I felt my body tense. This topic had always seemed off-limits. Indeed, one of the most distinctive features about myself is something I avoided discussing at all costs in my comedy routine: I was born without a left hand, a condition that makes it hard to type, climb, or chop a clove of garlic. As a child, this was merely a source of frustration: It prevented me from swinging from the monkey bars or twisting my hair into a high ponytail. But in my teenage years, my hand became a source of deep insecurity. I hid behind cavernous sweatshirts, my armour against the world. When college started, I began wearing a prosthesis, which drastically changed my sense of self. I felt wildly more confident with it, as though I was able to be the person I never felt I could be. I wore sleeveless shirts, I took up space, and most significantly, I tried to forget who I was before.