Every time I start dating someone new, there’s a moment. Usually subtle, but it lands like a punch in the ribs.

It’s the unsolicited advice. The “You should really try this supplement my cousin used,” or “Maybe if you were more active…” or the absolute worst: “I just want what’s best for you.”

Like I don’t spend every waking moment already managing my health, balancing appointments, medications, mental energy, and trying to have a damn life in between.

The truth is, I’m not asking to be fixed.

I’m asking to be loved without a side of condescension.

I want a partner, not a project manager. Someone who asks what I need before suggesting how they think I should live. Someone who believes me when I say I know my body better than anyone else ever will.

Because I do.

I’ve survived in it, thrived in it, cried in it, laughed in it, danced in it—yes, even in this chair. And I’ve earned the right to navigate my health on my terms.

So if your love comes with conditions or corrections, keep it.

I’m not here to be your inspiration or your improvement plan.

I’m here to be fully, unapologetically me—and that should be enough.

I’d learned this lesson the hard way. The first time it happened, I was barely out of my teens. I had just started dating Tim, a guy I met at work. He was kind, funny, and seemed like a great guy at first. But slowly, as things progressed, I noticed the advice creeping in. It started with a comment about my wheelchair—a harmless, “Have you ever thought about walking more? Maybe it would help you feel better.” Then, it was the unsolicited dietary advice. “I read that going gluten-free can really help with chronic pain,” he said one evening as we ate dinner together.

At first, I thought he just didn’t get it. Maybe he was just trying to help. But then the comments became more frequent. Every time I mentioned an issue, he had a suggestion for how I could “fix” myself. It wasn’t just the wheelchair—it was my whole life. How I should handle my career, my friendships, and even my family relationships. His need to “improve” me grew exhausting.

I tried to explain to him that I was managing just fine. I wasn’t looking for anyone to come in and take over my life or tell me how to handle my disability. But his attitude was like a slow burn, always there, always simmering under the surface. Eventually, it got to a point where I couldn’t ignore it anymore. He never listened. It was like his view of me was always through a lens of pity, like I was a project that needed fixing, not a person deserving of respect.

I ended things with him, but the scars of that relationship stayed with me for a long time. It’s not easy to explain to people that you want to be loved for who you are, not for who they think you could be if you just “tried harder.”

And yet, time after time, it kept happening.

When I met Brian, I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d found someone who saw me as more than just a wheelchair. He didn’t jump to conclusions. He asked questions instead of offering unsolicited advice. He listened. At first, everything was wonderful. He didn’t make me feel like I had to justify my health or my choices. But then, it happened. The moment when I felt that familiar weight on my chest—the quiet, subtle shift that made me question everything.

We were talking about some new treatment options I had been researching for my condition. I wasn’t asking for advice; I was simply sharing what I was learning. But instead of asking me questions or offering support, Brian cut in with, “Have you heard about this miracle therapy? My sister did it, and it worked wonders for her! You should look into it.”

I froze. My stomach dropped. I could feel the old familiar anger creeping up, but this time it wasn’t just frustration—it was a deeper feeling of disappointment.

I had told myself I wouldn’t settle for someone who treated me like a project again. Yet, here I was, in a situation where it seemed like history was repeating itself.

I tried to stay calm. I told Brian, gently but firmly, “I’ve got this. I know my body better than anyone else. I don’t need someone to fix me.”

His face dropped. He looked genuinely confused, and maybe a little hurt. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just want to help. I care about you.”

“I know you care,” I replied. “But I don’t need fixing. I need support, not suggestions. I need to feel like I’m enough, just as I am.”

There was a long silence. I could see the wheels turning in his mind. I wasn’t sure if he truly understood what I was saying, or if he just didn’t know how to be in a relationship with someone who wasn’t constantly seeking a cure. But this time, I didn’t wait around for the answer. I knew what I had to do.

I ended things with Brian, too. I told him the truth about why it wouldn’t work. He wasn’t a bad person, but he couldn’t see me for who I truly was—he only saw me through the lens of my disability, the way so many people did.

It hurt, but it was also empowering. I had learned to trust myself. I had learned that I didn’t need anyone to “fix” me in order to be loved. I was already whole.

For a long time after that, I focused on myself. I spent time with friends who loved me for who I was, not what I might become. I worked on building my career, on becoming the best version of myself, not for anyone else, but for me. I was starting to feel more confident, more comfortable in my own skin, and more at peace with the idea that I didn’t need anyone to complete me.

But life has a funny way of surprising you.

One evening, I met someone new at a social event. His name was Victor, and he was different from anyone I’d ever met. From the moment we started talking, he didn’t look at me like I was broken or in need of fixing. He didn’t offer any unsolicited advice. He asked me questions, sure, but only to get to know me better. He was interested in what I had to say, not what he could suggest to make me better.

The more we talked, the more I realized something important: I had never truly been seen like this before. Not in my past relationships, not by my family, and certainly not by the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally. Victor saw me—fully, completely, without reservation.

It wasn’t perfect. We had to work through some things, especially as we navigated the challenges of my health together. But there was no pressure. No rush to fix anything. Just a deep, mutual respect and understanding that we both brought something to the table.

And here’s the karmic twist: I had learned to stop looking for validation from others. When I let go of the need to be fixed, I became more confident in myself. And in that confidence, I found a love that didn’t need fixing at all.

Victor wasn’t my knight in shining armor, and I wasn’t some damsel in distress. We were two people who respected each other, who understood that love doesn’t come with conditions or expectations. It simply comes with acceptance.

The lesson I learned was this: You can’t change how others perceive you, but you can change how you perceive yourself. And when you stop letting others define you, you open the door to a love that’s real, not based on what someone else thinks you should be.

So, to anyone out there struggling with the same thing—whether it’s from family, friends, or partners—remember this: You don’t need to be fixed. You’re enough just as you are. And when you truly believe that, the right people will come into your life, people who will love you for exactly who you are. Not who they want you to be.

If this resonates with you, please share it with others who might need to hear this today. Let’s spread the love and support each other in the journey of being unapologetically ourselves.