Embrace Your Shakti

Being 27 has been a very interesting experience thus far. I find myself reflecting a lot on my past and on my desires for the future. One of those desires is the possibility of having a life partner. Honestly speaking, having a disability has created a very different experience compared to many of my more able-bodied peers. Add in the taboo around dating within the Indo-Fijian community, and that becomes a recipe for a chaotic dating life.

By the time I reached high school, my elders had already ingrained in my mind that I needed to focus solely on my education and going to college. There was no time to think about dating. The same message followed me through college. Meanwhile, many of my peers in their early twenties began to rebel against the idea of not dating. Looking back, that stage of life is often when people naturally explore their sexuality, different relationship dynamics, and their likes and dislikes in a partner.

Unfortunately, most of my early twenties were filled not with dates, but with appointments with medical professionals. The only discussions I was having were about unstable blood tests and treatment options. While people my age were learning about love languages, I was learning about medications that might affect my fertility in the future. The constant message I heard was that once I was healed, I could finally have a normal life.

But what happens when there isn’t a cure? When there isn’t a clear end to the journey?

Do I keep pausing my social life in the hope that one day everything will align?

Looking back, I realize that we teach our children to be resilient in many areas of life: school, work, family problems, even bullying. But when it comes to love, whether platonic or romantic, society tends to avoid those conversations. So when it came to school and work, I stayed persistent and kept fighting to find my footing. But when it came to building meaningful connections, I started stepping back whenever I was met with a lack of understanding from people I cared about.

When I first entered the dating scene, I remember feeling extremely anxious about when I should disclose that I had a lifelong condition. Within the pan-Desi community, disclosing a disability can sometimes feel like social suicide. I remember thinking to myself: Who would want to be with someone as sick as me? Maybe, in this lifetime, love simply wasn’t in the cards.

Because of that mindset, I spent much of my twenties avoiding dating with one excuse after another.

“I’ll date after I finish college.”
“I’ll date after my surgery.”
“I’ll date once my mental health improves.”

So while I was growing and flourishing in many areas of my life, my love life remained paused.

It didn’t help that the few prospects I did pursue didn’t work out. There was often a lack of understanding about how someone my age could struggle so much with their health. I was sometimes told I wasn’t worth the effort, and other times told that my illness was simply more than someone wanted to take on. Slowly, I learned to shrink myself and overcompensate, because it became clear that many people my age saw me as “undateable” simply because of my diagnosis.

Ironically, it was my surgery that ultimately changed the way I thought about all of this.

At 22, I had a colectomy and received an ostomy. When I first got it, I was gutted both literally and emotionally. I spent countless days crying. After showers, I would stare at my scars and my ostomy and struggle to love the body I saw in the mirror.

But through therapy, starting antidepressants, and finding my voice in advocacy, something slowly began to change.

I started to appreciate how resilient my body truly was.

I learned that loving my body didn’t mean pretending everything was perfect. Living by myself didn’t mean that every day had to feel like sunshine and rainbows. I could grieve what I lost while still loving the new lease on life I had gained. For rainbows to exist we need both sunshine and rain. 

Now, at 27, I realize something important: I can grieve and love myself at the same time.

Finding love doesn’t mean ignoring the scars I carry. It means finding someone( who understands them. Someone who can remind me to stop and smell the sweet fragrance of roses, even when life sometimes hands me a garden full of thorns.

And perhaps most importantly, I’ve learned that a partner is not a prerequisite for my life to be complete.

I am whole.
I am complete.
Exactly as I am now.