And so this set hadn’t been about Mark, even though he had acted as the catalyst. It hadn’t been for or about anyone else but me. I had done this for the version of myself who, as a kid, had blinked three times fast in front of a bathroom mirror and hoped magic would change her. This was for the person who had been so utterly terrified of her body being exposed to the world that she hid, perpetually, under pilled sweaters. I had done this to to prove to myself that I could lean into the things that scared me. I had done this to prove that my own body wasn’t something to fear. For so long I believed that sharing the truth about my disability would reduce me to a synecdoche, that I’d always be the girl with the hand. But after I had brought my whole, unadulterated self into the light I realized others saw me in a way I didn’t always see myself.