Earlier this week I stopped my partner mid-whatever-he-was-doing to talk.

Despite comfortably shouting about all that’s wrong with me here on the internet, in my real life I don’t really like to talk about the hard stuff. Write? Absolutely. I will excavate my own rib cage in prose. But speak? Have a conversation…

No thank you.

I have my reasons. One of them is that I am so hardwired to make whoever I’m talking to comfortable that it takes active, full-body control not to switch personalities when someone enters the room. Not just strangers. Not just a casual friend. Not the barista who makes the really good cardamom latte. Not the pope. Anyone.

If my partner walks into a room where I’m sitting, my brain screams:

STOP WHAT WE ARE DOING.

FAWN. FAWN.

I have to physically stop myself from shapeshifting into People-Pleasing Cami.

In this particular conversation, I needed her nowhere near the room. I didn’t need to smooth feathers. I didn’t need to minimize. I needed to say the thing and get it out before I started sobbing. Because I hate admitting defeat.

I don’t remember the exact words, but it went something like this:

Okay so I’m really embarrassed and upset and I don’t want to talk about this but I have to tell you that I’m at the point where I need a shower stool. So I’m getting a shower stool. There will be a shower stool in the bathtub that is also a shower from now on. Thank you for your attention to this delicate matter. Good day, sir.

He did what he always does — quiet processing. Clicking things through in his head before letting anything out.

I knew this wouldn’t evoke a negative response. And yet. There was so much self-loathing in me at that moment.

Eventually he said, simply, “Dizzy.”

Yes. Dizzy.

I probably spiraled. If not out loud, definitely in my head. I thought of all the things people could think about me because I need a shower stool. All the things I think about myself.

The stool arrived. And then it sat in a box outside the bathroom door for days.

I told myself I couldn’t put it in until I replaced the cloth shower curtain liner. And I couldn’t do that until I scrubbed the tub and tile surround. And the non-slip mat had gotten gross and eeeew… that had to go too.

I will not be installing my new accessibility device into a dirty tub. NO SIR.

So I pulled out my rechargeable scrubbing device and went to town.

Not because the tub was especially bad. Because I was procrastinating.

Because I love a shower. I love a bath. I love a spa. A pool. A pond. A stream. A lake. The ocean. Rivers freak me out a little, not gonna lie. They have intention. They have mass. They touch land and sea. Rivers are not fucking around.

But the rest? Yes.

I have the same reluctance many of us do about getting in — the transition from cozy warmth to being cold and naked in the wet air. It’s almost as bad as getting out wet from steam-filled luxury to shivering in a towel.

Also my hair was dirty. So.

I almost cried stepping into the shower.

I AM DISABLED AND THAT IS SO SAD BOO HOO POOR ME.

I stood for a while. Eyed the stool from the corner of my eye. Sitting there all pretty and teak at the back of the tub. Pretending to be a luxury item when really it’s here for one thing and one thing only.

TO HUMILIATE ME.

I took a few deep breaths. I wanted to do this on my terms. When I wasn’t dizzy. When I didn’t desperately need the relief.

Hair washing day felt appropriately ceremonial.

So I turned around and leaned forward over the stool first. Braced my forearms on it. Let the water hit my lower back.

Okay. That wasn’t bad.

Not humiliating. Not tragic. Not a headline.

Just… steady.

So I shifted my weight and sat down.

It was a little cold, not gonna lie. But that resolved quickly as the water enveloped me and I realized something.

I wasn’t going to get dizzy.

I wasn’t going to lose my footing.

I wasn’t going to barely catch myself and trigger that massive adrenaline surge that wrecks my nervous system for the rest of the day. Don’t even get me started on what that does to my sleep if it happens before bed.

I just sat there. Warm. Supported. Quiet.

And instead of bracing for impact, I washed my hair. It was… lovely.

Truly lovely.

I didn’t rush. I didn’t calculate. I didn’t grip the wall with one hand just in case.

I just sat there.

And here’s the thing.

I am disabled.

That’s not a metaphor. That’s not drama. That’s not self-pity. Standing upright in a slippery porcelain box while hot water drops my blood pressure is not a neutral activity for me. It never has been.

But needing a stool doesn’t make the shower less beautiful.

It doesn’t make me less capable.

And it sure as hell doesn’t make the stool tragic.

It’s teak. It’s sturdy. It’s kind of spa-adjacent, actually.

We have somehow decided that sitting down in a shower means something is wrong. Maybe nothing is wrong. Maybe sitting down in warm water while you wash your hair is just… nice.

Maybe we don’t have to earn comfort with suffering first.

I should have done this sooner. Not because I’ve given up. Because I deserve not to white-knuckle basic hygiene.

The water was warm.
I wasn’t dizzy.
I was still me.