It’s July 31, 2023. July is always an interesting month for me. July 1 marks the anniversary of the loss of my leg. It’s been seven years now. Beyond that, for me, July marks the end of the best part of summer. Once we turn into August, greenery starts to take on a hint of gold and the geese start their trial flights. The air takes on a different temperature and smell, as we are reminded summer is in it’s last month.

July is also Disability Pride Month.  It’s an opportunity to honor the history, achievements, experiences, and struggles of the disability community. It started in the US with the establishment of the Americans with Disabilities Act, landmark legislation that broke down barriers to inclusion in society.  For those who wish to acknowledge DPM, there is room for reflection and with that reflection, hopefully change and growth.  This July I spent a lot of time reflecting on disability.  Not just what it means to me, but what it means to so many who are defined as disabled.

According to the Rick Hansen Foundation, one in five Canadians identify as being disabled.  That’s a shocking number.  When I read that on a billboard recently, I could not fathom that there were so many.  Where are they?  Why are they not a part of visible society?  Sure, many disabilities are hidden.  But why are we not hearing more about them?  I saw that billboard at the beginning of the month.  The stat has been echoing in my mind ever since.

Earlier in February I had surgery and with that came a long recovery.  It required further amputation of my leg and remodeling of bone placement and the muscles and tendons that attach to that bone.  It meant that I had to spend more time in the wheelchair and that I had to learn to walk again.  I went from being disabled to being more disabled.  In the long run, the surgery will improve my quality of life and hopefully help me be more balanced and to walk better.  That will come in time, with a lot of work.  In the meantime, I realize just how far I had come since I originally lost my leg.  I miss the mobility that I had worked toward, but I will be patient as my body recovers and my strength is built.

Fortunately, I do enjoy looking outward. It’s a great distraction and it gives perspective. As a marketer I like to notice shifts in advertising and how those shifts will affect how a consumer may look at a particular brand. Recently, many large brands have been taking a leap by starting to represent a greater cross-section of their customers in their ads. We are now seeing plus sizes, older people and, you guessed it, people with disabilities. As I paid attention to this, I came to discover the demand for talent in Canada was dependant on a single, specialized agency who really gets disability and all the positive qualities that come with it–qualities that could take a brand further than it had ever been. Enter Kello Inclusive. It was through well-earned media coverage that I came to discover what they were about. Their business model was unique. They represent only disabled people and they run as a not-for-profit. Not only that, but they are responsive. I discovered this when I reached out. Because, after all, I am a plus-sized, disabled woman who will be turning 60 in a few months. I have the ability to represent society on three fronts. And they agreed. Suddenly I had turned the tables from being the marketer who arranged for the advertising, to the face within the advertising. In only a few short weeks I put my name forward for an opportunity and before you knew it, I was being rushed into makeup and hair in preparation for the filming of a commercial.

The brand was WestJet.  The set was on a plane in an airplane hanger.  It was clear by looking at the other talent that they had selected that diversity was a priority.  It was apparent that they understood who their customers and employees were.  In fact, the roles depicting staff were played by staff–refreshing.  The day was chalk full of firsts for me.  It would be a life memory.  But it would be bigger than that.  With my small effort I was able to represent others of difference.  I am the one-in-five, and by representing others who are also one-in-five, we will be even more visible.

After the WestJet gig was over, I was keen for more. It’s an exciting thing to be in front of the camera. It’s even more exciting to be a part of a shift, to represent. So, I started to pay attention to what Kello Inclusive was saying. I was absorbed by their Instagram posts. They showed me what the others on their roster were working on. They also showed me a special project that they had in the works. That project was called Kello Loop. They were clever in how they revealed it with just a teaser to start. I couldn’t wait to hear more. Finally, it came out. Kello Loop was a run. Wait! What? How could an agency that represented people with disabilities support an event that most of us could not participate in? People in wheelchairs don’t run. People with walkers don’t run. Some amputees run, but not this amputee. When I walk my dog it’s at a pace that only his patient soul can tolerate. So, what exactly were they up to? It didn’t matter, it wasn’t for me. But the others were excited. And they were going to participate. Was I missing something? I was convinced I wasn’t, lost interest and moved on.

Then I heard more.  The event has accessibility in mind.  Well of course it would have to.  What was I thinking?  It was also open to all means of mobility.  Makes sense.  And there were lanes.  Lanes that went around in a loop.  Where after each loop it was easy to decide to finish or continue.  It wasn’t a long, winding course where opting out in the middle would mean trying to find a way back.  Mood was considered too.  It was designed to give everyone a sense of achievement…a sense of belonging.  There would be no winners or losers.  Nobody finished first or last.  Instead, there was a cumulative result.  Together we would strive for a goal of 1,000 loops.  Everyone would make their own contribution, in their own way.  So, I said yes.  I really did.  I agreed to participate in an event whose entire focus was based on my biggest challenge. 

It was the perfect day.  Clear skies, moderate temperatures and barely a hint of a breeze.  The sense of community and hope was palpable.  And so, I made my way to the track, established myself in the outside lane, and I walked forward between the white lines.  But it didn’t unfold as I’d hoped.  I knew I’d be slow.  I knew others would be faster.  I thought I might be the slowest, and I was.  This was the first time I had embarked on a physical, sport-like activity since my competitive days in horse sport.  My competitive self had awoken, and there was no outlet for her.  She was losing.  She was dead last.  And all the defeated feelings that I’d pushed back for so long surfaced.  I choked back the tears.  I engaged in a great deal of self-talk.  “It’s about personal bests.”  “Be grateful to be able to move.”  “You are a part of something bigger.” “This is a magic occasion.”  It was all that.  But the tears came anyway. 

Then there were the children.  Thank god for the joy of children.  And so many of them too.  Abled, disabled, they were all so happy to be there.  And they shared their happiness.  They smiled at my dog, because of course I took my dog, and their happiness became my happiness.  It took me three loops before I shook my feeling of hurt and defeat, but I did, and I’m glad.  My goal was to walk three loops.  That would exceed my personal best in walking.  But I had just found my stride and wanted to do more.  I did five loops.  The only thing that stopped me from doing more was a desire to be able to succeed and do so without ending in pain–emotionally or physically.  What a day.  What an experience.

I thought this July would be like all the rest.  But it wasn’t.  Disability Pride Month has been a month of reflection from start to finish.  This was my first year to take time to even consider it.  I’m willing to bet it will be an important month for me in future years too.