For me, prosthetic devices have fused mobility with creativity. If I can no longer walk, who am I?
Words and images by Jennifer Latham Robinson
I grew up just a few blocks from the public swimming pool. That pool was my stomping ground—where I played with classmates and spent time with my family. I learned to swim before I could walk. Even now, water is my happy place.
I remember relying mostly on my upper body to climb the steps of the diving board with my one foot, focusing on not looking down, just pushing forward. Once at the top, I carefully crawled to the edge of the wobbling board. Standing on my one foot, I scanned the pool below. My residual limb—my “toe-toe”—had the easier job, just hanging there. But moments like these made it feel more exposed than usual, out in the open rather than safely encased in my prosthesis.
As I maintained my balance, I sometimes became aware that I was being watched. A wave of insecurity would wash over me. But I swallowed those feelings and pushed off with my one foot, cutting through the water like a blade. I swam to the deepest part of the pool, a place where few dared to go. I wasn’t swimming to escape the crowd—I was swimming to show off. I swam faster than most, without needing to come up for air for a long time.
Whenever insecurity arises now, I think back to that diving board—the perilous climb, the unsteadiness, the awareness of being watched. I think about that final, stress-relieving breath. What else can you do? There’s no going back. I know that once I dive in, I’m diving past the self-doubt, and soon I’ll feel that same freedom I found as a child in the water.
If I wasn’t swimming, I would be drawing, sculpting, and singing. As the youngest of much older siblings in an artistic family, I had the privilege of being surrounded by art supplies and teachers in my own home. Creativity was woven into my upbringing, along with a profound understanding that beauty is expansive and diverse. In our home, “different” was just another word for “beautiful.”
My body, shaped by bilateral proximal femoral focal deficiency (PFFD)—a condition where my femurs and hips didn’t fully develop—was beautifully different. This perspective was ingrained in my childhood, but holding onto it wasn’t always easy. In moments of self-doubt, whether on a diving board or at a middle school dance, seeing myself as beautiful took some grit. It was a shield I had to forge almost daily. “Fake it ’til you make it” was my mantra, and that meant leaning into the art I loved and the understanding of beauty my family had instilled in me.
This lens also shaped how I saw my prosthetic limb and the process behind its creation. At Shriners Hospital, where I received care, I was often invited to visit the fabrication lab. It was there, amid the tools and materials, that I fell in love with the art of crafting orthotic and prosthetic devices. Even today, the smell of an O&P lab brings a smile to my face, pulling me back to those childhood memories.
I remember one visit in particular when a staff member asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Without missing a beat, I said, “I want to be an artist who works with people who need these,” gesturing to the O&P devices in progress in the lab. To my young self, the connection between creativity and prosthetics was crystal clear.
As an adult, that fusion has guided my professional and personal passions. It has grown deeper and stronger over time—even though I can no longer wear a prosthesis, and might never be able to again.
WALKING WITH A PROSTHESIS has always been challenging for me—not just because I lack hip joints, but also due to the weakness of the leg I do have. Over the years, I’ve relied on a combination of a prosthesis and forearm crutches, and at times I’ve used a wheelchair—particularly during high school, when I had to navigate a sprawling campus. Still, I always considered myself ambulatory. I rarely went anywhere without my prosthesis—if I did, it felt as vulnerable as going outside in my underwear.
By the time I reached college, walking with my prosthesis had become increasingly difficult. I attended New College in Sarasota, Florida, a liberal arts institution known for its open-minded, creative environment. At New College, I felt free to let go of some of the expectations I had carried for so long—including those related to mobility. In that accepting community, I felt liberated to ditch my prosthesis and exclusively use forearm crutches. Without the prosthesis, I felt lighter, faster, and more capable. I could walk as far as anyone else, run when I wanted, and even perform a party trick where I walked on my hands down the stairs. I saw my prosthesis not as a necessity but as an object with its own identity, quietly resting in the corner of my dorm room.
It was during this time that I met my husband, a fellow artist. It’s hard to explain our instant connection, but I can say for sure that my limb difference was never something he had to “look beyond.” This man saw all of me and loved me as-is, unconditionally. And the feeling was mutual. He was fascinated not only by the mechanics of my prosthesis but also by its artistry. As we stood in my dorm room, marveling over my “leggy,” we planted a seed that would grow into a shared passion between us.
As we started our life together after college, prosthetic technology had progressed to the point where I was able to give walking another try. The new class of devices enabled me to ambulate without difficulty, and the crutches and wheelchair once again found their place in the corner of the room.
Meanwhile, my husband and I began our careers in orthotics and prosthetics, joining a clinic in Florida in 1999. Over the next 14 years, we helped launch the company’s anaplastology department. Anaplastology, a specialized branch of prosthetics, focuses on the restoration of hands, feet, eyes, breasts, and facial anatomy. These prostheses are often strikingly realistic, with details like pores and even fingerprints.
In many ways, I was living the dream I had as a little girl walking through the Shriners fabrication lab. My job had become the perfect union of art and prosthetics. I connected deeply with the people who came to the clinic, understanding firsthand the emotional journey of accepting a device. Most of our amputee patients were adults who experienced limb loss later in life, the opposite of my experience. But even though our paths were different, we belonged to the same community and we supported each other.
I found it especially empowering to connect with women who were new to limb loss. In the privacy of exam rooms, I’d show them my residual limb, demonstrating how I removed and replaced my prosthesis. That simple act created a bond that words couldn’t match, and I hoped it helped break down any stigma they might have been holding. In truth, it helped me too. Feelings of insecurity, no matter how deeply buried, still lingered within me—little embers of internalized ableism I could barely acknowledge. Those connections reminded me that healing and growth are ongoing processes, even for someone who’s spent their whole life adapting to disability.
IN 2014 MY HUSBAND AND I relocated to Durham, North Carolina, and we soon founded our own anaplastology business, Functional Restorations. At Functional Restorations, I’ve found a unique space where my passions for art and prosthetics come together seamlessly. Our goal is to help each client blend their functional needs with their emotional ones. Want to blend in? High realism it is. Want to stand out? Bring on the neon colors and glitter. Working alongside my husband, a certified anaplastologist and pedorthist, I’ve gained perspective from both sides—clinic owner and clinic client. Each prosthesis we create is an opportunity to marry technical precision with artistic expression.
Throughout this period, my mobility was relatively stable, aside from temporary challenges that occurred in the aftermath of my pregnancies in 2003 and 2007. In both of those cases, I used a wheelchair and crutches to adjust postpartum, then worked my way back to my feet by staying active, practicing yoga, and maintaining a healthy lifestyle. I have to admit, I was pretty impressed with myself after navigating this twice.
But over the last few years, my hip joints—or, rather, the anatomy that should have been my hip joints—degraded to the point that walking is extremely difficult. Last year, the pain got so bad that I could barely stand for any length of time, and I had to stop wearing my prosthesis all together.
I can vividly remember my childhood orthopedist telling my mom that walking would only get harder for me as I got older. “By the time she’s in her 40s, she’s going to have a tough time,” he said. His prediction was spot-on.
To be fair, the 40s present challenges for every woman. Just as nobody told me that breastfeeding is terribly painful in the beginning, nobody pulled back the menopause curtain to give me a sneak peek into all the strangeness that would await. As a disabled woman (I finally embrace the term “disabled” as a power move, not a defeat), I’d get a double whammy. My precarious ambulation would be complicated by joint pain, arthritis, and hormonal weight gain. Just when you really start to know yourself, your self continues to change.
But isn’t that true for everyone as we age? Eventually, disability touches us all. It comes gradually for most people, as I’ve seen with my own parents. Thankfully, these life changes often bring a deeper understanding of ourselves. The wisdom comes at a price, but for me it has been worth it.
Saying goodbye to my prosthesis came with a lot of grief. Of all the devices I’ve used over time, she was my favorite, with a custom lamination of the mythological character Medusa. Eventually I stopped charging her; she beep, beep, beeped through the next night as her battery died. Eventually the beeping stopped, and I put her in the closet.
Beyond this emotional impact, I also had to deal with the very practical matter of mobility without a prosthesis. How was I going to get around? My old wheelchair, which I had received while pregnant with my now 21-year-old child, was heavy, worn, and way behind the times. As I navigated the process of obtaining a new custom manual wheelchair, I couldn’t help but compare it to the prosthetic fitting experience.
What was different? I had to see both a physician and a physical therapist. The customization process relied on a few simple measurements, which felt far less invasive than being casted in those not-so-flattering blue shorts. What was the same? Peer support played a huge role in both cases. The assistive technology professional who worked with me was a full-time wheelchair user, which made the experience feel more personal and empowering. The other thing common to both experiences won’t surprise you: the cost. Between clinical appointments and my out-of-pocket expenses for the chair itself, this baby didn’t come cheap. (Oh, and did you know ramps aren’t covered?)
My public debut as a full-time wheelchair user came last August, at the Amputee Coalition National Conference. I hadn’t attended an AC conference in years, and I was excited about reconnecting with old friends. But I also felt nervous about answering their questions about why I wasn’t using a prosthesis anymore. Fortunately, before I wheeled into the exhibit hall, I was greeted by a few fellow wheelchair users. When our eyes met, there was an unspoken exchange: I see you. I get it. Even though most of the presentations and booths centered on prosthetic technology, I still felt a powerful sense of acceptance. The Amputee Coalition embraces everyone, whether you use a prosthesis, wheelchair, crutches, or any other mobility aid (or none at all). I realized just how strongly I needed this kind of inclusion, and it was deeply validating to experience it firsthand.
That warm reception didn’t ease my nerves about the American Orthotic and Prosthetic Association’s national conference, which I attended the following month. With over 25 years in the industry, I expected to see even more familiar faces and to get even more questions about using a wheelchair instead of a prosthetic device. After all, this conference was for people who specialize in orthotic and prosthetic care.
I packed my prosthesis into my luggage and was determined to walk into the conference on it. My husband watched nervously as I donned the device and hobbled around the hotel room on forearm crutches. “I can do it,” I assured him. “I’m going to do it.” He gently voiced his concern as I grimaced in pain, but I was resolute. There would be no changing my mind.
We called an Uber and made our way down through the lobby and out to the curb. Each step brought audible wincing as bone ground against bone and my muscles burned. After not wearing my prosthesis for so long, it didn’t even fit properly. My “toe-toe” was completely numb; that couldn’t be good. When we were seated in the Uber, my husband asked one last time, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Normally when I cry, it’s a slow build-up. But this time I instantly collapsed into tears in the backseat of the car, crying uncontrollably. “What am I going to do?” I sobbed. “I can’t do this. I can’t go. Let’s just go back to the hotel. I want to go home.”
As always, my husband was my rock. “Take off Leggy, and I’ll take her back and bring your chair,” he said gently. But my prosthesis was locked on so tight it wouldn’t come off. We struggled together to break the skin-fit seal, until it finally came off with a pop. My husband ran inside while I sat silently with the irritated driver, who tapped impatiently on the dashboard until my husband rushed back into view, wheelchair in tow. I’m so grateful that Uber driver didn’t make a dashcam recording of the whole encounter. It would have gone viral.
As we approached the conference entrance, I took a deep breath. I was on the diving board, and the only way through this was to dive in. I smiled, wheeled into the room, and focused on how happy I felt to see so many friends and colleagues. Only a few people asked me why I was in a wheelchair. Some didn’t mention it at all. To be honest, neither response felt great. But I held my head high, remembering that—no matter how I get around—I have something unique and important to contribute to conversations about amputee care.
ANY MINUTE NOW, A NEW CLIENT will arrive at our prosthetic clinic. As usual, I’ll meet them at the door, guiding them to their treatment room, leading the way in my wheelchair. “I’ve worn a prosthesis my whole life—until now,” I’ll say. “I’m using a wheelchair for the time being [or maybe forever—but I’ll keep that part to myself], but I’m still the same person. I’ve found my new normal, just like we all do.”
Finding a new normal—that’s a phrase I often used when I volunteered as a Certified Peer Visitor. I’d meet a new amputee at the hospital, show them my prosthesis, tell them my story, and then—the most important part—I’d listen to them voice their questions and concerns. I’d always end by repeating, “You’ll find your new normal,” but after saying that again and again, visit after visit, it almost seemed to lose its meaning. Those words mean more than ever to me now, because I’m the one whose body has abruptly changed, along with my way of getting around in the world. My empathy for others who are facing that type of major life transition is stronger than ever.
This new way of being, and of seeing, has brought new energy to my personal art. Throughout my career in the prosthetic industry, I have always pursued my own art projects involving stories of resilience, adaptation, and transformation. I’ve self-published a few children’s books, wrote and illustrated an educational book for O&P professionals, and recently illustrated a book by the award-winning author James Catchpole. It’s one of the only books I know of where the writer, illustrator, and main character all have one leg.
Lately I’ve been focused on less conventional art. I’ve been producing sculptures, dolls, and paintings that explore themes of disability, mythology, and the beauty of otherness. Music has become another powerful way for me to process my feelings and express myself. It’s a deeper layer of self-expression, a place where emotions can unfold and take form like colors on a canvas. I even wrote a love song to my prosthetic limb, before we broke up. I’m finding ways to combine my love for music with my visual art. There’s a rhythm in everything we do, and I find joy in weaving these elements together.
Prosthetics and art have always been intertwined in the tapestry of my life, joined in a dance with each other. Somewhat ironically, that connection has only deepened since I tucked my prosthesis away in the closet. Just as our limbs aren’t what make us human, my prosthesis isn’t what makes me an artist. Creativity gives us the power to shape how we experience the world and, in my case, how we reimagine it. It’s this constant reimagining, as we evolve physically and emotionally, where we can find joy, wherever it may be hiding.
Jennifer Latham Robinson is an author, illustrator, podcaster, and artist. Learn more about her creative work at jenniferlathamrobinson.com.
