Nonconforming to whom?

There were years when I couldn’t truly like myself. I thought that, in the eyes of others, I would always appear “different,” fragile, never truly competitive. In no field, with anyone. Stereotypes of the “ideal male body”—toned, athletic, agile—certainly didn’t help during my journey of self-acceptance. I could never fit those standards. And this, when you have a disability, is one of the first truths you have to confront. You can’t sugarcoat it, especially if you grow up in a society that makes you believe that if you don’t fit the norms, you’re worthless, you won’t stand out, you won’t be taken seriously. You won’t be seen as authoritative.

And then there are the looks. Those that judge without knowing, the questions full of clichés, the way people interact with you only because your body doesn’t match your chronological age. For years, I experienced situations where complete strangers felt entitled to be casual, friendly, joking… even though I didn’t even know who they were.

In today’s society, fitting certain physical ideals seems like a pass to everything: you might be considered more reliable or successful. It could be your business card. But if your body’s visual impact is “different,” you’re forced to do extra work: to tell your story, explain yourself, help people look beyond appearances and interact with you, with your person. My “nonconforming” body put me in front of a daily challenge. I experienced micro-exclusions, constant comparisons, but all of this made me more aware: of myself, my physicality, my value. And I realized that even if my “business card” is different, it’s just as valid as anyone else’s.

At first, I tried to compensate. I worked three times as hard, put in double the effort, trying to fill in, in my mind and in others’ eyes, that presumed gap. I thought that only this way could I assert myself: professionally, humanly, in relationships. But then something changed. I don’t know exactly what, but I started to appreciate myself for who I am, to focus on what I have rather than what I lack. This shift in perspective opened doors. I understood that it’s precisely thanks to my body—everything it is, represents, entails—that I became the person I am today. A person who perhaps otherwise I could never have become. I learned to value every part of my physical self. And I realized that I no longer had to think of my body as my only identity. There were (and are!) many other aspects I could bring into play: style, behavior, to name just a few. All elements capable of rebalancing initial perceptions, of revealing the person before the body.

I sought—and found—a personal style that represented me, that allowed me to be myself, unique and authentic. When I truly began to like myself, I stopped chasing the need to prove something. I stopped seeking constant compensation. I stopped questioning my place in the world because I began to occupy one naturally, as myself with this body.

I firmly believe that every body has the right to exist in its own truth. Without chasing models, without constantly having to justify its presence in one way or another. Inclusion means this too: giving dignity to every form, every physical identity, with all its peculiarities. I am real. My body is real. I live, every day. I have moments of fatigue, of course, but also great determination. My body carries fragility, yes, but also extraordinary adaptive abilities, a quiet strength, and everyday resilience. All accompanied by a tenacious spirit.

There was a time when diversity had to be hidden, masked, excluded. Fortunately, things are starting to change. Brands, media, and culture are beginning to open up to a different narrative: no longer seeking only perfection, but taking the first steps toward inclusion and representation of diversity. Acceptance is a strong term, perhaps still premature, but the direction is right. The goal will be achieving authentic personal well-being: one that goes beyond aesthetics, beyond appearance, and comes from a deep reconciliation with oneself. Feeling good in your body is not an aesthetic achievement—it’s an inner victory.

I don’t often talk about this topic, but if my words can help even one person, it’s worth it. Every body deserves space, respect, and representation. And if we truly want to talk about inclusion, then we must start here: with the body we inhabit. In its uniqueness. Always.