If there’s one thing I’ve learned while traveling with a disability, it’s this: show them the leg.

I mentioned in a previous post that when I first started traveling, I didn’t ask for any accommodations. I would just be thugging it through the airport, then wonder why I was so exhausted after a long journey. Eventually, I learned to open my mouth and start asking for the services I needed to make flights smoother.

But no matter what I was asking for — a wheelchair, pre-boarding, assistance — I’ve always had to prove I needed it.

I walk a fine line between “obviously disabled” and “you don’t look disabled.” And that tension becomes even more intense while traveling.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been standing around waiting for a wheelchair, just for the airport staff to look me in the face, eye to eye, and then keep scanning the area, still looking for the real disabled person.

People actively search for my disability.

We all have a favorite travel fit. Mine is pants — cargos or bell bottoms — paired with a cute top, usually a bodysuit. (To protect me from the man bears, obviously.) Or sometimes, a loose, long-flowing dress that drags slightly on the ground and hides my toes. Dressing this way lets me blend in. I don’t have to worry about drawing too much attention to myself, which can happen when your leg is a bold Kente-print prosthetic.

But my comfort always seems to clash with human curiosity. The kind of curiosity that thrives in airports around the world, and that always gets the best of everyone involved.

I honestly can’t count how many airports I’ve been through. But I can remember how they treated me — and which ones I’ll never go back to.

Some of my worst experiences have happened at security. There’s something about having the “privilege” of checking people that makes some folks believe they have the right to your body, to your autonomy.

Because I wear a prosthetic, I’m always subjected to a more “intimate” screening. No matter the type of detector, it’s going off. I’m walking around with a 5kg electronic device strapped to my body. There isn’t a detector on this planet that’s staying quiet when I pass by.

That means I need extra screening.

Extra screening usually means a pat down and a swipe test.

But extra screening, paired with someone’s curiosity, can mean a full-body pat down (yes, including sensitive areas), swipe test, back-room screening, and sometimes… a request to remove the leg entirely.

Curious minds are the enemy of disabled comfort.

This is where knowing your rights becomes crucial. Because there is no reason anyone — outside of my prosthetist — should be asking me to remove my leg. Especially not in the middle of the security line, surrounded by strangers. But sometimes, they ask.

Flying gives me anxiety. Which is why I’ve had to learn how to advocate for myself abroad. Ironically, some of my worst travel experiences have been inside the US and EU.

After too many exhausting encounters, whihc is why I made the rule: pants or a dress — something I could easily lift to show them the leg and get it over with.

I thought making it easier for them to see would make my trip smoother.

It didn’t.

Because the problem wasn’t just showing them. The problem was that they couldn’t see it from far away. I didn’t know that, apparently, airport staff need to visibly clock your disability from across the terminal in order to give you basic assistance.

Wild.

I still had issues getting pre-boarding. My wheelchair assistants didn’t believe I was the one who needed help. One even checked my name, then walked all the way back to the counter to double check — because they didn’t believe I was really the passenger needing assistance.

No matter the service, I had to prove I needed it. And now, with more able-bodied people requesting wheelchairs to make their travel easier, people like me are met with even more suspicion.

I’ve been denied wheelchair service because I “don’t look disabled.” I’ve been treated poorly by check-in agents who didn’t believe my disability was real — and next thing I knew, I was paying $300 for a bag that was 1kg over the limit.

So now? I just show them the leg.

It’s stupid. It’s unnecessary. But it’s been a game-changer for my flights.

Most recently, I broke my own dress code and wore shorts. Short enough to quench the thirst of every curious eye. And honestly? It was the easiest flight I’ve ever taken.

Yes, people stared. Kids pointed. Adults acted like children.

But the wheelchair assistant? The check-in agent? TSA/Immigration? Every single one of them was kind. Helpful. Respectful. I was offered every available accommodation. No pushback. No doubt.

And that’s when it hit me: in this situation, it’s just easier to give them what they want — the leg — so I can have a smooth flight.

It sucks that disabled people have to sacrifice comfort just to participate in everyday life. Because this doesn’t just happen at airports — it happens in classrooms, offices, restaurants, subways… everywhere.

And no, I’m not saying every time you leave your house you should show your disability. But if you find yourself in a situation where the power dynamic is off, where someone has the ability to deny you what you need, and they’re not taking your word for it?

Show the disability. Show them the leg.

We shouldn’t have to conform to ableist mindsets, but we should remember they exist.

And honestly? Showcasing my leg through Thailand, Qatar, and Paris gave me one of the smoothest travel experiences I’ve ever had. No complaints. No denials. Just access.

All because they got to satisfy their curiosity. And I, to some degree, got to keep my dignity.

And between being stared at or being subjected to an overly personal, invasive search?

I’ll take the stares.
and I’ll take the real bear any day.