For many years now, when meeting people for the first time, I often use my walking sticks as my unique identifier, something that makes me stand out in a crowd.
"Look for the short woman with two leopard-print sticks," I tell them.
I'm 45 and I have cerebral palsy that affects both my legs and my right arm.
I live independently and work full time.
But 15 months ago I had a fall in my kitchen.
This isn't unusual, but this time I badly injured my left shoulder and the independent life I had built came tumbling down.
My shoulder proved critical in everything I did. Using it risked further injury but I could not function without it.
My ability to perform even the simplest of tasks was limited. I was unable to use a computer, walk effectively or shower on my own.
It highlighted my reliance on my arms to keep me mobile and really knocked my confidence.
Everyday things I had been managing well suddenly became risky and I became anxious.
To assist with my rehabilitation, I was referred to exercise physiologist Joel Latham, who not only worked towards my recovery but set my sights even higher.
He challenged me to imagine a life without my pair of walking sticks.
When you get diagnosed with a lifelong condition people like to tell you that you can't do things.
I was told I wouldn't ever sit up independently. I wouldn't be able to dress or feed myself. I would never stand or walk independently. I would not go to school. I would not keep up with my peer group. I would never ever be able to live independently; or drive a car; or go into further education; or hold down a job.
By the time I hit the age of 18 I had achieved every one of those goals.
Sticks have been faithful companions
One thing I had never considered was that I could walk without my sticks.
Joel challenged that.
"I'm going to kind of push my clients and I think it's really good to have a goal, a quite ambitious goal to work towards," he said.
My goal was to be able to walk with one stick while carrying a hot drink, but he said if I could do that, I probably had the stability to walk without sticks at all.
It is important to understand what my sticks mean to me.
They are not some symbol of my disability.
They are the tool of my freedom.
They are an integral part of me. They have been critical to achieving the milestones in my life.
They have literally lifted me up and carried me forward for 43 years.
So, the thought of giving them up is complicated.
As excited as I am by the prospect of walking without them, it can feel like a divorce. It might be hard to understand but I feel like I am being disloyal.
They have been my faithful companions and have never let me down.
So this treatment is a big undertaking; it is emotional, and it requires trust.
'When the magic happens'
I need to trust Joel like I trust my sticks.
"Once a client is trusting the therapist, I think that's when the magic happens," he said to me.
Every session with Joel begins by letting go of my sticks and I do not pick them up again until the end of the appointment. I believe they call this "jumping in the deep end".
This is ironic because when Joel asks me to jump, I have to ask … how?
While I had learnt to become mobile as a child, I had never actually learnt the mechanics of something as simple as taking a step.
"Walking, whilst that can seem like such a simple thing, there's so many different things that go into walking and that contribute to someone's ability to stand independently and balance, and then to actually take steps," he explained.
Much of the therapy consists of teaching my body and my brain correct posture and movements as well as conditioning muscles that have never been used as designed.
"The pathways that would generally develop during your childhood and as an infant, your body wouldn't have picked up the usual patterns that our bodies go through as we develop," he said.
I am not just learning the mechanics of movement but to execute these movements.
I must stand taller. I must recalibrate my balance and centre of gravity over a narrower stance.
With my sticks I can make a wide stable base but standing free requires me to make constant micro adjustments to maintain my new unfamiliar body position.
And I must learn to make these unconsciously. This is something most people learn as a toddler.
Changing perceptions
Joel pushes me to, and beyond, what I think are my limits.
My physio sessions leave me exhausted and emotionally drained.
When I think "I can't", Joel reminds me of how far I have already come.
"You're really progressing toward those goals and knocking down barriers along the way," he tells me.
And he says he is willing to keep on pushing me.
"I think that anything's possible," Joel says.
"There's no reason why you can't keep improving at whatever age you are.
"You might not ever get to someone that doesn't have CP, but we can definitely work to get you closer and closer.
"It might seem really slow at times, we are just going to keep progressing. And then we'll look back and we'll see how far we've come."
To be honest, I have already exceeded where I thought I could get to but my body is far in advance of where I am mentally and emotionally.
Joel understands that my progress depends on changing the perceptions I have held for my entire life. And this is no easy thing.
It frightens me. And while my body is capable, it still fights me.
To have someone who knows what to do with my body is one thing; to have someone who can understand my mental battle and coach me through this process is invaluable.
Profound change
My trusty sticks watch on from the corner.
"If I'm mean," Joel said, laughing, "it's for a good reason — because I care and want to work towards those goals."
This treatment is not over. I still walk on sticks, yet the change in my daily life has been profound.
I walk straighter and taller. My sticks are increasingly used for balance more than support.
The most important thing of all is that I'm safer.
Holly Lane is a freelance reporter. She produced this story for ABC Radio Perth for last week's International Day of People with Disability with assistance from James Corker.
