In true 90s kid style, I lived in denim overalls for a lot of my childhood.
As a double above-knee amputee, you'd catch me running around on my knees, wearing my overalls, carefree and full of life.
But as I got older, that freedom around fashion began to fade. Clothes became protective — a way for me to hide and conform.
A form of camouflage
At 12 years old, I started wearing my prosthetic legs and began experimenting with fashion.
But fashion didn't feel like it was made for someone like me.
I never saw the pieces I wanted to wear on models with bodies like mine.
My body didn't wear the clothes the way they appeared in advertising.
Dresses didn't flow as effortlessly, and any pants or jeans — forget it.
Comfortable jeans in the early 2000s weren't a thing, especially for someone with prosthetic legs.
Attending an event wearing a short dress wasn't something I could see in my future when I was younger. (Supplied)
Shopping trips became exercises in frustration.
And I started to believe that maybe fashion wasn't meant to be a part of my life.
This time coincided with a growing awareness of how people looked at me.
How they judged not just what I wore, but what those choices said about me — and my lack of limbs.
Soon enough, I learnt to shrink myself, both physically and stylistically.
I began to hide my disability, only wearing long pants or skirts, paired with thick stockings, of course.
I swapped statement pieces for neutral basics, and wore what I thought I should to avert the gaze, rather than what I wanted.
Clothes became a form of camouflage, a way to blend in rather than stand out.
But then something shifted.
Community helped me rediscover a love of fashion
I'd like to say there was a singular, life-changing moment, but it was more of a gradual awakening.
I realised that my relationship with clothes didn't have to be dictated by societal or cultural norms, or what the fashion industry deemed acceptable.
It could be my own.
The turning point came when I stumbled upon an online community of disabled people.
Seeing people unapologetically rocking their style, prosthetics, adaptive aids and all, was inspiring.
Fashion has helped me reclaim my identity. (Supplied)
At age 31, for the first time in almost two decades, I allowed myself to experiment again.
I wore a midi length skirt — without stockings — to work and was photographed.
I then posted this image to social media, something I never thought I could do.
I rediscovered my love for textures, layers and bright colours.
The freedom of dressing for myself
Staying true to my style hasn't always been easy. The world can be loud with its opinions.
There's always someone ready to tell you what you should or shouldn't wear, especially when you occupy multiple intersections of identity like I do — a disabled woman of colour.
I often felt like an outsider both within the Australian and South Asian communities.
People would stare, people would whisper, strangers would point.
I'd second-guess my choices, wondering if my outfit, along with my self-worth, was "too much" or "not enough".
But over time, I learnt to tune them out. Because the problem was never me, my disability, or how I navigate the world.
It was the weight of others' opinions. Opinions I should never have let dictate my life.
And the answer lay in redefining whose opinion truly mattered.
I asked myself: Did this outfit make me feel good? Did it reflect who I am?
If the answer was yes, then that was all that counted.
I also reminded myself that people's reactions often say more about them than about me.
A sideways glance or a snide comment isn't a reflection of my worth; it's a reflection of their discomfort with someone who refuses to conform.
Once I let go of the need to impress (or placate) others, I found so much freedom in dressing for myself.
My style tells the world who I am
Dresses never felt like they were made for people like me. (Supplied)
Today, aged 35, my closet is a rebellion of colour, texture, lengths and personality.
It's been a full-circle moment to get to where I am — reaching for sequins and miniskirts, and walking runways that celebrate my identity.
Fashion and style have become an avenue to reclaim my disabled identity and pride.
My clothing pieces make me feel fierce, empowered, which is how I have often felt, but lacked the confidence to express.
Fashion has given me the opportunity to advocate for positive changes within the fashion industry, by increasing authentic representation.
Through it all, I've learned that fashion is for everyone.
It doesn't matter what your body looks like or what society expects of you. What matters is how you feel when you put on those clothes.
And I'm grateful for the journey.
What started as childlike joy, lost to the weight of expectations and rediscovered through resilience, has become a powerful form of self-expression and advocacy.
Fashion is no longer just about fabric and seams; it's a way for me to tell the world who I am without saying a word.
Source: ABC