At 6 years old, I began the first of 19-and-still-counting invasive surgeries. This left me as a predominantly wheelchair user, homebound, and homeschooled, even more disabled than I previously was. My disability kept me away from the friends I should have made, with whom I could have secretly exchanged doodle-filled notes, showed off my cool new grape-scented pencil from the Scholastic Book Fair, and screamed, “ewwww, cooties!” in unison when a boy sent back a note colored with my name and hearts all around it. It kept me away from the parks where I should have hung from the monkey bars and from the classrooms where I should have sat criss-crossed in a circle and shared what I brought for show-and-tell. Instead at that age, I learned how to swallow pills for the first time, and my pain became more pressing.