I was five years old and I was going to a special doctor.

I was in a really cold, medical office where I disrobed down to my undergarments and put on a child-size medical gown that opened in the back. I waited in the office with my mom until the doctor arrived. He was there with two or three residents. They all wore white medical robes.

The doctor had me stand, look at him, turn around to face away from him, bend over to touch my toes, stand up, and turn around to face him again. He pointed out specific areas of my back to the residents who stood around him. They asked questions. He answered. I stood there.

The doctor, an ever-changing group of residents, and I repeated this examination dance for the next thirteen years.

I was five years old when I discovered that I have scoliosis—basically my back curves in very interesting ways. There have been many times that I’ve wished my back was less interesting. One of these times was when I was about twelve years old and in eighth grade, the last year of middle school.

Middle school was a challenging time, filled with lots of preteen angst. For social reasons, it wasn’t the ideal time to find out that I was about to endure a treatment that would make me visibly different from my classmates. But in eighth grade, I realized there was no escaping it—my scoliosis had become significantly worse—I was about to enter a world of being discernibly distinct.

To be fitted for my hardshell back brace I had to go to a different specialist. This specialist was a rather creepy guy who had scraggily long, white hair and an untidy, long beard to match. He wore a white (were it not stained) ribbed sleeveless undershirt (as his only shirt). I disrobed to my undergarments and then I was wrapped in elastic bandage material. Then, this specialist rubbed plaster of Paris material from my neck down past my hips. I waited uncomfortably while the chalky, gloopy material hardened.

This was the first time I really realized how uncomfortable my life was about to become.

After the material set, the specialist marked the hardened form so he would know where he needed to leave a cutaway to accommodate a developing young lady’s body. Then he cut away the form and popped it away from my body.

I waited a week or two and returned to see the specialist who had crafted my back brace. He made slight adjustments and I started to wear the device.

For the next two years, I wore the contraption for 23 hours each and every day. I wore it at school, at home, and even in bed. I wore four layers of tops every day: an undergarment, a men’s sleeved undershirt, the back brace, and an oversized shirt to try to disguise the other three layers.

I was not allowed to take gym class, which also meant no more extracurricular activities like basketball or cheerleading. I understood that wearing the back brace could prevent me from having surgery but at 13 years old, the entire experience seemed devastating.

One day, I was sitting in the bleachers watching my classmates participating in gym class. They were trying to climb the ropes. It dawned on me, I really disliked trying to climb the ropes in gym class. Because of my back brace, I wasn’t being faced with the humiliation of not having the upper body strength to do it. In that moment, I began to see the benefits and opportunities that not having to take gym afforded.

Eighth grade ended and it was time to move on to high school. I was very fortunate to have gone to a good high school—a high school that had a graphic design teacher and a graphic design/photo lab filled with: photo equipment, a printing plate machine, a one-color printing press, and Mac computers.

I still couldn’t take gym, so for my entire four years of high school I took independent courses in graphic design.

My life would be different if I didn’t have a back filled with interesting curves. I might not have witnessed a doctor immersed in experiential learning where he helped residents by having them experience various types of patients and cases first-hand. This helped me to understand the importance of immersive, experiential learning.

I might not have learned empathy for people who have to approach situations differently because of a physical challenge. This helped me to understand the importance of accessibility.

I might not have developed my passion for design at such an important time in my life. This helped me to understand the world in a design-centric manner.

And I might not have learned that everything happens for a reason. This helped me to understand that sometimes only distance and time will help me to see the reasons why I am faced with the challenges that appear in my life.

So that contraption—my back brace—helped shape more than my back. It helped shape my entire career and life.

Originally posted on The Pastry Box.