Author: Jenna Rivera

Today, I am writing about my experience with prosthetics, the people who make them, and the incredibly flawed health care system in the United States.

I became a right below-knee amputee in May 2016. 

First, what is a prosthetist?

A prosthetist is a specialized healthcare clinician who designs, fabricates, fits, and maintains artificial limbs and orthotics. Certified Prosthetist and Orthotist (CPO).

They work with people who have limb loss, injury, or congenital differences, helping to restore mobility and function.

They typically complete a two-year master’s program, followed by a residency, to become certified. Prosthetists are not doctors; they are clinicians with “advanced”, specialized training.

Prosthetists are paid well, considering they only need two years of formal education. As of 2026, the median salary ranges from about $78,000 to $88,000 per year, with high earners in large or national clinics earning $150,000 to $200,000 annually.

It’s a lucrative business.

I strongly believe every prosthetic clinic should employ people with lived limb-loss experience, both upper and lower limbs. Nothing replaces lived knowledge. You can study limbs, but living without one is different. It’s like going to a male OBGYN or a female urologist for prostate health.

I have literally pointed to every intact leg in an exam room and said, “You don’t understand, you don’t understand,”  And while pointing at my intact leg, “I didn’t understand,” and pointing at my right residual limb, “now I understand”. 

Prosthesis or prosthetic? 

I personally prefer the word prosthetic over prosthesis—the latter is a mouthful, and frankly, I’m not a fan of how it sounds. Technically, a prosthesis is a noun that refers to a physical artificial limb. Prosthetic is a descriptive adjective. I use the word prosthetic as a “shorthand” noun for the device itself. 

My first experience with a prosthetist. June 2016. 

His name was Tom, but I called him “Tommy Two Times” to my friends, like the character, Tony Two Times, in the movie Goodfellas.

Tom always repeated himself because he clearly wasn’t confident the first time. He was literally learning as he went. 

He was in his residency. While he technically had a supervising CPO, that supervisor wasn’t always present, if ever. I spent a lot of time sitting in exam rooms—without a leg—waiting while Tommy Two Times learned to be a Prosthetist.

Simply put: he didn’t know what he was doing.

I understand learning curves. I understand being new. But no one should ever be an unwilling guinea pig. 

Five weeks to the day after my amputation, something happened that changed everything at the time.

A UPS delivery driver banged on my door like there was a fucking fire!  I had been asleep during the day because of horrific nighttime phantom pain that kept me awake all night. Startled awake, my 42-year-old brain forgot I only had one leg.

I rushed up out of bed to run to the door. Frightened and not completely awake, I went straight down, directly onto my residual limb! 

The pain was beyond anything I had experienced—including the amputation itself.

I called my surgeon.

I called my prosthetist.

No one suggested an X-ray. There was no bruising. No major swelling. So no one suspected a fracture.

For the next three weeks, I tried to walk with an early temporary/test prosthetic while unknowingly having a fracture at the tip of my tibia.

The prosthetic itself looked horrifying—like a misshapen mummy cone, it didn’t even remotely resemble the shape of a residual limb.  

I was told to walk, to bear weight. 

I couldn’t. I was terrified and depressed, thinking I’d never walk in a prosthetic.

Three weeks later, I finally got an X-ray—which was literally upstairs from the prosthetist’s office—that revealed a two-centimeter fibia fracture at the very end of my residual bone. 

I felt relief, knowing this was not permanent; it was something that would heal. At least there was a reason for the pain and inability to bear weight while wearing a prosthetic. 

But that diagnosis delayed my walking with a prosthetic for another 12 weeks. By the time healing was complete, I was nearly six months post-amputation. 

After healing (with the help of time and daily comfrey poultices), I fired Tommy Two Times.

When I met my second prosthetist, they told me Tommy Two Times had put me in the wrong foot size—a size 9 prosthetic foot shell when I am a true size 8. I never understood why I couldn’t fit into any of my shoes.  I actually cut the heel opening of a few shoes so the foot would fit in the shoe. I assumed that was just “how prosthetics were.”

That discovery alone still makes me angry.

This new prosthetist was from a well-known national clinic. I worked with a father-daughter team. The difference between Tommy Two Times and this team was night and day.

They gave me a prosthetic I could actually walk in.

It was beautiful. It fit. It didn’t hurt.

In April 2017—11 months after my amputation—I finally walked pain-free.

It was literally life-changing. 

When I received that first functioning prosthetic leg, I chose to honor that moment with a healing ceremony—a pure (tested) MDMA (methylenedioxymethamphetamine) assisted meditation.

I took a therapeutic dose of MDMA (also known as ecstasy) and intentionally created a safe, calm, and nurturing space. I meditated with my new prosthetic leg on for hours, returning again and again to the same sacred intention: this was my new reality, and this is how I would walk through the rest of this lifetime.

The following day, I wore my prosthetic leg for 15 hours, and it felt nothing short of miraculous. From that point in April/May 2017 until September of 2018, I was able to bartend, lightly jog, hike, climb rocks, leap over small creeks, and reconnect with a sense of freedom in my body. I moved with confidence and trust—until my “compensator” knee eventually gave out.

I truly believe that the MDMA-assisted meditation softened and opened my psyche, allowing me to fully accept life with a prosthetic limb—not as a loss, but as a continuation. It helped me surrender to the path I was on and embody the truth that this is how I would move through the world. In many ways, that moment set the tone for how I have walked—physically, emotionally, and spiritually—ever since.

In June 2017, I moved to Maine. I stayed with the same national prosthetics and orthotics chain and transferred to a clinic in my area.

Reminiscent of Tommy Two Times, I encountered another prosthetist with whom I didn’t connect; he felt more like a car salesman than a clinician. I didn’t feel heard, so I left him after almost two years.

Through Instagram, I connected with a lower limb amputee who was a prosthetic fabricator at a small, local, family-owned clinic.

In 2019, they built the socket I still wear today— having a lower-limb amputee involved in that process made all the difference.

Unfortunately, in 2022, that clinic stopped accepting insurance entirely. Self-pay prosthetics are simply not realistic for most people, certainly not me. 

Without options, I returned—again—to the national clinic, this time a different location.

Thankfully, I like my current prosthetist; he listens to me, respects my self-advocacy, and treats me like a human being who knows more about limb-loss than he does. 

Unfortunately, the local clinic location closed in 2025, which was less than 5 miles from my home. They consolidated offices over 30 miles away, which is a challenge when you need quick adjustments or emergency help. But it’s the closest one in my area.

I don’t love that one large chain essentially has a monopoly in Maine. Choice matters—especially in healthcare.

But I’m fairly content with my current prosthetist. 

And finally, let’s get into the fuckery that is health insurance and Medicare in the US. 

Because I was still technically married at the time of my amputation in 2016, I was covered under his Department of Defense health insurance plan. That insurance paid for my amputation and most of my first three prosthetics.

When I moved to Maine and received my second functional walking leg, I was told my copay/out-of-pocket deductible would be over $5,000. The clinic advised me to contact the Office of Vocational Rehabilitation, which helps people return to work and can cover costs not covered by insurance for mobility devices.

Vocational Rehab agreed to cover the out-of-pocket cost, but only after I secured employment and worked for 90 days. I found a bartending job on my own—something I never thought I’d return to—and worked for five months and met that requirement.

Once I met that out-of-pocket deductible, I no longer had to jump through bureaucratic hoops to receive prosthetics in the future.

The clinic also allowed me to receive the leg before the payment was completed, which made it possible for me to work those three months in the first place.

In December 2020, my divorce was finalized, and I was no longer on his health insurance. I switched to Medicare, which has been great regarding zero copays and deductibles.

Walking itself is often deemed “not medically necessary”, especially when it comes to “advanced” components—like ankles that move, knees that function properly, or technology that mimics a natural limb.

Denials are very common. Preauthorizations are exhausting.

Medicare imposes caps and restrictions.

You must prove, repeatedly, that a prosthetic leg helps you… walk.

Let that sink in.

PROVE A PROSTHETIC LEG HELPS YOU WALK! INCREDULOUS.

Overall, I walk well in my prosthetic. I have a significant limp since 2018, and it’s not because of the prosthetic; it’s because my intact leg’s knee has severe osteoarthritis; the orthopedic surgeon called it “the knee of an 80-year-old retired marathon runner.” I have also pulled my ACL in that knee a couple of times since my amputation.

But I refuse to have my knee replaced because joint replacement in my ankle caused osteomyelitis, which was the final complication that led to my below-knee amputation. I have no desire to replace my knee on my intact leg, risking infection and potential amputation, losing my knee on that leg.

NO THANK YOU! I’ll continue to be gimpy.

People always seem to comment on how well I walk in a prosthetic. My response is always,  “I’d walk better and possibly run if I hadn’t compensated for over 20 years on my left leg before amputation; my good leg is my prosthetic.” 

I often think about waiting twenty years to amputate. What was I so afraid of when the potential for amputation was on the table, three official times in those twenty years?

I did everything to avoid amputation, all the while unknowingly damaging my “compensator” knee.

Hindsight.

It’s been quite an amazing journey to get where I am today.

I’ve had six different legs, six feet, and five prosthetists. I’ve been in the same socket (which holds your residual limb) for almost seven years.

I’m considered “lucky” to not need new sockets all the time; most amputees experience fluctuations in residual limb size, which complicates wearing a socket. Thankfully, I haven’t experienced that since the first two years post-amputation, when the residual limb changes significantly in size as it heals.

The only issue I really have with my prosthetic is sweat and blisters. In the blazing summer heat, it can get so sweaty in the silicone liner that my suspension system will lose suction; if I gently shake my leg or continue to walk with my prosthetic, the leg will fall completely off. Incredibly dangerous.

Just a little sweat causes friction, and the friction, combined with skin and silicone, creates blisters. They are very painful while wearing a prosthetic.

There isn’t much I can do once I have a blister, except keep my residual limb dry and let the skin heal. Which means, leg off. That’s a significant challenge: living alone with zero assistance and a dog that needs to be walked every day. I do not use a walker, crutches, or a wheelchair anymore. So, all day, it’s leg on, leg off.

Despite the challenges, I express my gratitude daily for being able to live independently and walk my dog. It really is that simple.

Thank you for taking the time to read.

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Eleven Moves After Amputation: Finding Home at Last

Today I’m writing about moving—specifically, moving eleven times in the first six years after my below-knee amputation.

I am a wanderer by nature. I always have been. Home, for me, has never been a place so much as a state of mind. And my state of mind was homeless and unsettled for a long time. I am quite “domesticated.” I can make a cardboard box feel like home if I need to. That instinct didn’t come from nowhere—I moved constantly as a child.

I attended six elementary schools, one middle school, and two high schools before dropping out after ninth grade. My single mother and I moved back and forth to my grandmother’s house —my Grammy’s—my entire childhood. If we weren’t actually living under her roof, I spent entire summers and school breaks there. Stability has always been temporary for me, if I ever really felt it.

Sometimes we moved in the middle of the night. Almost exclusively without warning. No goodbyes. No closure. This was the late 70’s and the entire 80’s. There was no internet, no social media, no easy way to stay in touch. One day I’d be a student in a classroom, and by the next, I’d be gone—dropped into a new school, a new town, a new identity as the new girl. I was always the new girl.

After my Grammy died when I was fourteen, my feeling of impermanence deepened. I couldn’t even count how many places I’ve lived—definitely hundreds. I’ve lived in fifteen states: Maryland, Virginia, Pennsylvania, Ohio, New York, Michigan, California, Utah, Arizona, Florida, North Carolina, Texas, Indiana, Maine, plus Washington, D.C., and Puerto Rico. Those are just where I officially moved and forwarded my USPS mail. It has been a journey of constant change, leaving me unsettled for over four decades.

That theme continued after my amputation in 2016.

At the time of my amputation, I was living in an apartment in Larksville, Pennsylvania. About five months later, still without a prosthetic leg, I moved. Friends helped with the physical move, but I handled the packing and unpacking myself.

I moved to Uniondale, Pennsylvania, renting a room from someone who was supposed to offer a little support. Instead, it became a nightmare. After about a month, I packed up—again alone—and moved to Honesdale, Pennsylvania. I still didn’t have a prosthetic I could walk in. I had help with the physical move. I stayed there for a few months before deciding to move to Maine.

Once again, I packed and unpacked alone. I had help with the long-distance move. I was free of any furniture, so it was not a substantial long-distance move.

Once in Maine, I stayed briefly with friends, then moved into a rooming house in the same town. A few months later, I moved again—this time into a small studio apartment, where I paid market rent, more than 60% of my disability income. I slowly reacquired furnishings, trying to create some sense of home. I stayed in that studio for 2 years. Then I made another leap: moving in with a new elderly friend who had land and plans to build a yurt or cabin for me to live in, so we could rescue and foster dogs together. A true DREAM!

I lived in her basement from the end of 2019 and into early 2020—and ended up with mold toxicity in my lungs just as COVID arrived. The plans for a yurt or cabin build on her property disintegrated because of her relationship with her boyfriend (who was going to actually build it) and the pandemic stress. So, in February 2020, I ordered a 22-foot 2020 Keystone Hideout camper, with plans to travel cross-country, visit friends, and work as a campground host starting in the spring. The camper arrived in early April—right as the world shut down.

So I moved into the camper.

I lived there for nine months during lockdown, only to realize there were no campsites or host positions open and no affordable, rust-free trucks in Maine that could tow a 22-foot camper. And winter was coming, and the camper wasn’t the place to be in Maine. The nomadic dream collapsed quickly.

Next, I quickly moved to Portland and lived rent-free as a “live-in aide,” which really meant just being present in their apartment to feel safe. This person had extreme mental health issues that were not disclosed to me by their caretakers before moving in. After a few scary months, I frantically packed my things—by myself—into storage and left. I was technically homeless with my dog, Honey Bea.

Because it was COVID, thankfully, the homeless shelter was actually a motel room at the Motel 6. I could have my dog. Honey Bea and I stayed there for only eleven days. Being both disabled and homeless moved me up the waiting list for disability housing.

I was offered a subsidized apartment about an hour and a half northwest of Portland—a town I had never even visited—in an apartment building with 24 other residents who were all elderly and/or disabled.

Once again, I packed alone. One friend helped me move. And I moved into that apartment sight unseen.

I lived there for fifteen months. I was grateful—it was a nice apartment, affordable, and safe—but the building and its occupants were extremely chaotic. Parking was a constant issue, and the environment and geographical location didn’t support the life I wanted to live.

So I moved again.

In 2022, I moved into the apartment I still live in today. I didn’t have help with packing or unpacking, but I did have significant help with the move itself. This May, it will be four years.

I love my town. I love the area. I love that it’s a single-structure building, with only one shared wall. No one above or below me. Only one apartment is connected to mine. I love the parking and proximity to my front door. I love the view from my bedroom window. And I’m not technically alone, I do have my true love, Honey Bea.

At 52, this is the most stable I have ever been on my own since I was 14—perhaps in my entire life.

The only other period of relative stability was during my second marriage, when I raised my husband’s children as my own. I was technically married, in total, from age 21 to 47—to two different men, many years unhealed, still deeply shaped by unhealed trauma.

Looking back, I sometimes wonder why I spent those decades trying to be in relationships instead of learning how to be myself, how to love myself. Why didn’t I focus on healing sooner? On building a life rooted in safety and self-reliance?

Life unfolds as it should, and we learn lessons when we’re ready. Ironically, now that I know myself, I know I’m happiest being alone.

As I get older, I do think it might be nice to have someone. But I don’t ever want to live with someone full-time again. I want my own sanctuary. My own retreat. And I want them to have theirs.

Eleven moves in the first six years after amputation is extreme. But it brought me here—to routine, to structure, to stability. It gave me this beautiful space to write my memoir, to create this blog, and to become someone I genuinely love.

The only way I’ll move is if I have a small cabin or yurt on my own land. Otherwise, I’ll stay where I am!

I’m still learning who I am. I really like her and am deeply grateful for her and the hard lessons she had to endure.

Thank you for being here.

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Therapy, Trauma, and Finally Being Seen

Today I am writing about therapy—specifically Cognitive Processing Therapy (CPT), Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), and traditional talk therapy—as treatment for complex PTSD (C-PTSD), and borderline personality disorder (BPD).

I have been in and out of therapy and psychiatric hospitalizations since I was 15 years old. My last psychiatric hospitalization was in 2014. Over the course of my life, I received many diagnoses, and misdiagnoses, including manic depression, anxiety, clinical depression, bipolar disorder, and PTSD. My current therapist diagnosed me with complex PTSD (C-PTSD), along with a comorbid diagnosis of borderline personality disorder (BPD), which developed secondary to the trauma. I absolutely agree with my current mental health diagnosis.

In my case, these conditions had the most impact on my relationships, trust, and sense of security. When I was younger, I really struggled with emotional dysregulation, relationship instability, negative self-image, dissociation, identity instability, fear of abandonment, self-harm, aggression, and relational trauma. I also have an extensive history of suicidal ideation and multiple significant suicide attempts.

I was in consistent therapy for nearly nine years during my second marriage, all with the same male CBT therapist in Manassas, Virginia. For the first few years, it worked; it felt safe. But when my husband became involved—first in couples therapy, then individually with the same therapist—everything changed.

That therapist was suddenly treating me, my husband, and us as a couple. It crossed an ethical gray line, leaving me feeling exposed and unsafe. I began to feel ganged up on by my therapist and husband. I felt like the one therapeutic relationship I ever trusted was no longer safe.

Everything in my life deteriorated further after my husband returned from Afghanistan with severe combat fatigue and traumatic brain injuries from two significant blasts. By 2012, my therapeutic relationship had completely broken down, and I left therapy altogether. My marriage also deteriorated and ended in 2013.

I didn’t return to therapy for about eight years.

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By June 2020, I was living in a 22-foot Keystone Hideout camper on a friend’s eight acres of land in Maine. I had ordered it before the COVID pandemic, hoping to travel the country, but instead, it became my home during the lockdown. My relationship with the landowner, an older woman with whom I rescued and fostered dogs, had become deeply strained, and I was under enormous emotional stress. I knew I needed support.

At that point, I was four years post-amputation and eight years without a therapist. I had also never worked with a female therapist before—only one psychiatrist, whose role was medication, not emotional processing.

I went to Psychology Today’s therapist directory and filtered for trauma-informed care, CBT, CPT, and highly sensitive persons (HSPs). One therapist stood out immediately. Her photo felt warm and welcoming. Her last name was Heartwell.

To me, that name meant something profound: heart and well—the center of being, compassion, emotional truth, and wellness. It felt like a sign.

I sent her a message and also called, expecting a voicemail. Instead, she answered. It was early June 2020. She told me she rarely responded to numbers she did not know, but something made her pick up. I explained what I was going through, and she said, “Let’s get you in.” I had my first session that same week.

Before that session, she had read a short, personal story I had written about my life and amputation. She came in knowing a bit about my life. 

She has been my therapist ever since.

For the first three years, I saw her every single week—sometimes more. There have been, and I’m sure will continue to be, emergency phone calls and extra sessions when things are overwhelming. For the last two and a half years, we’ve met every other week.

This is the therapist who helped me become the version of myself I live as today. I only refer to her as “Heartwell” to my people. I don’t think I’ve ever used her first name.

She sees me clearly. In my clinical assessment, she describes me as intelligent, resilient, resourceful, empathetic, funny, creative, perceptive, and willing to try new things. Hearing those words from someone trained to analyze the human mind—my mind—has been profoundly healing.

We also connected immediately because she, like me, is a highly sensitive person (HSP), a trait defined by psychologist Dr. Elaine Aron. That shared understanding matters. It means I don’t have to justify why I feel deeply, notice everything, or get overwhelmed by stimuli. I am not “too much.” I am wired this way.

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One unexpected gift of COVID was the normalization of Zoom therapy. For someone like me, it’s life-changing.

Going to an office often means navigating traffic, horribly lit waiting rooms, unfamiliar spaces, small talk, and sensory overload—by the time I sit down, my nervous system is already fried. I spend most of the session just trying to settle enough to speak. Let alone discuss my deepest, most vulnerable self.

At home, I can actually do the work.

Before each session, I prepare: my breath pillow, crystals, essential oils, water, tea, tissues, and everything I need to regulate my body. I stretch, breathe, and focus on what I want and need to share. I can take my prosthetic leg off. I can sit how I need to sit. (I don’t have to wear pants – BONUS!). My nervous system is already grounded when the session begins, so we can go deep instead of spending 45 minutes just getting me decompressed. It helps that I can talk fast and get a lot out in a quick amount of time. If you can’t tell, I have lots to say. 

For trauma survivors with an overactive nervous system, that difference is everything.

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I don’t know if I’ll ever reach a point where I no longer need therapy—and honestly, I’m not sure I want to. I value this relationship. I value being seen. I value having someone who reflects my truth back to me with clarity, compassion, and honesty. I’m filled with love, joy, and gratitude even when I’m struggling.

Ms. Heartwell didn’t invent who I am. But she gave me a safe space to be witnessed. Everyone needs validation. Heartwell has given me that.

And for that, I will always be grateful.

Thank you for being here.

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Today, I am writing about body image, intimacy, and amputation.

As a child, I was bullied relentlessly for my “chicken legs.” One boy used to chant, “Breaker, breaker, jump on her, you’ll break her,” which—looking back—was pretty clever for a third grader, but cruel all the same. Kids clucked like chickens when I walked down the hall. They called me Olive Oyl, Popeye’s homely girlfriend. Those moments stick with you. They shape how you see yourself long before you have the language to understand what’s happening.

Home wasn’t much safer when it came to my body image. My mother and Grammy joked that I had “no ass at all disease,” that my butt was as flat as a cracker. When my mother spanked me, she’d say, “This bony ass hurts my hand.” Those comments landed—and they stayed.

I grew up internalizing the belief that my body was wrong and ugly. When people told me I was beautiful, I assumed they meant only my face or my hair—my naturally curly hair—not my body; they couldn’t mean my body. I was long and lanky, awkward and uncoordinated, like my body didn’t quite belong to me. By my late teens, I was nearly 5’8” and rarely weighed more than 105 pounds, which continued well into my twenties.

I hated my legs—how skinny, long, and stick-straight they were. I did everything I could to hide them. I rarely wore shorts; if I did, it wasn’t out in public, maybe on a hot day in the woods, but not to the store. I lived in long skirts or pants. In the late ’80s and early ’90s, I wore sweatpants under baggy jeans just to make my lower body look less stick-like. When I worked in the car business for 10 years, one of my nicknames was “Stick Chick.” I was constantly accused of having an eating disorder, which hurt deeply because it wasn’t true. The truth was, I could eat whatever I wanted and not gain a pound. I also knew what an eating disorder looked like; my mother was bulimic for my entire childhood, and that was not me.

So yes—body dysmorphia accurately describes my younger years. Body dysmorphic disorder involves obsessing over perceived physical flaws, and I absolutely lived with that as a child and young adult. While I still struggle with body image, I no longer meet that definition today.

In 1996, at 22, everything changed. I jumped out of a car traveling 60 miles per hour. The trauma left my right leg permanently disfigured—a compound tib-fib fracture with a visible bone protrusion. For the next 20 years, I hated my legs even more. Not only were they thin, but now one was visibly damaged.

The irony isn’t lost on me that I spent so many years hating my legs—and then eventually lost one.

In my thirties, I drank heavily and was on several prescription medications, most notably Lyrica, all of which caused significant weight gain. For the first time in my life, I was “thick,” and I liked it. At my heaviest, I weighed around 170 pounds. Most of the weight went to my face, belly, and boobs, not much, if any, went to my hips and butt, and nothing to my legs. Around that time, I ran into a “friend” who had always mocked my body. After nearly a decade of not seeing me, she said, “Oh my God, you look like a strawberry with toothpicks for arms and legs.” Even in my thirties, the shaming didn’t stop.

At forty, my life collapsed all at once. I left my second husband and the children I had raised and loved as my own. I went into full menopause. I became ill and lost a significant amount of weight. Just before my amputation, I weighed about 108 pounds and hated how thin I was. I was trying desperately to gain weight, not knowing I had osteomyelitis and that my body simply couldn’t absorb what it needed.

The last time I can remember (I’m sure there have been occasions since, but I remember this one) being mocked for my body was in 2016, just before my amputation. Someone invited me to sit and eat at their crowded table and said, “You can sit in the child booster seat—you’re thin enough.” Thin shaming is just as hurtful as fat shaming and completely unnecessary. No one needs to comment—unsolicited—on someone else’s body. Ever.

At 42, I lost my right leg. I am now deeply grateful for the one intact leg I still have, even though the knee has severe osteoarthritis from 30 years of compensating. I’m very grateful I can walk with a prosthetic. So many amputees cannot. But prosthetics are cold, stiff metal, the opposite of my personal idea of femininity. Add that to the negative body image list.

I’ve always felt pretty in my face and hair. I had great hair when I was young; I still do, though I’ve put it through decades of heat damage straightening it. I’m now eight years post-menopausal, which has honestly been amazing—but it also comes with thinning skin and osteoporosis. The “pretty face” I once relied on now has deep, well-earned lines. Maybe too many for my 52 years. I’ve always worn my emotions on my face. I’m animated. If my mouth doesn’t say it, my face will. That expressiveness—through physical and emotional pain post-amputation—is permanently etched there. I try to frame them as wisdom lines, but it’s getting harder to look in the mirror. I just don’t recognize myself. Selfies are nearly nonexistent these days.

Sexuality has also shifted. As a teenager and well into adulthood, I was very sexual. I enjoyed sex. I loved sex. One might even say I was promiscuous at times. But a couple of years before my amputation—and for a couple of years after—I was celibate. Since 2019, I’ve remained celibate.

About two and a half years after my amputation, I jokingly referred to myself as a “born-again virgin.” I had never been intimate as a one-legged woman. Being without your leg—beneath or beside an able-bodied partner—is incredibly vulnerable. I was terrified. I wanted to do it. I felt I needed to do it. Lose that “born-again virginity” as an amputee.

Thankfully, the person I chose was gentle and kind. I cried quietly because everything was different. He also cried. Positions I once enjoyed were painful or impossible. My body felt completely unfamiliar. The connection with him was brief, but necessary, and I’m grateful for it.

The second—and last—person I was intimate with after my amputation was in 2019. That experience was somewhat traumatic. I was effectively trapped at his home, three and a half hours from mine, without a car. I didn’t learn he was schizophrenic until about two weeks in. I considered spending my last $300 on an Uber just to get home. I eventually managed to get home, but the experience shattered my trust in men.

Since then, I haven’t dated. I don’t trust men—for many reasons. Sex feels complicated. Devotees exist. Disability fetishization is real. My libido is low, likely due to post menopause. My body image struggles remain, primarily because of amputation. If I had the right partner, I might enjoy intimacy again—but I don’t feel driven toward it.

What I miss most is touch. Connection. Not sex itself.

Ironically, my body image has improved since my amputation. It’s not healed, but it’s better. I currently weigh about 130 pounds without my prosthetic, which feels healthy for me. I’d still love another five or ten pounds—preferably in my hips, butt, and legs. In my dream body, I have a thick, curvy lower half. Instead, I inherited my father’s part-German build from the hips down.

And finally, the truth I really haven’t confronted. I no longer believe that finding love is worth the pain. I’ve loved. I’ve been loved. I’ve lost love. Those experiences mattered, and I’m grateful for them. But I don’t believe love is worth the cost anymore. This, coupled with my less-than-desirable body image and distrust of potential intimate partners, keeps me single. 

Then again… who knows? When you least expect it, right? Maybe I’ll be a fool and love again.

Thank you for being here.

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