16Views 0Comments
When I travel alone, I’m not the ‘woman with one leg’ – I’m just Zainab
For a long time, I didn’t recognise the girl in the mirror. I was a collage of stitches and plaster casts, tape measures and socket moulds. At home, my mother cupped my face with both hands and said: “You are strong. You were made unbreakable.” I didn’t believe her. But I wanted to. And maybe that’s what led me here, to the side of a cliff in Oman, fingers clawed around a steel lifeline, pulling myself inch by inch up the rock. We’d started at sunrise, the path zigzagging across loose shale and burnt orange limestone. I was the only woman in the group – just me and a few Omani adventurers I’d found on Instagram. They were cheerful at first, helping me check my harness, asking about my prosthesis. But once the hike began, the talking stopped. The terrain demanded it. The rock was brittle, flaking underfoot, always a little unsure. We scrambled over boulders, edged along loose ridges with open air on one side.
By the time we reached the via ferrata – a climbing route fixed with cables and metal rungs – my muscles were already aching. We clipped in. The cable was cold, smooth, unsentimental. I moved with care: right foot, then a pivot of my hip to swing the prosthetic into place. It doesn’t follow like a real leg would. Every step is deliberate. But when the risk is real – when you’re high up and focused – there’s no space for resentment. That’s when I realised I hadn’t thought about it in an hour. I wasn’t calculating how much longer I could keep going. I wasn’t wondering if people would judge me if I stopped. I was just climbing, like everyone else.
The guys were ahead, their movements fluid and sure. I kept my distance. I didn’t want to slow them down. But one of them turned briefly and grinned. “You good?” he called. I nodded. “All good.” He didn’t offer help or ask if I needed anything – he just kept climbing. And that was the respect I hadn’t known I needed.
When I pulled myself over the final rung, arms trembling, sun overhead, the view struck like a wave: mountains stretched like ripples in a bedsheet, the sky washed pale, the wind shearing across the ridge. The others were already there, drinking water, laughing. And in that moment, I felt it – not pride, not victory, but permission to be there. To take up space. To be exactly who I was, without apology or explanation.
