At Mamamia, every day is International Women’s Day. But this year, we’re celebrating March 8 by sharing stories from some of Australia’s most influential women. You can find all our International Women’s Day stories on our hub page .

As a kid, the only connection I had with disability was that my parents received the handicap allowance from Social Security (two outdated terms!).

I didn’t connect with disabled people I saw, because their lives were so different to mine. I occasionally saw Paralympic athletes in the news (though they were not as prominent as they are now), and I also saw stories of disabled people as tragic and charitable objects on tabloid TV programs.

I hated sport and my parents never treated me as a burden or special. I received $5 of pocket money a week until I was 15.

There was one child in my primary school class who was disabled. They walked and spoke differently to the other children in the school, and they received support from a teacher’s aide. I didn’t receive this support, but I was teased just like this child was.

None of these representations of disability applied to me.

Even though I was born with ichthyosis — a lifelong severe rare skin condition — I didn’t identify as being disabled until I was in my mid-20s.

It was then that I realised that, despite us having different diagnoses, we experience similar barriers. Now I know this is the social model of disability: we are more disabled by physical, attitudinal and systemic barriers constructed by society than we are by our bodies.

The lack of visibility of disabled people and the poor representation certainly shaped how I saw myself.

I started readingDollyandGirlfriendmagazines in my early teens. Mum bought me my first copy when I was 13. She soon saw there was a sealed section featuring a photo of a penis in the magazine, and she banned me from reading them immediately. I sneakily read them anyway through the mobile library and in the newsagent.

"While my peers were hung up body image - focussed on thinness and acne prevention - I was working hard to fight infection and stay out of hospital." Image: Rick Guidotti.

I flicked through pages of models, with doe eyes and smooth, pale skin. They were photographed having fun, hand in hand with their boyfriends, and being active.

In between the photos of articles about how to be more desirable to boys and how to get your best skin ever, were ads for anti-dandruff shampoo.

I didn’t have to wonder if I was beautiful enough — people like me weren’t ever included. My skin was never going to be the best ever, and my scalp was scaly. How could I ever be desirable to boys?

While my peers were hung up on body image, focused on thinness and acne prevention, I was working hard to fight infection and stay out of hospital. I had to dig deep to love myself, because I didn’t feel loved by my peers or by the way magazines excluded people like me.

There’s always been a centring of parent and carer stories, often painting disabled people as 'burdens' and 'tragic', changing the direction of a parent’s life.

I’ve seen articles quoting that parents grieve over their living children, or that they wish their disabled child had cancer. I’ve also had enough of non-disabled authors writing disability as a tragedy, and non-disabled people being awarded for caring for disabled people. Carers get a whole week dedicated to celebrating them. Disabled people get a day.

Own voices are so important. We need more books written by disabled people, more disabled people on TV and making TV. We need to see more disabled people represented everywhere, and not just talking about disability. I long to write articles that aren’t about disability.

This will change the narrative and how people see us. This will take us from tragic or inspiring.

Right now I’m working with Black Inc onGrowing Up Disabled in Australia.

Over forty disabled contributors are included — some high profile people who you’ll have heard of, and many people whose story you need to know.

There are academics and policy workers, politicians and artists, and people now have survived institutionalisation and serious childhood illnesses.

I’m not biased, but it’s the book everyone needs to read.

If I could have read a book likeGrowing Up Disabled in Australiawhen I was a young person, my life would have been so different. I would have felt less alone. I would have understood the social model of disability earlier, and I would have had less shame realising my body is not the burden.

This is why I make a conscious effort to be visible; so little kids can see what’s possible for them, and so they don’t feel as excluded as I did.

I’m so pleased that the media is changing, and through social media, people can both curate their feeds to ensure they see and engage with diverse people, and also to feel part of a community.

Some of the women I love to follow on Instagram include Michelle Roger who creates her own fashion shoots ( @michelle_roger), Jeyza Gary ( @lyricallydiverse) who has ichthyosis and has just modelled for Target in the USA, Sinead Burke ( @thesineadburke) who was the first short-statured woman to feature on the cover ofVogue, Keah Brown ( @keah_maria) who started the #DisabledAndCute hashtag, Jessica Emily Quinn ( @jessicaemilyquinn) who models for Bras and Things, Melissa Blake ( @melissablake81) who continues to post selfies after trolls told her to stop, and Imogen Fox ( @the_feeding_of_the_fox) who serves up radical body politics. I also loved Mama Cax, an American model who was an amputee. She died in December. She had a powerful impact on the fashion and beauty industry, and of course, within the disability community.

There’s been a social media trend in recent years: photos of disabled children seeing photos of adults like them in advertising and represented in toys. The wonder and joy on their little faces is gorgeous. They can be what they can see.

A Barbie has just been made to depict wheelchair athlete Madison de Rozario.

These are huge changes; so different from my childhood. Disability is publicly celebrated.

Last year I was onThe Projecttalking about my memoir. A friend sent me a photo of her little boy, a boisterous four-year-old, watching TV. She told me he pointed at the screen “that’s my friend Carly. She has skin like me”.