We live in a society built on image and standardization, yet increasingly multicultural and multiethnic. In this context, achondroplasia—which I call a condition rather than a disease—can and must become an opportunity for each of us to contribute something meaningful. We must never stop fighting to dismantle every barrier, not only the architectural ones.
We must eliminate all the obstacles that prevent access to the basic tools of daily life: public telephones, intercoms, buses and trains, elevator buttons, ATMs. Nearly everything is designed without us in mind.
But above all, we must confront the social and cultural barriers that still exist in so many places. I didn't face particular difficulties in my own integration—especially in school—probably because growing up in a small town made acceptance easier. Yet the real tragedy often lies in fitting into a society built on preconceived images.
I was born into a family that let me accept my short stature with peace of mind.
Exceptional parents. A good relationship with my older brother. From age ten onward, a series of events led my parents to ease my path toward independence. By fourteen, when I should have been grappling with the bodily changes of adolescence, I had to navigate something different. I needed to feel independent and mature even as my height stayed the same, while the sexual characteristics of adulthood emerged around me.
It wasn't deeply traumatic to realize I was physically different from others. There was a period when people's curiosity—especially children's—created problems. But the calm my parents had given me helped me accept the situation.
Between fourteen and sixteen, I saw how much the emotional bond with my parents had shaped me. Two people who loved each other so deeply they enriched both my life and my brother's.
How much have others influenced my choices since then? I've always felt very autonomous in deciding, though I've always talked things through. My parents were deeply optimistic—and that matters, because in our society, people with disabilities face real obstacles to their fundamental rights. For me, their presence was the guarantee I needed to face each day.
I learned that people responded to me with warmth and willingness. My relationships were positive.
In my career, choosing pediatrics was the right call. Until medical school, I'd thought I'd work with adults. But during my rotation in pediatrics, something became clear: my presence in the ward had an unexpected effect on the children.
Children are drawn to me, curious about how I look and my height. This condition has let me talk with the families of my young patients with a sensitivity many of my colleagues lack. They often don't realize that when you tell a family about a diagnosis, you're telling them about an entire life. Today, my professional and social work push me toward one goal for families and children with achondroplasia: not to protect them, not to try to make them tall, but to help them gain the independence that guarantees a good quality of life.
My body has given me an experience in which I am the protagonist. It has brought me to a place where I can serve others—socially, psychologically, ethically.
Salvatore Anastasi, 2007
Board Member, AISAC
For more information AISAC Association for Information and Study of Achondroplasia The association addresses issues related to short stature. It was founded in 1987 by a group of parents who, after difficult searches and painful personal journeys, created an organization that serves as an invaluable reference for people of limited stature and their families.