Alright, folks, I’m about to unleash a torrent of words that have as much of a filter as a colander. So, if you turn red at the mere mention of a shit or fuck, or if your sensibilities are as fragile as a soap bubble, please exit stage left. Seriously, I won’t be offended.

We are about to delve into some liquid courage conversation that I have scribbled about in my journal, put into voice memos, had emotionally driven conversations and cried myself to sleep about and given way too much of my energy to. You know, the kind of courage it takes to be me, little legs with a big heart, a loud mouth and a disability. Let’s get one thing straight: this is my personal mental, emotional rollercoaster and I’m riding it without the safety bars of political correctness. If you’re expecting a short, fluffy, sugar-coated blog post that nods politely and curtsies before every opinion, well, you’re in for a wild ride. If you find yourself spluttering your latte all over your computer or clutching your crystals like they’re a life raft, remember this: I’m not really here to cater to sensitivities or time for that matter – when I get passionate about something, I tend to be long winded. 

Buckle up or bail out – the choice is yours.

*          *          *

Exhaustion? Check. 

Frustration? Double check. 

Sadness, anger, and the urge to join a monastery? Oh, you betcha. 

Tears? They flowed longer than the Danube.

I’m not sure I even want to deal with it anymore. My thoughts go back and forth about whether I am trying too hard or not trying hard enough. At the end of the day, I am a woman with little legs and a really big heart who has physical differences. Yet, I’m stuck in this huge world that seems to think I’m auditioning for a role as a footstool. Because I have achondroplasia; I am a little person, I live with a disability and today, in our society, it is a diagnosis that comes with a side of, “please mock, laugh at, diminish, take unapproved pictures of and objectify me.” 

For those who know me, you are well aware of my advocacy work. Since I was 9, I have unleashed my unapologetic, unique self like a force of nature to shed a light on living in the face of adversity. And I will continue to do so as I am incredibly passionate about it AND because I know, FOR A FACT, that it isn’t just me living these intimate yet degrading moments. I’m simply a woman who isn’t afraid to make the conversation louder.

(To back that last sentence up, here’s a little anecdote from my last text with my boss, who I deeply admire and know he meant no harm when he couldn’t help but playfully mention that I have quite the gift of gab. No arguments here – I’ve got a big mouth, and I’m proudly wearing that badge. And just to keep the theme going, last night a patient’s mom affectionately described me as “not quiet.” So, there you have it, folks – #littlelegsBIGmouth in all her glory.)

It’s the one topic I’m rather hush-hush about. Typically, I reserve it for those who truly lend an ear, steering clear of anyone armed with a toolkit of fixes. Let me tell you, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve tinkered with blog posts and captions, attempting to bottle up the whirlwind of emotions that this subject stirs within me.

D A T I N G

First, I am going to start off by saying:

YES! I am well aware that the dating scene can be a ruthless playing field for e v e r y o n e, and most people, both men and women alike, have had their fair share of nightmare experiences. I’m not the lone survivor on this island — I get it!

What’s become crystal clear to me is that the dating game takes on a whole new level of intensity when you’re living with a disability and swimming through the tough currents of adversity. For individuals like us with skeletal dysplasia, it’s a battlefield strewn with absurd hurdles like inauthenticity, outright lies, sheer ignorance, and, to add insult to injury, the terrible experiences of objectification and fetishization. My journey of dating has been an unrelenting emotional rollercoaster, between the unexpected tough conversations and disheartening encounters, sprinkled with rare occurrences of positivity and upliftment. My personal highlight? Well, it’s a delightful mix of both worlds – what begins as incredible conversation and chemistry that quickly spirals into a tornado of deception, disrespect, and emotions I can’t even put into words. Seriously, am I the only one walking around these days with my heart stitched to my fucking sleeve?! 

Overcoming physical, mental and emotional effects of living as a woman with skeletal dysplasia has been a lifelong journey, one that strongly stretched its roots back to my teenage years and took its sweet time to settle into my core as a grown woman. Let’s be real, you can’t tell me that there is ONE person, who is viewed as different, that has never had a bad day as a result of societal reaction to what sets them apart from everyone else. Not a chance. If you do know of such a human, then please connect them with me directly because I need to know: HOW!? 

Toss in the delightful “how to” approach of dating – and oh, the joy! Early on, it was total mental torment; do I bring up the fact that I am a woman living with dwarfism or assume that the guy’s already clued in and cool with it because, well, he swiped right? This question, which I’ve interrogated myself with more times than I care to admit, has a knack for dulling the sparkle in the quest to find my person. That question, of, “Do I say something about my living with achondroplasia before we meet in person?” elicits both doubt and controversy in the discussion of finding my partner in crime. 

Want to know how I learned to make my decision?

Yes.

It happens. 

More often than people think. 

All I ever want is to do the right thing and those I love and care about all have their own opinions about what I should do. At the end of the day, it is essential to recognize that true self-love and acceptance are the cornerstones of any successful relationship; dating yourself or another human.

And so, I always choose to have that conversation and be vulnerable and honest usually within the first day of talking and always prior to meeting in person. I have found that this limits the ridiculous fantasies and requests as quoted above, the weird one night stands that make you feel like complete shit and the ignorant motherfuckers who think that I was born yesterday and try to woo me into their words of admiration, curiosity and insensitivity. 

ENOUGH with the creepy AF catcalls and the objectification which no one will EVER have my permission to demonstrate. 

These practices are not flattering. They are belittling and sometimes cut deep. I am a human being with feelings who deserves the same amount of love and respect that these bozos think that they too are worthy of. Thankfully, I can tip my “B for Boston” hat to all of the personal work I have done over the years – knowing that the words and actions of others are a reflection of their ignorance rather than a measure of my worth. An ongoing joke with my people is that I could write a book on all the men I have dated and the sometimes hilarious, cringeworthy and “give me a day, I will get over it” encounters.

When I feel led, I write my intentions, hopes, dreams and goals in my journal. I’d like to say that I do it for every new moon but, yeah, life. What I can tell you is that I have consistently written things like: 

“Love and be loved in return.” 

“Be in a healthy relationship with a kind, compassionate, fun, understanding man.” 

“Open up to any and all possibilities when it comes to love and find my person; someone to get to know, someone to kiss, someone to wake up next to, someone to hug, someone to share special moments with, someone to call my best friend.” 

“Find a man who is humble, kind, well established (aka has his shit together), is active, loves the water, has a thirst for adventure, is nonjudgemental when it comes to physical challenges, pain and mental health, someone to argue with and apologize to, someone to love with every ounce of my being, a man who is not phased by my past, is an emotional and expressive human, has his own hobbies, groups of friends and is close with his family, someone I can be my true self around, who has stories, can deal with that fact that I am a Boston fan, who encourages me to be the best version of myself, honest, not passive aggressive, who talks and also listens, a man that I can happily sit in silence with, who will hold be when I’m hurting and the best damn big spoon a girl could EVER ask for.”

Carefully to reworking and fine tuning each consecutive journal entry based on recent meetings, conversations and lessons learned. And even that hasn’t been specific enough – because some guys are just cruel and have the absolute worst intentions.

Dating is not what it used to be. I am active in my community. I go out. I socialize ALL the time (big mouth, remember?) What am I supposed to do, go sit at a different bar 3-4 afternoons or evenings out of the week and hope that “the one” is going to belly up next to me?! That’s expensive. COME ON! This is adulting in my mid 30’s? Student loans already feel like a lifelong subscription, and now I am expected to take out loans for the privilege of dating too? I would also like to add that probably half of the guys I have ever gone out with insist on splitting the bill or just don’t pay at all. Picture this: beach bar, live music, and Mr. Apps-and-Booze rolls in. He’s all “order, order, more order,” and then – plot twist – wallet MIA.

Within the Little People of America operates a separate matchmaking hub with a protective impulse that steers folks towards dating others with dwarfism. It’s understandable that within this circle, there’s a magnetic pull towards individuals who understand the unique journey of living with skeletal dysplasia. It’s like finding someone who speaks the same language, even if it’s just through shared experiences and challenges. But hey, love doesn’t always have to be conditional, and connections can come in all shapes and sizes. So while the protective instinct might nudge individuals towards fellow little people, let’s not forget that hearts are big enough to embrace differences beyond stature. While I love this for the LPA and its members, this was never possible for me. As a woman who chose limb lengthening as a 12 year old girl, I have been excluded from my own community since childhood.

Bumble, Hinge, Match, Coffee Meets Bagel; you name the app, they are all just about the same. 

Tinder, though, is on another level. Objectification is rampant.  Fetishists are persistent. The word midget is tossed around like a provocative designation. Just like mosquitoes, indictments of Trump, and seasons of “Grey’s Anatomy,” the horny dudes just keep on coming looking to cross a top five off of their bucket list. GROSS.

But sometimes, sometimes, I start talking with someone and the conversation takes off. Trust me when I tell you, I would love nothing more than to delete the dating apps off of my phone… permanently. I’ve taken long breaks and short ones, toiled with whether my efforts are too strong or severely lacking, sought advice from my therapist and closest friends, gone with my gut, met a match immediately after we start talking and let our words play out until he made the first move, had conversations that are the dating app equivalent of a low, rumbling fart and ones that divulge some of my deepest truths – insert feelings on consistently being referred to as a midget and a lightning-speed version of my medical saga here.

“Why Florida?” I get asked. Every time.

“Misdiagnosed and mistreated back in Charleston, I was practically waving hello to paralysis. But then, a ray of hope – a doctor here in FL. A year of treatment later, my SC insurance bailed on me down south. Long story short, I moved.” 

Something along those lines… perhaps a tad less snarky.

At this point, they typically ghost. Occasionally, however the conversation steers into the vulnerable territory of genuine curiosity and shared interests. And hey, I am ALL for it. There’s something utterly delightful about peeling back the layers of people’s stories and adventures; a friend or potential lovah.

Being vulnerable and opening myself up to others, especially men that I don’t know, has taught me to dig my fingernails deep down into my truth and breathe honesty and authenticity with every single word that I think, speak or write about myself. I have loosened a once tight grip on expectation and promised to stay true to who I am, no matter how loud I am, and not feel an ounce of guilt for shining the light that I was gifted too brightly. I have learned that worthiness is not something you earn, it is inherent, something you are born with, something you own. It is a tossup whether life experience or my dad taught me that sometimes self love comes in the choice shade of my middle finger or a resounding, “Fuck You!” 

And, let’s be real, obviously dad has been essential in my learning and use of proper Bostonian gestures and choice phrases suggesting to others that NO, you do not get to treat me this way. 

Most importantly, other people’s words and actions have helped me discover that three of the most powerful words in the human language are, “No, thank you.” Running and/or hiding is not going to dismantle societal barriers – to get through to some people, especially those with extreme levels of ignorance or just plain nastiness, I have to sit and stay. Because I feel and I learn and my inner worth strengthens so as not to dilute any part of who I am as Kristen, a woman living with achondroplasia.

Gratefully, I can Thank GOD that I have never had any experiences that truly have rocked me to my core – to the point where I have trouble getting the whole encounter out of my head, scream mercilessly in the car and felt nauseous resulting in actually getting sick.

That was, until recently.

What started as week-long conversation comprised of exchanging travel stories, vulnerability, witty banter, agreements to deal with opposing sports teams and start as friends with zero pressure, abbreviated life stories, honesty, lots of lols and ;), lead to me giving him the wrong phone number only to realize it a day or so later and then give him the correct digits. Don’t worry, we were both laughing.

Chubby thumbs made me miss one number!

We texted a few times a day and swiftly decided it was high time to meet in person. He didn’t hesitate to make a 45 minute drive to meet me and then zoom back that night, citing the noble reason of “taking his uncle to the airport” early the next morning. Ah, the lengths some people are willing to go for friendship and connection – or at least the promise of it!

Our rendezvous was a whole new ballgame – different, strangely comfortable, like slipping into a pair of well-worn Birkenstocks, as if we’d been old friends in a past life. He was a seated masterpiece and our eye contact was magnetic. He could have given two shits about the fact that I was a woman with little legs, a real life canvas painted with the contours and detours of a medical journey – we talked about it all, for more than two hours.

This lad checked ALL the boxes. We hung out for an extra couple of hours, sealed the night with a kiss, and he was all about the grand plans for when he returned from a work trip the following weekend and even brought up the possibility of connecting when we were both scheduled to be in Spain. The chat flowed for the next two days, and then… silence. Sure, he was traveling for work, but come on, he didn’t forget how to use a phone. Even on my busiest days, if I’m intrigued by someone, you bet I’m squeezing in a reply when I finally crash at night. I could feel it with every ounce of my being, something was definitely off.

My intuition tends to be on the money, but I could not have foreseen, in a million lifetimes, that the situation would unfold the way that it did. Many thanks to my dear, gifted friend Sherlock Holmes and her mind-blowing detective prowess – she dug up the truth that this guy, who I thought was a clear-cut contender for at least instant friendship, could not have been further from fitting the bill.

Going into detail will haunt my dreams, but here are Sherlock’s buddy Watson’s cliff notes:

A shared social circle reveals a bombshell! Our investigative escapade unveils the shocking truth that Mr. Smooth Operator wasn’t just any eligible bachelor. Oh no, he was living the “happily” married life, complete with two kiddos.

WORDS FAILED AND CONTINUE TO FAIL ME. 

Never in my life have I encountered someone who could pull off “faking” an emotional connection while spinning a web of lies with the same set of teeth. Let alone after having a heart-to-heart about the horrors of dating apps and the cringe-worthy conversations and encounters I’ve endured in the past regarding my dwarfism. Both of which he vehemently disapproved of.

Coward. All of this weaving of lies into a tapestry of connection has left me bewildered and feeling betrayed, not just by him, but a part of myself too. As human beings, we possess and inherent desire to uncover the reasons behind such a contrived and insincere meeting of two “friends.” And when we cannot do such a thing, it unleashes all of the feels.

Pouring my heart out about dating and this experience in particular isn’t a quest for sympathy, advice, or answers. What’s done is done and in the moments that everything was playing out, it felt right. It’s been a long time coming and this incident sparked the need to write and simply shine a light on the impact disability has on dating and how so many people choose to hide behind their phone screens pretending to be someone they aren’t, wasting people’s time catfishing and, like what you read about in an intense dramatic romance novel they; sociopaths who think that they can get away with anything.

None of this feels good. Voicing and writing down the experience is cathartic – diffusing anger and annoyance. Evading or retreating will not disassemble these societal hurdles – especially those draped in layers of ignorance or conceit. So, I (we) need to firmly stand my ground.  And although totally out of character, that is exactly what I did.

You bet – Sassy did not hold back, calling out his antics with flair. And just to add a little extra oomph, I threw his wife’s name into the mix. A woman whom my heart absolutely breaks for. So he knew that I knew the truth.

Here’s my reality: I feel it all, soak up the lessons, express my emotions and, at the end of the day, my self-worth stands tall, embracing every facet of my being, even when it means wading through and getting stuck in the discomfort. This, hands down, has been my masterclass in negotiating a dating ordeal tainted by deceit and misconceptions and asserting myself in honor of my journey and my community; those with skeletal dysplasia and the realm of disabilities in entirety.

When I choose to talk about my body and my choices, it feels to me like I’m talking only about myself. But others are listening for how it all affects them. If they don’t care about me personally, it’s their only reason for paying attention. It’s the only reason we read novels and newspaper articles and blogs about strangers’ lives. We’re searching for something we can relate to, and if we can’t relate, we at least want to know how other people’s choices are shaping the world we live in. Opinions such as “I was so gross when I weighed x pounds,” or “I can’t wait to get rid of these hideous scars” both reflect and influence the society comprising us all. We love taking credit for our words when others agree or are inspired by them. But if someone raises the possibility of our statements having a negative impact on others, the temptation to shirk all responsibility for others is strong. But we can’t ever shirk it. That’s cowardly.

And THAT is why I am here.

So, cheers to uncensored rants and letting my thoughts fly free like a rebellious flock of birds as I continue to navigate this peculiar landscape of modern dating. With very little expectation moving forward, I remain open to the possibility of finding a genuine connection, and I do so with a heart full of hope, determination, and the audacity to be unapologetically myself – a fierce advocate, a bold storyteller, and a lover who has little legs and a big heart.

When life’s a bitch, a wise woman once said,

“Fuck this shit.” 

And she lived happily ever after.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

Love.