I have been a fashionista for as long as I can remember. Long before I understood the politics of style or the power of self-presentation, I knew that clothing mattered. Growing up, fashion was my first language. I loved color, texture, and anything that felt expressive and a little bit different. I was artsy-fartsy to my core, drawn to uniqueness, individuality, and pieces that made a statement. Clothes were never just clothes to me—they were an extension of my creativity, my mood, and my sense of self. Getting dressed was an act of joy, an art form, a way of stepping into the world with confidence and flair. That was ME!
Then, more than twenty years ago, my life took a dramatic and unexpected turn.
I was diagnosed with meningioma, a benign brain tumor, an event that shifted everything I thought I knew about my body, my independence, and my future. After surgery, I was partially paralyzed on my right side—my dominant side. Suddenly, tasks I had done without thinking became overwhelming challenges. One moment from that time is forever etched into my memory: sitting in a wheelchair, wrapped in hospital scrubs, waiting for a nurse to come and dress me. I remember the feeling vividly—not just the physical vulnerability, but the emotional weight of that loss of autonomy. I could no longer button my shirts with ease. Pulling up my pants required assistance. Zippers, snaps, and fitted garments became obstacles rather than expressions of style.
For someone who had always found power and identity in fashion, this was devastating.
Through years of physical therapy, perseverance, and determination, I regained some mobility. Today, I wear an AFO brace on my right foot, and my right arm remains partially paralyzed. I adapted, as disabled people so often must, but fashion did not adapt with me—at least not right away. I learned to make do, altering garments, choosing clothes based on necessity rather than desire. I vividly remember having straight-leg pants cut up the side just to accommodate my brace, because they were too slim and offered no flexibility. There were no snaps, no Velcro, no thoughtful design—just a reminder that mainstream fashion had not considered bodies like mine.
Yet even in those moments of frustration, I held onto a dream: I wanted clothes that were easy to put on, comfortable to wear, stylish to look at, and designed with dignity. I wanted fashion that met me where I was—not as a compromise, but as a celebration.
That dream began to take shape when I was introduced to adaptive clothing through Runway of Dreams. Being selected as a featured model in their fashion show was transformative. For the first time since becoming disabled, I wore clothing that was not only beautiful but also intelligently designed for my body. Velcro closures, flexible openings, and thoughtful tailoring allowed me to dress with ease—and with pride. These were smart, stylish, adaptive clothes that did not scream “medical” or “special needs.” They whispered something far more powerful: You belong here.
That experience opened my eyes and ignited my curiosity. Why hadn’t adaptive clothing been normalized sooner? Why were people with disabilities so often excluded from fashion conversations, campaigns, and runways? I began to understand that adaptive fashion is not a niche—it is a necessity, and it is a form of recognition!
