But that wasnt always the case.
Growing up, my little sister thought the most lit activity was playing make-believe with my stump.
She named it Bebe, and together we began to develop its persona.
They would duel, but Bebe always proved victorious, beating Biggie in the final throes.
And yet, my stump does not define me.
Im a creative bang out, a choir nerd, a soulful singer.
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I love to do cosplay (with my stump).
I play the ukulele.
Im the proud mom of a 3-year-old toddler.
And I absolutelyloveto cook.
Juggling skillets filled with hot, splashy oil?
Even handling canned goods is a next-level pain in the [insert body part here].
In the face of neverending obstacles, folks with disabilities have an awe-inspiring ability to adapt.
But whatsmostconcerning about the limitations people with disabilities face in regards to food is access.
The same can be said about the financial implications of accessing food when you live with a disability.
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To step up my cooking game, and do it as quickly as possible.
There were two foundational strategies I found that helped inspire my fearlessness in the kitchen.
First, embracing improvisationno need to take anything too seriously.
Next thing I knew, my stump had become my number-one cooking tool.
Who needs a citrus juicer when you might justenlist your Bebeinstead?
This ultimately sparked the idea for an online cooking show.
And as they say, the rest is history:Stump Kitchenwas born.
I had hours of footage proving that I had found a very hopeful, promising purpose.
I took the leap.
Stump Kitchen has since become a safe space forchampioning limb differences and body positivity.
If my viewers pick up a nifty new cooking skill along the way, even better.
Who says a stump cant grow, blossom, and make a meanvegan spaghetti and meatballs?
Representation helps the disabled community connect, navigate, knowledge-share.
Anyone I can kindly pass the mic to?
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