María’s Story
My two identities are clearly visible to anyone looking at me, and although it hasn’t always been the case, I’m proud of the skin I’m in and can’t imagine life or who I would be without being both a first-generation Latina and a woman with a limb difference. As the daughter and sister of Mexican immigrants, perseverance and strength are inescapable qualities which were exemplified within my family and have been instrumental in helping me navigate life with a limb difference.
In many of the rooms and spaces I’ve been in throughout my life, I was always different from my peers, and now, as an adult, I couldn’t be prouder of what makes me different. I thrive on my differences. I couldn’t be prouder of doing everything with one hand and using my Mexican background as a catalyst for success in life as an adult. I’m so incredibly proud to be bilingual, to have embraced my roots and the incredible culture of my family, and, in turn, to make my family proud.
Especially as a young professional, I’m often the only woman of color in the room or the only disabled woman, and it’s taken a lot of internal work to assure myself that my voice, experience, and expertise matter - there’s a reason I’m here. After many years of inner work and therapy, I’ve now fully embraced the qualities that are special to me. It’s not an easy feat to figure out how to do daily tasks, drive a car, or paint your nails when you only have one hand. Thankfully, I’ve had an amazing support system of friends and family that have helped me throughout the years to learn ways that I can adapt and be completely independent. Adapting throughout life to succeed with only one hand is second nature to me now, and I often don’t give myself enough credit for how ingenious I’ve had to become. When I wanted to ride horses, I figured it out. When I wanted to learn to slick my hair back, I figured it out. When I wanted to use a can opener, I figured it out. When I want something, I figure it out.
It’s still hard at times to walk into a store or wherever and notice people staring at my arm. It used to make me feel very self-conscious and even embarrassed. It felt like once they noticed my arm, everything else about me disappeared, and all I’d be seen as was “disabled.” Now, I still notice people staring, but it doesn’t get to me the way it used to even a year ago. I’ve learned to accept myself for who I am and how I was made - I can’t change that I was born without my right hand, but I can change how I carry myself throughout life. My “nub”, as I call it, is such a beautiful and unique part of who I am. When people stare at it, they don’t realize how much it’s shaped me into who I am or the strength that it represents. Now, I let them stare and keep it pushing.
Just like how I used to try to hide my nub when I was younger and tried to pass myself off as if I was like “every other girl,” I used to suppress what made me stand out as Latina so I could fit in with the other girls throughout my life, especially at my predominantly white schools. I grew up speaking Spanish at home, watching Mexican TV shows, eating delicious Mexican food, and upholding the customs of México. My parents were adamant that we not forget our culture, language, where they came from, or how lucky we are to be Mexican. They’ve always been proud of where they came from and were determined to instill that same pride in us.
School and life outside of the home was a different story. At the schools I went to, the sports teams I was on, and the spaces I was in, I was virtually always the only non-white girl. And the only disabled girl. To fit in, as most young girls are determined to do, I’d listen to the same music that they did, wear the same clothes they did, and talk the way they did. I wanted to be accepted so badly that I was willing to contort myself into someone that I thought would be accepted rather than accept myself and stand on who I am. It took me contorting myself in order to come full circle and live unapologetically and pridefully in my identities. Now, I’m proud of looking Latina and lean into Latina makeup, hair, outfits, and music. The bigger the hoop, the happier I am, and the sleeker the hair, the better. As long as my baby hairs are laid and Bad Bunny’s playing in my headphones, all is good in the world.
I’ve faced bullying throughout my life because of my differences, and although it was devastating at the moment, it’s made me stronger and prouder of myself. Growing up, kids made fun of me for not having a hand, and there were times it got so brutal my mom and my teachers had to step in. I’ve had people straight up tell me that I should go back to México, that I should be deported, and that I “need to speak English because this is America.” While their bigotry and ignorance were disturbing, it confirmed to me that all I was to some people was “a Mexican.” It didn’t matter that I was a Mexican who paid her way through school, graduated with honors, or any of my other life accomplishments. They saw me as lesser than them. The same sentiment applied to each time I was made fun of for my nub - all people saw me as a girl missing a hand.
I used to take what these people said to heart and think there was truth to what they were calling me, but the truth is that they’ll never get to live in my skin and experience all of the beauty that comes with a limb difference or the beauty that comes with being first generation. They’ll never know how smart I am, how funny, how kind, or how resilient a woman I’ve become. I’m living a life that my parents dreamt of me living, a life that my parents left their country and sacrificed everything for.
When I was born, my parents were rightfully nervous and scared - their daughter was missing a hand, and they were in a new country. They didn’t know what my life would pan out to be or how/if they could help me overcome the struggles that I would face with the odds seemingly stacked against me. All they wanted was for me to have a good life, and I think I’ve made them pretty damn proud. I’ve competed in competitive swimming and equestrian jumping, put myself through school and graduated cum laude. I moved to Washington, D.C., have an amazing job, and have gotten into modeling. I’m able to visit our family in México often and have connected and taken pride in my roots in a way I could have never imagined when I was younger. The immense sacrifices that my parents made and the support and love they’ve given me have pushed me to embrace the life I was given and strived to surpass expectations - my own and of those who’ve doubted what I’m capable of.
Mexican culture thrives on resilience, strength, and love. Without these pillars instilled in me, I wouldn’t be so secure and confident in my capabilities and potential. Had I been born into a different culture, I’m honestly not sure I would’ve become so secure in my ability to exceed my goals or to love for myself. My family calls my nub my “manita” in Spanish, meaning “little hand”. It’s in the little things like this (no pun intended) that I’m so amazed by the beauty of my culture. What a beautiful way to describe my limb difference. They call it my “little hand” because although there are no fingers, what’s there is more than enough for me to succeed. I’ve made it enough - they’ve helped me realize it’s more than enough. I can do virtually everything that anyone else with two hands can do. I can ride my family’s horses in México and I can drive my family’s cars. I can ride bikes to meet my friends for drinks after work. I can carry my suitcases by myself through the Benito Juarez airport to go visit my Belo (short for “abuelo”) - my biggest cheerleader. My Belo, since I was born, has never doubted that I’d achieve great things, no matter how down I feel or how impossible a task seems with just one hand. My family had always pushed me to be proud of my manita, to not hide it, and to keep taking life by the reins.
I wish I had come to terms with this sooner, but I’m so proud of myself for going on this journey of self-discovery and self-acceptance. While it hurts me to think back on the little girl I used to be that was so insecure and scared of who she was, I wouldn’t be where I am and as confident in myself as I am had I not gone through the struggles of navigating life with a limb difference and life as a first-generation Latina in a country that isn’t always set up to make us feel empowered in the skin we’re in. I know who I am, and I know what I’ve been through. I know how far I’ve come, how much farther I’ll go, and I know how much I’m worth.
I don’t need two hands or white skin to do modeling, to graduate with honors, or to have a successful career and live out the American dream that my parents sacrificed so much for. I’ve gone through life, through its beautiful ups and downs, thanks to the formative experiences that could only have come from growing up with my two incredible identities. I wouldn’t change who I am or what I’ve been through for the world, and I hope anyone reading this finds beauty and strength in what makes them different.
