This Limb Loss and Limb Difference Awareness Month, maybe we can retire the idea that mindset is the sole hero of the story. Let’s replace it with something more honest and ultimately more powerful: A recognition that living well with limb loss or limb difference is a shared effort. It takes individuals showing up for themselves. It takes professionals listening and adapting. It takes companies innovating responsibly. And it takes society doing the work - real, tangible, sometimes expensive work - to make inclusion more than just a nice idea. Because in the end, mindset might help you climb the mountain. But access determines whether you can even reach the trailhead.

 

There’s a certain kind of post that regularly makes the rounds on various social media platforms. You’ve probably seen it too. A striking photo. Someone mid-stride, mid-climb, mid-anything-impressive. And underneath, in bold, confident letters: “There is no disability except for a wrong mindset.”

 

I understand the appeal. I really do. It’s clean, it’s punchy, and it carries that satisfying sense that everything - everything - is within our control if we just think about it the right way.

 

But every time I read it, something in me hesitates. Not because mindset doesn’t matter. It does. I live that reality every day. As an above-knee amputee, there are moments where mindset is the difference between getting up and staying put, between trying again and quietly giving up for the day. It’s not a trivial thing. It’s not optional.

 

And still—it's not the whole story. Not even close.

 

Because the idea that disability can be reduced to mindset asks us to ignore a lot of very real, very physical, very structural things. It asks us to pretend the ground we’re walking on is level, when in fact it’s anything but.

 

You can have the strongest mindset in the world, and it still won’t make a prosthetic leg affordable. It won’t speed up an insurance approval that’s been sitting on someone’s desk for weeks. It won’t magically add an elevator to a building that decided stairs were enough. It won’t undo that subtle shift in tone when an employer decides you might be “too complicated” to hire.

 

Mindset can help you navigate these things. But it doesn’t remove them. And that distinction matters.

 

There’s a quiet shift that happens when we lean too heavily on phrases like that. Responsibility begins to slide - almost imperceptibly - from something shared into something personal. Entirely personal.

 

If you’re not where you want to be, well… have you tried thinking differently? If something feels hard, maybe your attitude needs adjusting. If the world isn’t opening up, perhaps you’re not pushing hard enough.

 

It’s a seductive narrative because it gives us a sense of control. But it also isolates. It turns structural barriers into personal shortcomings.

And that’s a heavy thing to carry, especially on days when just getting through the basics already takes more effort than most people will ever see.

 

At the same time, I don’t think the answer is to swing the pendulum all the way in the other direction. This isn’t about giving up agency or waiting for the world to fix itself before we make a move. We do shape our lives. We make choices. We adapt, we learn, we push, we rebuild.

 

There’s a kind of quiet pride in that, too. The kind of pride that doesn’t need a slogan or post on social media.

 

But personal responsibility makes the most sense in a world that meets you halfway. Not one that shrugs and says, “Good luck.”

 

Because inclusion, when you strip away the buzzwords, is actually very concrete. It lives in budgets and policies. In whether a prosthetic component is considered “essential” or “optional.” In how long someone has to wait for adjustments that affect how they move through their entire day. In whether accessibility is built in from the start or awkwardly added later - if at all.

 

It also lives in less tangible places. In how people look at you. In the assumptions they make. In whether they speak to you directly or around you. In whether you’re seen as capable, fragile, inspiring, or inconvenient.

 

These things shape experience just as much as any piece of equipment ever could. And yet, they’re often left out of the conversation when we reduce everything to mindset.

 

There’s another side effect, too. One that doesn’t get talked about enough. When we celebrate only the stories of relentless positivity and extraordinary achievement, we quietly narrow the definition of what a “good” outcome looks like. We raise the bar to a place where being okay isn’t enough. Where adapting quietly, steadily, imperfectly doesn’t quite count. Where struggle becomes something to hide rather than something to acknowledge. And current trends with AI generated amputee dance and other seemingly innocent videos often make matters worse.

 

That’s not inclusion. That’s performance.

 

Most lives - including mine, and probably yours - happen somewhere in the middle. Not in highlight reels, not in slogans, but in the day-to-day negotiation between what we can do, what we want to do, and what the world allows us to do. Some days, everything lines up. The prosthesis fits well, energy is high, the environment cooperates, and things feel… smooth.

 

Other days, nothing quite clicks. And no amount of positive thinking turns friction into ease.

 

That’s not failure. That’s reality.

 

So maybe the question isn’t whether mindset matters. It clearly does. The better question is: What are we asking mindset to do? If we’re asking it to support us, to help us cope, to keep us moving when things get tough - that’s reasonable. Helpful, even.

 

If we’re asking it to compensate for inaccessible environments, underfunded systems, and outdated perceptions - then we’re asking too much. And maybe we’re asking the wrong thing entirely.

 

This Limb Loss and Limb Difference Awareness Month, I find myself less interested in slogans and more interested in balance. In the space where personal effort and collective responsibility meet. No perfectly, not always evenly, but intentionally.

 

Because a more inclusive world doesn’t come from mindset alone. It comes from decisions. From priorities. From allocating ressources. From listening to lived experiences and taking them seriously enough to act on them. It comes from recognizing that independence is often built on interdependence. And that’s not a weakness. It’s how things actually work.

 

Mindset can take you far. I’ll stand by that. But it isn’t a ramp. It isn’t a policy. It isn’t funding. It isn’t access.

 

And pretending it is doesn’t make the climb easier. It just makes the gaps harder to talk about.

 

Maybe it’s time we stopped trying to think our way around those gap…and started closing them instead.