Beyond the Mask
Beyond Beautiful: Disability, Liberation, Love
Season 3, Episode 13 - Beyond the Mask
🧭 Episode Summary
In the Season 3 finale of Beyond Beautiful: Disability, Liberation, Love., Mandi reflects on transformation, disability, identity, and the masks we wear. From setting boundaries and embracing our identities to navigating changing access needs, she explores what it means to grow, evolve, and become more of who we are. Because transformation isn't about becoming someone else—it's about making room to be more fully yourself.
💬 Key Themes
Transformation & Personal Growth
Disability Identity & Ableism
Authenticity, Boundaries & Self-Acceptance
🚨Partnership
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📜 Full Transcript
Mandi: Welcome to Beyond Disability Liberation Love. I'm Mandi, your Queer Christian Disabled host.
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Mandi: We have finally made it to Season 3's finale. Listen, When I tell you this season has been a journey, I mean it. This has been a windy season. There have been pivots, pauses, unexpected turns, and more than a few reminders that life does not always care about the schedule I have planned. And if you've been waiting for this episode, first, thank you so much for your patience. The delay has a very real reason. I broke my arm about a month ago. And not just any arm. I broke the arm I used to drive my power wheelchair, my dominant hand. So on top of dealing with the pain and swelling that comes with a broken arm, I've also been navigating even more limitations on my independence, figuring out how to do everyday things differently and learning to be patient with the body that needs time to heal. Three weeks into recovery and I'm finally able to spend meaningful time at my computer again. That means we're here. I'm not going to pretend that recovery has been easy. There's frustration, there's vulnerability. There's the emotional work of needing more help when you're already navigating a world that doesn't always make independence or access easy. But there's also been a reminder that I don't have to do everything myself. I have people who love me, people who show up for me, and a job that values me as a whole person and is willing to be flexible while I heal. And maybe that's an appropriate place to begin this conversation about transformation. Sometimes we plan to transform our lives, and sometimes life transforms the plans we had. Either way, we're invited to figure out who we're becoming in the process.
Today's episode is called Beyond the Mask, and we're ending Season 3 where we began with the idea of transformation. When I talk about transformation, I'm not talking about becoming a completely different person. I'm talking about growing, evolving, learning, unlearning, and becoming more of who you are. Sometimes that transformation is visible to the world. Sometimes it's happening quietly inside you. Sometimes it's intentional. And sometimes you don't recognize it until you look back and realize just how much has changed. And sometimes transformation means finally giving yourself permission to take off a mask you've been wearing for years. So today I want to reflect on what transformation has meant to me, what we've explored together throughout Season 3, and how all of this connects to the disability experience. Because I believe we can move beyond the masks we wear without losing ourselves. In fact, sometimes taking off the mask is how we finally find ourselves. Let's get into it.
When you hear the word transformation, what comes to mind? Maybe you think of a dramatic makeover. A new hairstyle, a different wardrobe, a tattoo, a new job, a move to another city, a relationship ending or beginning a completely different chapter of life. We see transformation represented all the time as something dramatic and visible. The before and after photos, the big reveal. The moment when someone enters a room and everybody says, wow, you look different. I love a good transformation moment. There's nothing wrong with changing your appearance, experimenting with your style, or deciding that the way you presented yourself five years ago no longer reflects who you are today. Sometimes our external appearance is an important part of how we explore and express ourselves. But transformation goes much deeper than what people can see. Sometimes transformation is deciding that you no longer have to explain every boundary you set. Sometimes it's recognizing that a relationship, a responsibility, or community is costing you more than you can continue to give. Sometimes it's finally taking your health seriously, asking for help, or admitting that you cannot keep pushing yourself at the same pace. It can be embracing an identity you spent years questioning, hiding, or trying to make more acceptable to other people. Sometimes it's changing your mind, or realizing that something you once believed no longer fits the person you're becoming. And sometimes transformation is simply learning to speak to yourself with a little more kindness than you did yesterday. Those things might not make for a dramatic before and after picture. Nobody is necessarily going to notice them when you enter a room, but they can change your life.
For me, transformation means growing, evolving, and becoming more of who I am. It doesn't mean that the person I used to be was fake or that every version of me before this moment was wrong. It means each version of me has been shaped by what I knew, what I experienced, and what I needed, what I feared, and what I was capable of understanding at the time. I can honor who I was without needing to remain who I was. I can appreciate the ways I survived without insisting that the strategies I used to survive must remain the strategies I used to live. I can make room for a version of myself I haven't fully met yet. That's transformation to me. It's not about becoming more acceptable to the world. It's about becoming more honest with myself.
And that brings me to the mask. When I use the word mask, I'm not necessarily talking about deliberately deceiving people. Sometimes a mask is a way to protect ourselves. It's the version of ourselves we learned to present because it helped us belong, avoid rejection, meet expectations, or get through a difficult situation. Sometimes the mask is something we put on consciously, and sometimes we've worn it for so long that we've forgotten it's even there. Maybe your mask is being the strong one, the person who always figures it out, who never needs help, who holds everything together for everyone else. Maybe it's being agreeable because you've learned that disagreement makes people uncomfortable. Maybe it's being the person who says yes when you really mean no. Maybe it's hiding parts of your identity because you've seen what happens when people don't understand them. It can be pretending that something doesn't hurt because you've been taught that your pain makes other people uncomfortable.
And for disabled people, there can be some very specific masks we learn to wear. We might feel pressure to prove that we're capable, productive, independent, cheerful, grateful, or easy to accommodate. We might feel like we need to be inspirational enough to justify our presence, resilient enough to overcome every barrier, and pleasant enough that nobody feels challenged by our access needs. We might downplay our pain. We might minimize our frustration. We might laugh off an inaccessible situation because explaining why it isn't funny takes more energy than we have. We might accept help only when we've exhausted every other option because we've internalized the idea that needing help means we've failed. Or we might avoid asking for accommodations because we don't want to be seen as difficult. These masks don't always come from individual choices. Sometimes they're responses to a world that rewards certain versions of disability and punishes others. The disabled person who is independent in ways society recognizes may be celebrated. The disabled person who needs extensive support may be treated as a burden. The disabled person who is positive and inspirational may be welcomed. The disabled person who is angry about discrimination may be called bitter. The disabled person who makes everyone else comfortable may be included. The disabled person who names the barriers may be treated as the problem. And after enough of these experiences, it's easy to start asking yourself, which version of me will people accept? Instead of asking, who am I? We start asking, who do I need to be to belong here? This is a heavy way to live, and I want us to consider what it might look like to stop organizing our lives around that question. What if we didn't have to earn belonging by making ourselves easier for other people to understand? What if we could be complicated, changing, imperfect human beings without feeling like we needed to apologize for it? What if the goal wasn't to become the version of ourselves that makes everyone else most comfortable? What if the goal was to become more fully ourselves?
I want to talk about this through the lens of disability, because disability has shaped so much of how I understand myself, how I navigate the world, and how I think about transformation. Living with arthrogryposis and using a power wheelchair means that access isn't an abstract concept for me, it's part of my everyday life. I have to think about things other people may not even notice, whether a space is accessible, whether I can get through a door, whether I can participate in an activity, whether the people around me understand my access needs, whether I can do something independently or need support. And sometimes the barriers are physical, sometimes they're social, sometimes they're systemic. And sometimes the barrier is something I've learned to believe about myself because of the world I've had to navigate. That last part is important because ableism isn't only what happens when somebody builds an inaccessible space or makes an assumption about what a disabled person can do. Ableism can also become something we absorb. We can internalize the messages that tell us our bodies and minds are problems, that needing help is a weakness, that our worth depends on what we can contribute, or that we should be grateful for whatever access we're given. Instead of expecting access as a matter of justice, we can start measuring ourselves against standards that were never designed with us in mind, and we can carry those standards into our relationships, our work, our communities, and the way we talk to ourselves.
Part of my own transformation has involved questioning these messages. It has meant recognizing that I can advocate for access without feeling guilty for needing it. It has meant learning that I can appreciate the people who support me while still naming the systems that make support harder to access. It has meant understanding that my disability is part of my life and my identity, but it does not tell the whole story of who I am. And it has meant making room for the reality that my relationship with my disability can change. There are days when I'm comfortable in my body and confident in how I navigate the world. But there are also days when I'm frustrated by barriers, tired of having to plan around access or grieving the things I cannot do in the ways I wish I could. There are days when I feel strong and days when I feel vulnerable. None of those experiences cancels out the others. I don't have to be at peace with every aspect of my disability every day to be proud of who I am. I don't have to turn every difficult experience into an empowering lesson. And I don't have to pretend that access barriers are opportunities for personal growth when what I really need is for the barrier to be removed. Sometimes the transformation is internal. Sometimes the transformation needs to happen in the world around me. We need both because I can work on accepting myself and still demand an accessible environment. I can learn to ask for help and still insist that disabled people deserve the resources and support we need. I can practice resilience without agreeing that I should have to be resilient just to participate in everyday life. My transformation is not a substitute for accessibility, and my growth does not absolve the world of its responsibility to change. That's one of the things I want us to carry beyond this season. Transformation isn't about learning to tolerate everything that hurts us. Sometimes it's about recognizing what needs to change.
This brings me back to my broken arm. I would be lying if I said that breaking my arm hasn't been emotionally challenging. It's my chair driving hand. So this isn't just a matter of dealing with a fracture and waiting for the bone to heal. It's about navigating additional limitations. in a life where I already have to think about access and independence. Things that were part of my normal routine have become more complicated. I have to make adjustments. I have to accept more help. I have to give myself time. And sometimes, honestly, I'm frustrated. I'm frustrated that my body needs time to heal. I'm frustrated by the things I can't do as easily right now. I'm frustrated when I want to get something done and have to figure out a different way to do it. I'm frustrated that something as ordinary as spending time at my computer became something I had to work my way back toward. I think it's important to say that out loud because disabled people are not obligated to be inspirational about every difficult thing that happens to us. Sometimes something is just hard. We can be grateful for the people supporting us and still be upset about the circumstances that made their support necessary. We can recognize that we're loved and still feel lonely, vulnerable and frustrated. Two things can be true at the same time. This experience has also reminded me that independence isn't as simple as doing everything yourself. I've always known that intellectually, but needing more assistance than usual can bring those feelings to the surface in a different way. We live in a society that often treats independence as the ultimate measure of success. We celebrate the person who doesn't need help, who figures everything out, who pulls themself up and keeps going. But what happens when your body or your mind requires something different? What happens when healing means slowing down? What happens when the most responsible thing you can do is acknowledge your limits instead of pushing through them? I'm learning again that accepting support is not the same as giving up. Adjusting my expectations is not the same as abandoning my goals. And taking time to heal is not a failure of productivity. My job's willingness to be flexible has been a meaningful reminder that accessibility is not only about physical spaces. It's also about how we structure work, how we respond when someone's needs change, and whether we make room for people to be human. I'm grateful for that flexibility. I'm grateful for the people who have checked in, offered support, and reminded me that I don't have to do everything alone, and I'm still allowed to be frustrated. That's the transformation I'm living in right now. Not a dramatic reveal, not a perfectly polished lesson, but the ongoing work of adjusting, accepting, advocating, and allowing myself to be where I am. I don't have to love this season of recovery to learn how to care for myself in it. And I don't have to rush through it to prove that I'm strong now.
I don't want this conversation about masks to sound like external changes don't matter. They absolutely can. Sometimes we change how we look because we're exploring something we've always wanted to express. Maybe it's a new hairstyle, different clothes, a tattoo, a new way of presenting our gender, or a style that feels more aligned with who we are today. Sometimes we change our surroundings, our jobs, our routines, or the communities we spend time in. Those changes can be meaningful because they give us a way to make the outside of our lives reflect something that's shifting on the inside. And sometimes we begin with an external change because it's easier to experiment with something visible than to articulate a feeling we don't yet have words for. There's no single right way to transform. But I do think there's a difference between changing because something feels authentic to you and changing because you believe you have to become someone else to be worthy of acceptance. One is an expression of self. The other can become a performance. And sometimes, of course, this distinction isn't perfectly clear. We may begin a change for one reason and discover something else along the way. We may experiment, change our minds, and try something different. That's okay. You don't have to know exactly who you're becoming before you begin exploring. You are allowed to experiment. You are allowed to evolve. You are allowed to decide that something that once felt like you no longer does. And you are allowed to return to something you thought you had outgrown. Transformation doesn't always move in a straight line. It isn't a competition to become the newest, most improved version of yourself. It's a process of learning to recognize what feels true, what feels limiting, what feels inherited from someone else's expectations, and what you want to carry forward. For disabled people, external transformation can also be complicated by other people's assumptions. People may have ideas about how we should dress, how we should present ourselves, what is practical for our bodies, or what we should prioritize. Sometimes accessibility considerations are real and necessary. But our access needs should not mean we lose the right to style, creativity, self expression, beauty, or experimentation. Disabled people get to have aesthetics. We get to care about how we look. We get to be fashionable, colorful, understated, dramatic, playful, elegant, or whatever feels like us. We get to change our appearance without our disability becoming the only thing people see. And we get to decide what beauty means to us. For me, moving beyond the mask isn't about rejecting every version of myself I've ever presented to the world. It's about making sure the choices I make now have room for the person I am becoming.
Some of the most significant transformations in our lives don't come with a visible announcement. They happen when we begin to treat ourselves differently. For me, that includes learning to set boundaries. Boundaries can be difficult, especially when you've learned to measure your worth by how available you are to other people. It can feel uncomfortable to say no. It can feel selfish to admit that you don't have the capacity for something. It can feel like you're letting people down when you stop doing what they've come to expect from you. But a boundary isn't necessarily a rejection of someone else. Sometimes a boundary is an acknowledgment of what you need to remain connected to yourself. It can be the most loving thing you do to be honest about what you can offer. Sometimes caring for a relationship means recognizing that you cannot keep Showing up in a way that leaves you depleted. And sometimes transformation means allowing other people to be disappointed without making their disappointment your responsibility to fix. This is not easy work. It's especially complicated for disabled people who may depend on others for support. We have to navigate real power dynamics, practical needs and systems that don't always give us many choices. So I don't want to offer boundaries as a simplistic answer to every difficult situation. Sometimes setting a boundary is possible and safe. Sometimes it takes planning, resources and support. Sometimes we have to work toward a situation where we have more options. But even when the process is complicated, we deserve to have our preferences, our needs and limits taken seriously. Another internal transformation is learning to care for our health without treating our bodies like projects that must constantly be improved. For me, recovery has made that especially relevant. Caring for my health means giving my arm time to heal. It means making adjustments, accepting support, and recognizing that I cannot simply will my body to move faster. It means understanding that rest is not something I have to earn by reaching the point of complete exhaustion. It means remembering that my value doesn't disappear when my capacity changes. Health is not always something we can control. Disability is not always something we can fix. And healing does not always mean returning to exactly the way things were before. Sometimes caring for ourselves means adapting to a new reality. It means grieving what has changed. It can mean asking for help. And sometimes it means allowing ourselves to have a day when we don't feel particularly productive, positive, or transformed. We are still worthy on those days.
And then there's identity. Sometimes transformation means leaning into a part of ourselves we spent years trying to understand. For me, being queer, Christian and disabled are parts of my story. These identities don't always fit neatly into the spaces society creates for us. They challenge other people's assumptions about who I should be, what I should believe, or how I should live. My understanding of myself has evolved over time. I've had to question expectations, examine my beliefs, and make room for complexity. I don't need every part of my identity to be easily understood by everyone else for it to be real. I don't need to fit into someone else's perfect category. And I don't need to choose between being fully myself and being acceptable to people who would rather I were simpler. This doesn't mean I have everything figured out. It means I'm giving myself permission to keep learning. I'm allowed to evolve in my understanding of faith. I'm allowed to keep exploring what queerness means to me. I'm allowed to understand disability through A lens of justice, access, interdependence, and liberation, rather than shame or deficiency. And I'm allowed to hold questions that don't yet have answers. Sometimes transformation isn't finding a final answer. Sometimes it's becoming comfortable enough with yourself to keep asking the hard questions.
As we bring this season to a close, I want to take a moment to reflect on what we've explored together. Season 3 has been about identity, justice, access, and the ways we learn to understand ourselves in a world that doesn't always make room for our full humanity. We've talked about disability, identity, and the stories we tell about who we are. We've explored LGBTQIA+ Pride and what it means to make room for identities that have been hidden, questioned, or treated as incompatible with other parts of our lives. We've examined ableism, including the ways it can show up within the disability community itself. We've looked at how internalized ableism and disability hierarchies can shape how we see ourselves and one another, and why liberation requires more than simply being accepted by systems that remain inaccessible. We've talked about disability, faith, and the importance of questioning beliefs that treat disabled bodies and minds as problems to be fixed. We've made room for more expansive understandings of belonging, dignity, and the relationship between disability and spirituality. And in our conversation about community integration, we explored the history of Willowbrook, the significance of Olmstead, and the ongoing fight for disabled people's right to live in community with the support they need. These conversations may have approached disability from different angles, but I see a thread connecting them.
Who gets to define us? Who gets to decide what our identities mean? Who gets to determine whether our bodies are acceptable, whether our needs are reasonable, whether our lives are valuable, or whether we belong? And what happens when we begin to challenge these definitions? That's where transformation comes in. Sometimes transformation means reclaiming the power to tell our own stories. It means questioning the assumptions we've inherited. It means recognizing when we've internalized messages that were never designed to help us flourish. It means learning to see ourselves and one another with more compassion, more honesty, and more room for complexity. And it means understanding that liberation isn't simply about gaining access to spaces that that were previously closed to us. It's also about being able to show up as ourselves once we're there. Our actual selves with our identities, our needs, our questions, our boundaries, our contradictions, our hopes and our capacity to change. That's the kind of transformation I want to keep exploring beyond this season.
And I want to acknowledge that this season did not unfold exactly as I planned. There were pauses and pivots. There were moments when I had to reassess what I could realistically do and when I could do it. And then I broke my arm. I could look at all of this as a series of interruptions, and certainly some of it has been a frustrating time. But I also see an opportunity to practice what I talk about. Giving myself grace, adapting when circumstances change, accepting support and allowing my plans to evolve without treating every change as a failure. That doesn't mean every delay is secretly a gift. It means I can acknowledge the frustration without allowing it to define the whole story. This season has been a reminder that transformation doesn't always look like forward momentum. It looks like pauses. It looks like pivots. Sometimes it looks like deciding that the original plan no longer makes sense and giving yourself permission to choose a different path. And sometimes it. It looks like making it to the finish line a little later than you expected. We made it, and I'm so glad you're here with me.
I want to invite you to reflect on your own transformation. Not the transformation other people expect from you. Not the version of yourself you think you need to become to earn approval. Not the perfectly curated before and after story that makes everything look simple and inevitable. I'm talking about the transformation that is happening in your actual life. What are you learning about yourself? What beliefs are you questioning? What parts of your identity are you giving yourself permission to explore? What boundaries do you need to set? Where do you need more support? What expectations are you ready to release? And what parts of yourself are you ready to embrace more fully? Maybe your transformation is visible. Maybe you're changing your appearance, starting something new, or making a decision that other people can see. Maybe it's internal. Maybe you've started saying no, or taking your health more seriously. Maybe you're no longer willing to hide an important part of your identity. Maybe you're still figuring it out. That's okay, too. You don't need to announce your transformation before you're ready. You don't owe anyone a dramatic reveal. You don't have to prove that you've grown by becoming unrecognizable to the people who knew you before. And you don't have to make every part of your journey public. Some transformations are private, some happen in community, some take years, and some are still unfolding. What matters is that you're making room for yourself to grow.
And if you're a disabled person listening to this, I especially want you to hear this. You do not have to become less disabled to become more fully yourself. You do not have to prove your independence to deserve autonomy. You do not have to turn your pain into inspiration to make your story meaningful. You do not have to be grateful for every barrier you overcome. You do not have to make other people comfortable with your disability before you are allowed to take up space. Your transformation can include accepting help. It can include learning your limits. It can include asking for accommodations, changing your plans, finding community, or recognizing that the way you've been treating yourself is no longer sustainable. And it can include joy. Joy in your body, joy in your mind, in your identity, joy in your relationships and in the things you create, the communities you build and the life you're shaping. You are allowed to become more fully yourself without first becoming someone society finds easier to accept. That is part of what it means to move beyond the mask. Not to become perfect, not to become finished, but to become more honest about who you are, what you need, what you value, and what you want your life to make room for.
And now we're wrapping up. So I want to thank you for being part of this journey. I want to thank you for listening to all the stories, sitting with the hard questions, reflecting on your own experiences, and making space for conversations about discovery, liberation, and love. Thank you for giving me so much grace this season as it didn't unfold exactly as planned. And thank you for reminding me that this podcast is not just something I produce, it's a conversation that we get to have together. There will absolutely be a Season four of Beyond Beautiful: Disability, Liberation, Love. I'm planning to bring the new season after the new year, hopefully with more healing behind me and more capacity to bring these conversations to life. Season four will include interviews with authors, influencers, entrepreneurs, advocates, and other people whose stories and work have something meaningful to offer our community. I'll also continue sharing solo reflections on current events, disability, justice, identity, and more of my own story. I'm excited about what's ahead and I want to give the next season the time and care it deserves.
During the podcast break, I don't want us to lose touch. If you'd like to stay connected, I encourage you to sign up for Mandi Mail. I'll be in touch at least monthly while the podcast is on break, sharing updates, reflections and ways to stay connected with the work. If you'd like more frequent engagement, you can join the Beyond Beautiful Collective on Facebook or follow me on Instagram. Those spaces will help us continue the conversation even while new episodes are on pause.
And before we go, I want to leave you with this transformation isn't about becoming someone else. It's about growing, evolving, and becoming more of who you are. Sometimes that means changing what the world sees. Sometimes it means changing what you believe about yourself. And sometimes it means setting a boundary, accepting support, caring for your health, embracing your identity, or letting go of expectations that no longer serve you. It means giving yourself permission to be a work in progress. You don't have to have everything figured out. You don't have to be the same person you were when this journey began. You are allowed to grow, change, and become. And you're allowed to do all of that at your own pace. Thank you for spending this season with me and for being part of this community. Thank you for making room for the beautiful, complicated, ever evolving process of becoming. I'm Mandi, your queer Christian disabled host, and this has been Season 3 of Beyond Beautiful Disability Liberation Love. Until we meet again. Keep making room for yourself. Keep asking questions. Keep choosing access, justice, connection and joy. And remember, Disability Liberation Love are always beyond beautiful.
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