Helping Kids With Overcoming Adversity — Because I’ve Been That Kid

My mother once told me that when I was an infant, I rolled rather than crawled.

That may sound like a small detail, but it says everything about who I was—even before I had words.

You see, I was born with a limb difference. My right arm was bent at the elbow, and my right hand didn’t fully develop.

Crawling, the way most babies move around, wasn’t exactly an option for me. But that didn’t stop me from getting where I wanted to go. I had to get to where I was going quickly, so instead, I figured out how to roll.

Think back to when you were a child — bend your arm at the elbow and imagine trying to get from one place to another. How would you have done it? How would you have tied your shoes? Pulled up your pants?

Those were just daily realities for me, not challenges. I didn’t question them — I simply figured them out. For me, rolling wasn’t unusual—it was just how I moved. But to my parents, it was their first glimpse of the determination that would define the rest of my life and that I would always find a way to overcome adversity.

That moment became my earliest example of resilience. I didn’t sit there frustrated, wondering why me? or how am I supposed to crawl like everyone else? I simply found a way. I didn’t know the word adaptation, but I was already doing it.

At the age of three, I had surgery to straighten my right arm. And from then on, I just… did things. There was no instruction manual. I didn’t have to learn to “cope.” I lived. I played. I explored.

People often ask me how I manage everyday tasks:

“How do you ride a motorcycle without a prosthetic or adaptor?”

“How do you steer with one hand?”

“How do you carry things with your right arm?”

"How did you play hockey with one hand?"

My answer is simple: I never really thought about how—I just did it.

When I was growing up, I didn’t see myself as different. I wasn’t comparing myself to anyone else—I was just me. I wasn’t focused on what I didn’t have, only on what I could do. And honestly, I still don’t see myself as different today.

It does, however, bother me when people assume that I might be unable to do something simply because of my limb difference—because I’ve spent my whole life doing exactly that: everything people thought I couldn’t.

When I was a kid, I’d hear things like, “You can’t catch.” Sometimes it came from classmates, but other times, it came from adults who should have known better — even my elementary school gym teacher once agreed that I couldn’t. That opinion didn’t sit well with my dad. After a quick visit from him, I was never excluded from that activity — or any others — again.

But as I got older, I realized that not every situation had someone there to step in for me. School could be tough — especially in those moments when a careless comment or a snicker about what I could or couldn’t do hit deeper than I let on.

Those were the times I felt most vulnerable. No parents around to protect me — just me, my emotions, and my determination not to let the words of others define me. I’d get angry inside when someone made a quip about my abilities, but over time, that anger became fuel. It pushed me to keep proving, mostly to myself, that I could.

Maybe that’s why, today, I’m so passionate about sharing my story — especially with school-aged kids. I know exactly what it feels like to be judged, underestimated, or left out. If even one child can hear my story and walk away thinking, “If she can do it, maybe I can too,” then every uncomfortable moment I lived through will have been worth it.

And over the years, people have often asked me, “Have you heard of Jim Abbott?”—the baseball pitcher who was born without a right hand and played 11 seasons in Major League Baseball, even throwing a no-hitter. Of course I’ve heard of him! But here’s the funny thing: Jim developed a unique way to field his position by switching his glove from his throwing arm to his other arm in one motion. I was using that same technique before he was born.

When I see people so surprised by his success, I sometimes get upset by their shock. In my head, I’m saying, “Big deal!” Because this is exactly why I’ve always felt the need to excel at whatever I choose to do. If I don’t succeed, I get the “It’s okay because you have one hand.”

So?

No, it’s not okay.

If I make a mistake or don’t enjoy something, it has nothing to do with my limb difference—it’s just me.

For example, I don’t like riding my motorcycle on gravel or switchbacks. It’s not because I can’t handle it—it’s because I simply don’t enjoy it. But when people say, “That’s okay, because you only have one hand,” I bristle. No! That’s not the reason. I can do it. I just prefer not to. Others might feel the same way, but when I make that choice, my limb difference somehow becomes the explanation.

That’s the part that gets to me. Because I’ve never defined myself by what’s missing—only by what’s possible.

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Learning How the World Sees You - Overcoming Adversity

I remember going to an employment agency and being told I needed to take a typing test. The woman behind the desk looked down at my right arm, then back up at me.

“Can you type?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” I said, smiling.

Her eyes said otherwise.

A few minutes later, I sat at the keyboard and got to work. I typed fast—because that’s what I’d always done. I’d learned to use my left hand efficiently, and my right arm helped with balance and positioning. When the test ended, she looked at the results, then looked at me like she’d just witnessed a magic trick.

My words per minute were higher than most people with two hands.

That moment taught me something that’s stayed with me ever since: people’s expectations of you often have nothing to do with your actual ability.

The world sees disability. I see possibility.

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Strength Is a Muscle You Build

I’ve often been asked if I feel “strong.” But I don’t think strength is something you feel—it’s something you build.

You build it every time you figure something out instead of giving up. You build it every time you decide to laugh instead of cry, every time you move forward, even if your version of “forward” looks a little different from everyone else’s.

That’s why I say strength isn’t born—it’s built.

It’s built when a baby learns to roll because crawling isn’t an option. It’s built when you show up to a job interview and prove that your capability can’t be measured by what’s missing. It’s built when you decide that you’re going to ride a motorcycle—even if the world can’t quite picture how you’ll do it.

For me, that motorcycle has become a symbol of everything I’ve learned about resilience. I ride with one hand not because I want to prove something, but because it feels like freedom. The wind doesn’t care about differences—it just carries you forward.

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Resilience Is Quiet

The funny thing about resilience is that it rarely feels heroic in the moment. It feels normal.

You don’t wake up thinking, “I’m going to be resilient today.” You just wake up and do what needs to be done. You adapt, you adjust, you keep rolling.

But over time, those small moments—the quiet choices—build a kind of strength that no workout or motivational poster can teach.

Resilience isn’t loud. It’s lived.

And when people ask how I’ve accomplished the things I have, I smile. Because the truth is, I’ve never really had a choice but to move forward. Rolling, riding, or laughing my way through—whatever it takes.

Born different. Built strong. And still rolling forward—just with a few more horsepower these days. 😉

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Your Turn

Have you ever felt underestimated—or had someone assume you couldn’t do something?

How did you handle it?

I’d love to hear your story in the comments below.

And if my story resonates with you, don’t miss what’s next — subscribe to my newsletter on my HOME page so you never miss a new post about resilience, humour, and living life full throttle.

Looking for an Inspirational Humorist?

If your organization, club, school or conference is looking for a speaker who combines laughter, resilience, and real-life grit, I’d love to bring my stories to your stage. I speak about overcoming obstacles, thriving with a limb difference, navigating life after cancer, and finding the humour that keeps us all moving forward.

Let’s inspire some laughter — and a little perspective — together.

Born different, built strong — see you on the next turn.

ang

About the Author

Angie Sandow is an Inspirational Humourist, Author, and Speaker who proves that age and difference don’t define us — they empower us. Born with a limb difference and a breast cancer survivor, Angie rides a motorcycle with one hand, plays guitar with a prosthetic, and shares her story to inspire others to laugh, live fully, and embrace every “first” at any age.

👉 Learn more or book Angie to speak at your next event: BOOKING