Chloe Moody

Be honest: How many times in the past year have you pictured yourself telling your grandchildren about what the COVID-19 pandemic was like?

In less than two weeks, I begin the end of my undergraduate career: the end of an era. The end of my life as a student, the precipice before I have to figure it all out somehow.

When you read my columns, I want you to laugh along with me at the absurdity of this disabled body of mine. My goal is not to make you feel sorry for all that I endure. 

The reality is, I’m in my 20s and I’m irresponsible. I’m still figuring out who I’m supposed to be and when all of this pain is going to be worth it.

No doctors, no nurses, no lab technicians, no janitorial staff … nothing for four entire hours. I was all alone.

Although I fancy myself a super-woke disability activist, “Rising Phoenix” opened my eyes to how little I actually knew about parasports.

While I might be away from home, let me make one thing clear: I am not on vacation. This is still my life, in a different location, with a slightly different schedule.

I really dislike the term “caregiver” in the context of a romantic relationship because it implies a dependency that is not mutually reciprocated.

I like to think I have as much sex as your average 22-year-old, if not more. Honestly, you’d be surprised how much sex people with ostomies have.

This birthday blues was a side effect of my disabled childhood, my birthday a casualty of my own internalized ableism, its voice ever-present: Nobody will want to come[; you don’t have any friends anyway; and you don’t have anything in common with people your age.