. It was amazing. 

Dojos have the best atmosphere. Everyone is there for their own goals, but people always want to work their hardest. It was normal for there to be blood on the mats. Frequently it was mine. I wouldn’t let my body interfere with my goals, and being exhausted after class was how I knew I was working hard. 

When I returned back to New Zealand from Japan to finish my degree, I went back to the VUW Taekwondo club (which I highly recommend, they are all so lovely). Unbeknown to me, a new medication I was on gave me cysts. One kick to my abdomen near the end of class caused a cyst to rupture. After that, I couldn’t bring myself to go back to class and risk another rupture. 

Cyst ruptures are obviously very painful. When I talk about being disabled and having chronic pain, there is a focus on the physical side. I wasn’t expecting the grief I experienced from losing the ability to practice martial arts. I don’t tend to talk about this part of my life, or if I do, I turn it into a joke about how being lazy is easier than doing sport. If I talk about this as an enormous part of myself that I no longer have access to, I will start crying. I miss it so much. It’s easier to not think about it. 

I had to use a mobility aid for the first time earlier this year. Accepting that I needed help with walking more than a hundred metres was really hard, especially when just a few years ago I was so healthy. Luckily, I was too physically exhausted to overthink it and just gladly accepted the help. It still felt like such a fall from grace. 

I’ve been asked how I cope with being disabled, and the truth is I don’t really. I don’t think about what I can’t do. How am I supposed to feel knowing my body isn’t working the way it should? 

I’ve been told that grief is normal. Most other disabled people I’ve talked to also know the experience I’m talking about. It’s something able bodied people fundamentally do not understand. While able bodied people can sympathise with me, what you should and shouldn’t say to me is an absolute minefield. 

Don’t call me strong. I have to deal with everything. It’s my reality. If there was a way to not be disabled, I’d take it in a heartbeat. Whatever it costs, I’d pay. There is no competition. I’m not like this for a journey to improve myself, it just is what it is. There is no higher cause for what happens other than that my body isn’t designed for a pain-free existence. 

Fitness is not something you either have or you don’t. It’s a tool in being healthy, yes, but it’s not a magic cure-all. Unless someone is asking for advice, don’t comment on their lifestyle, because life isn’t going to be amazing all the time. We just have to accept that.