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Note: The following is an excerpt and refresh of a chapter from my book, “Confessions From Disability Limbo.” It is a raw, crude, and honest look at disability life. With Valentine’s Day just a few days away, everyone is talking about romance and intimacy. But today, I want to talk about a different kind of “getting naked”—the kind that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being human.I have a problem. I know some will find this controversial. I’m half-expecting an email from a legislative office removing me from my committees, and I’m fairly certain my mother and grandmother are already lining up to scold me. But I beg your indulgence. This is advocacy in its purest, most unfiltered form.I have to ask: Are you comfortable being naked

A few years ago, I was on respite with my twin brother. The staff had undressed me and placed me on the bed when my brother suddenly had an urgent need for the restroom. The staff rushed to help him, leaving me like Adam in Paradise before he discovered the fig leaf.Did I panic? No. I rolled over, grabbed my phone, and started blasting music. A few minutes later, the staff walked back in to find me in my own little world, air-drumming with everything I had to the epic solo in Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight.”

It was a ridiculous moment, but it highlighted a strange reality of my life: While I am often uncomfortable with my body, I have become incredibly comfortable being naked around strangers.I am a 38-year-old male, roughly 130pounds, exactly five feet tall, with hair everywhere but my head and a collection of scars from past surgeries that tell the story of my survival. I won’t be on the cover of GQ anytime soon.

For me, being naked isn’t about romance; it’s about maintenance. Most people only show their bodies to those they love and trust. For those of us with disabilities, our bodies are often “public property.” We are poked, prodded, lifted, and cleaned by people we barely know. We have to trust a stranger to handle our most private needs with dignity.I am one of the lucky ones. For many in our history, being naked wasn’t a moment of Phil Collins air-drumming; it was a tool of torture. In the old institutions, cold showers were used for behavioral control. Vulnerability was met with violation.

Even today, I think about the non-verbal members of our community. How do you communicate that the water is too hot? How do you maintain your soul when your body is being handled like a piece of equipment? This happens every single day.A Valentine’s Challenge: Get RealAs Valentine’s Day approaches, we are bombarded with images of “perfect” bodies. We are told that intimacy is about performance. I want to challenge that.True intimacy is the ability to be seen—fully seen—without a mask. I have a challenge for every person reading this, whether you are able-bodied or disabled:Talk to someone you love while you are nude. I don’t mean sex. I don’t mean it as a joke. I mean sit in that vulnerability and have a real, personal conversation about your life, your fears, or your dreams.

The Rules:No “Post-Sex” Cheating: Don’t do it when the oxytocin is flowing and everything feels perfect.No Attention Seeking: This isn’t a “look at me” moment.No Distractions: Don’t ask, “Does this mole look weird?” Keep it real.The most important conversations of my life have happened in these moments of total exposure. When you take away the clothes, the suits, and the “Advocate Kevin” persona, all that is left is the man.I share these experiences because society often forgets that people with disabilities are people first. We deserve dignity in our vulnerability and respect in our nakedness.Thank you to anyone brave enough to try this. Happy Valentine’s Day.Keep on rolling. Keep on living.

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