For the longest time, I felt like an outsider in a place that promises freedom — a world where everyone should have the joy of existing in their own way. Yet for me, something was always off. To see myself walking in Second Life was to live a version of myself that wasn’t my truth.
I’ll admit, it was liberating for a while — to see myself walking, to move freely in a way the physical world doesn’t allow. But even in that freedom, something was missing. My truth.
I’ve always told myself: I will never accept my disability. But I am learning to live with it. When I speak of my truth, it is because I’m learning to live with something I cannot change.
In the beginning, Second Life was, for me — as for many others — an escape. But as the years went on, it became something else. I began to feel safe, secure within myself, and more willing to let my true reflection show. The same reflection I see when I look into any mirror in my real life.
A couple of years into my Second Life, I realized something: there was nothing out there for people who wanted to reflect their disability in an honest way. Wheelchairs existed, yes — but too often they were made into jokes, or turned into tools for adult performance. Nowhere could I find a chair that looked like what I use every single day. A normal wheelchair. Something that felt like me.
That realization sparked an idea: if I couldn’t find a wheelchair that reflected my truth, I would have to make it exist. I hired someone to create one for me, and that dream came true a couple of years ago. For a time — a year, maybe two — it felt like enough. But slowly, I felt the gap again. I realized what was missing: I had created a manual wheelchair, when in my real life, I use a power chair. My truth was still waiting to be seen.
So I went back to the same creator who had built my manual chair, hoping this time for a power wheelchair. But instead of progress, there were only delays. Promises stretched out into silence, and eventually I had to say: enough is enough. I stopped waiting for something that would never arrive. And so, I returned to walking in Second Life — always with the quiet ache that something was missing.
Fast forward to 2025 — the year everything changed for me. And I mean everything.
2025 has been the most grounding year of my entire existence on this planet. And that says a lot.
The fundamental change came because one single doctor chose to listen to me — not just as a patient, but as a person. When I was finally diagnosed with a disorder I had known, deep down, all my life, everything shifted.
I didn’t know that being put on the right medication would change me so deeply. I didn’t know something so small could be so fundamental. So life-changing.
When I walked into the doctor’s office and we finally decided what we decided, it felt like I left the old me sitting there in that room. That version of me was broken into fragments. But when I began taking this medication, my whole being started to knit itself back together. For the first time, I felt whole instead of shattered. And let me be clear — this wasn’t psychological medication. This was something different. Something my body had been waiting for all along.
That’s the best way I can explain it. The person I was before this medication was scattered — fragmented into tiny, tiny, tiny pieces. But when I finally began taking it, those fragments came together. They solidified. For the first time, I felt like one whole person again.
That wholeness began to show itself in the choices I made. I found the strength to step away from connections in Second Life that were ridiculous, shallow, and did not serve me anymore. I cut those ties without apology, without explanation — because I don’t owe anyone excuses for protecting my own truth.
The empowerment I feel now — the self-confidence I carry — is incredible. I speak with clarity. I hold my head high. I move through life in a way I never have before. And I no longer care about people who so clearly do not care about me. That weight is gone.
I don’t have time to waste on people or things that no longer matter to me. My energy belongs to what is real, what is important, and what helps me grow.
I used to get so offended when people disappeared for months without a word. Now, I don’t even care about the silence. The silence speaks louder than words ever could.
In that silence, I began to wonder if I should leave Second Life altogether. There were days I felt it gave me nothing anymore — no meaning, no joy, no truth. I could spend my time in ways that felt more efficient, more nourishing, more true to who I am now.
Then a spark lit inside me. I realized I had the ability to create the very things I had been longing for in Second Life. If you remember from a previous post, I once wrote about how I used to shop endlessly, trying to fill the void of having nothing else meaningful to do. But when I discovered I could create — not just anything, but the exact products I wanted and no one else was willing to make — everything changed for me.
Within that spark, I reached out to a woman who, like me, was living her truth in Second Life — in a wheelchair. Her chair was the closest replica I had ever seen of a real power wheelchair. I asked if she would be willing to share it with me, and she said yes. She gave me a copy, and I spent six hours scripting it by hand until it behaved exactly the way I needed it to.
And then, seeing myself portrayed correctly for the first time in Second Life, I broke down. I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. It was overwhelming — to finally be reflected as I am.
In that moment, I realized I could find ways to create one-of-a-kind things. Not for the marketplace, not for the world at large, but for me — and for the people I love.
So that’s what I’ve been doing for the past week or so — leaving people to sit with the silence from me, instead of the other way around. My energy is finally where it belongs.
If someone would like to see my creations, I can always share them. But the core of this reflection is simple: if you are longing for something, find a way to make it exist. There’s always a way. You just need to find it.
/Tessa
