From Clinical to Couture: Reclaiming Beauty in Mobility Aids

I wasn’t born disabled. I acquired my disabilities, most notably a spinal cord injury, after a car accident. When the doctor told me I’d be using a wheelchair, my first thought wasn’t fear—it was: How do I show up as myself, a fashion maven, in something that looks so sterile and clinical? Well, the answer was simple: a fashion maven makes fashionable changes, “dahhling.”  While it might sound like vanity, it’s called dignity—oftentimes, the precursor to confidence.

The hospital-issued chair I received was three sizes too big; think comedian Lily Tomlin’s Edith Ann sketch: this petite woman swallowed up in an oversized rocking chair ten times her size. That’s exactly how I felt. It didn’t feel secure or safe, and it certainly wasn’t a reflection of my personality. That moment marked the beginning of my journey—not one of limitation, but rather the first of many societal barriers to self-expression and confidence. I added the “Andrea touch,” which can be described as a touch of glam, beauty, and elegance, to something many viewed only as a tool. Because it wasn’t just about function; it was about being me, fully.

My wheelchair wasn’t something I was “bound” to as some journalists still say, which makes me cringe—it was freeing. It gave me mobility and independence. The real barriers weren’t my wheels. They were the perceptions around them: the lack of style, the absence of choice, and the underlying message that function mattered, but fashion didn’t.

Finding Belonging in Disability Culture, Disability Joy, and Pop Culture

It wasn’t until I attended a community event at a hospital’s disability sports day that I saw something different: people in vibrant wheelchairs, laughing, playing basketball, talking. It was welcoming, bright, and full of life. It wasn’t the clinical, limited version of disability that society and media had exposed me to; it was welcoming and joyful. I thought, Okay, this is me... and then I wondered:

Why don’t we see this on TV or in films?
Why isn’t this part of our broader understanding of disability?

That moment was my introduction to disability culture, and more importantly, the disability joy that comes with it. I saw people who reminded me of myself, the new version of me, and it was the first time I felt like I truly belonged. Someone at the event pointed out that my wheelchair wasn’t the right fit and recommended I visit Colours Wheelchair. I did, and got my first custom chair: snug, stylish, and mine. I felt so seen and heard in this moment because the Colours catalog was like any other retail catalog: bold, expressive, and “Colourful”.

Personal Style is Essential to Feeling Confident

Just like people choose their cars, shoes, or glasses to match their personalities, mobility aids should reflect who we are. We don’t view eyeglasses as medical equipment, though they are a necessity. So why can’t other mobility aids be treated the same?

Why don’t I see couture mobility storefronts the way I see bike shops, baby carriages, or designer eyewear boutiques?

Yes, mobility aids serve a medical purpose and must be functional. But so do eyeglasses and baby carriages, and there’s space in that industry for fashion, style, and personal flair. Why not the same opportunity for us?

Before my accident, I loved ultra-slim high heels. I can no longer wear them due to balance and safety concerns, but I asked myself: What did those heels represent for me? The answer was simple: elegance. So I shifted how I express elegance. I began designing my wheelchair, followed by leg braces, leg brace straps, and finally, canes. I adorned my canes with crystals and glamor, blending function with fashion. Just because society didn’t think I needed to feel confident in my mobility aids doesn’t mean I had to subscribe to that belief.

Function and beauty are not mutually exclusive. Safety and utility should never come at the expense of self-expression. Feeling stylish is not superficial—it’s part of wellness. It’s part of identity. And identity deserves to be visible.

As the host and producer of Pasadena Media’s Access for All: Integrating Accessibility, I’ve made it a point to ensure that people with disabilities can appear authentically. When we film, we don’t crop out mobility aids. We don’t stage things to look palatable to a non-disabled audience. We let people show up as they are, because representation doesn’t mean much if it’s not real.

How Sparkle and Joy Canes by Andrea Was Born

The cane I designed didn’t begin as a product; it started as a refusal. A refusal to disappear, to blend in, to accept that a mobility aid must be clinical or invisible. I needed something that moved with me and represented me. That’s how Sparkle and Joy Canes by Andrea came to life, not as a brand, but as a quiet act of resistance and pride.

I’ve always designed my mobility aids, from my first wheelchair to my leg braces, and even the straps that secure them. Each design choice has been a way to reclaim space, to say, “I exist, and I get to define how I do.” These choices are not decorative. They are declarative.

The cane is clear, transparent, sleek, and modern, so it almost floats beside me. Along its sides are crystals, carefully placed to reflect light in delicate bursts, like the sparkle of a well-set table or the glint from a vintage brooch. It’s balanced in weight, with a curved handle that fits the palm like a silk glove, providing a sturdy and secure grip. The effect isn’t ornamental—it’s intentional. This cane doesn't ask for attention; it simply holds it with grace.

Over the past year, more than 30 people, disabled and non-disabled, have come up to me to ask where they could find a cane like mine. Many have said, “If I ever need a cane, I want one like yours.” What they’re expressing is the desire to be seen with dignity and personality, a shift in mindset from an assistive device to an extension of identity. Now, the need for a cane is no longer considered doom; it is regarded as a natural part of life.

That shift is what I aim to create through my work with my social-enterprise, multimedia production company, Shifting Creative Paradigms and primarily through Pasadena Media’s Access for All: Integrating Accessibility. The power of fashion and accessibility is also in my film Sunshine and Kitty, the story of two detectives—one unapologetic in her attitude, both unapologetic in their style. The show opens with Kitty’s cane, the clear one. When mobility aids appear on screen as natural, stylish, and without apology, it sends a powerful message: confidence doesn’t come from conforming. It comes from curating a life that reflects who you are. Sometimes that confidence sparkles. Sometimes it’s clear and quiet, but it’s always intentional.

Defining Beauty on Your Terms

Being in media means being exposed to a wide range of trends and cultural perspectives—or at least, it should. To reflect a full and fair view of humanity, we must honor that what is beautiful in one culture may not apply in another. Beauty is not fixed, it’s fluid. And it’s deeply personal.

When I prepare for a red carpet event or a public appearance, I don’t chase trends. I ask myself, “what feels like me?” That’s the standard that matters most. That is boldness, that is confidence.

At the Easterseals Disability Film Challenge, I wore a classic black dress, a silk scarf, and a metallic belt—nothing new, just pieces I already owned in my closet. When my makeup artist asked what I wanted, I said, “I love eyeliner. Beyond that, be bold.” She added a shimmer of blue beneath my eyes. It was unexpected, elegant, and exactly right.

I did it because being confident grounded me. Because it felt true, and we curated a look together.

Show Up Unapologetically

During the pandemic, I wrote and published a performance poetry piece, soon to be released musically, titled “Show Up Unapologetically.” It’s been a guiding phrase for me ever since. We don’t need to minimize parts of ourselves to be accepted. Your disability, your identity, your style—they are all valid. All welcome.

Confidence doesn’t come from pretending. It comes from knowing who you are and showing up with that knowledge as your foundation. It doesn’t happen all at once; it builds over time. Sometimes through small design decisions, sometimes through bold makeup, or simply deciding not to hide your cane in a photo.

Now, this isn’t to dismiss the pain I manage daily or the seriousness of why mobility aids exist in the first place. These tools are often essential, life-sustaining, and tied to real medical needs. However, while we utilize them and advocate for more representation and authenticity, we also deserve to show up with dignity, on our own terms, and with the confidence to do it our way.

Designers, UX professionals, product developers—take note. Our tools should support our lives, not erase our identities. Style and substance are not mutually exclusive. It’s time to build with both in mind.

I designed my cane because I wanted to see myself in the tools I use every day. And when people see it sparkle, I hope they see more than just crystals. I hope they see someone who has chosen to show up—confidently, joyfully, and unapologetically—as herself. Because confidence isn’t about fitting into something designed for someone else, it’s about making space that reflects who you are, and shining in it boldly.