I Rejected My Prosthetic Hand and Finally Learned to Love Myself

As a kid I abhorred my malformed hand and missing fingers. It took trying out a replacement to realize that the hands I was born with are the only ones I need.

Photos by Jenny Riffle

“Be aggressive, be, be aggressive,” I shouted, red-faced and sweaty, struggling to keep the pompom from sliding out of the elastic band that held it onto my right wrist. I was finally making my cheerleading debut, at the ripe old age of eight, but I wasn’t reveling in the moment like I’d expected. As I kicked my leg high in the air and shook my pompoms with my classmates, I hoped the football field would open up and swallow me whole.