© David Burton

As a teacher, young children would typically ask me two questions: "Why are you so small?" and "If you had a magic wand, would you make a wish to be normal?"

I am a physically disabled educator, writer and advocate. I have Achondroplasia, the most common form of dwarfism - when standing, I reach the height of 3’5”, or 105.5cms. Though I worked as a primary school teacher through much of my twenties, I am now in the throes of a PhD and, over the past year, I have been embedded within the fashion industry, questioning the assumptions and the positioning of disabled people. My body is different to those that appear in campaigns and finding clothes that ensure I feel confident of my own beauty and self can be a challenge.

In the classroom, my physicality was immediately obvious and curiosity was ignited. I answered the children’s questions with sincerity; their inquisitiveness was always without malice, and they were brave in asking about things that adults would not. As a teacher and advocate, I wanted to challenge their thinking, and realign the lens through which they view the world.

When they asked me: "Why are you so small?", I answered, "Why are you so big?". Confusion meandered across their faces, they’d raise an eyebrow and respond with a slight smirk: ‘I don’t know, I was born like this’. They were right. And I am a little person because I too was ‘born like this’. This simplistic explanation of genetics sat comfortably with young children and from that moment, I was their teacher.

My students’ intrigue was sometimes easy to answer but their question about a magic wand demanded that I challenge the world’s assumed definition of normality, and whether it was something I wanted – or needed – to subscribe to. I mean, what does it mean to be normal? Having Achondroplasia liberated me from this very narrow descriptor.

Achondroplasia is a latin word that translates as ‘without cartilage formation’. My disability is the result of a mutation of the FGFR3 gene, equating to the shortening of my limbs. I am fortunate to not experience any physical pain, and my greatest challenges are the design of the built environment and society’s assumptions about what I can and cannot achieve.

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I love being a little person, I love my body, and I’m privileged to have been born into a family who celebrated and nurtured my differences. My physicality resulted in a unique perspective, one that shaped my personality and ambition. I describe myself as organised, creative and articulate; skills that were honed due to necessity. If I had a magic wand, I would use it to democratise opportunities and resources to ensure equal access and inclusion for all. I would not change who I am… but I almost did.

When I was 11 years old, I considered undertaking a limb lengthening procedure. It is an intensive operation that requires the deliberate fracturing of your legs’ Tibia bones and through turning pins each day, the break widens and new marrow grows within the fissure. It’s painful, but the surgery can result in adding three to six inches in height. For some people, that measurement is transformative and allows them a previously unimaginable independence. The decision to undertake this procedure is a deeply personal choice, one that must be respected. And so, at such a young age, I had to ask myself a lot of important questions.

I realised that my sole ambition to have the surgery was to appease strangers, to limit their discomfort with my disability and to nudge the dial closer to subscribing to normality. As a child, I wanted to make it easier for people to like me. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I was attempting to make my differences more palatable.

I spoke with my parents and my siblings and we came to the conclusion that if people did not like me because I was disabled, because I was a little person, that was their problem not mine. At 11, I refused to alter myself to appeal to the expectations of others. Normality was not something I was aiming for. I sought fulfillment, self-belief, boundless joy and a sarcastic wit - all of which could only flourish from becoming comfortable with being me.

The classroom can be a microcosm for wider society, but often as we get older we forget and become fearful to ask the kinds of questions children do. As adults, we remain intrigued by those who look, believe and behave differently to us, but unlike children, we are not brave in our curiosity. We are embarrassed by what we do not know, and we are often aggressive towards anyone who reminds us of our ignorance, or is different to us. Yet, from children’s innocent inquisitiveness we could learn to cultivate an empathy and respect for otherness that is essential in this fractured era.

Our biases and assumptions widen our differences, and – of course - culture and society often reinforce a particular form of 'normal'. But if I’ve learned anything in my life so far it’s that no one is 'normal'. Life is complex, challenging and full of difference. I would love to know what my students think of that.