How do I love someone when my disability makes physical intimacy complicated or painful?

Mirabai knew something about loving beyond the body's ordinary limits. She loved Krishna in ways that transcended flesh—through song, through the examined heart, through presence itself. When disability reshapes what intimacy can be, you're not losing love; you're discovering its actual dimensions. Physical touch is one language among many. There's the intimacy of being truly seen—of naming what hurts, what's possible today, what you need. There's the eroticism of attention itself: being listened to completely, being chosen anyway, being desired in your wholeness, not despite your body but including it exactly as it is. Some days intimacy might be lying together in silence. Other days it's the vulnerability of asking for help. The examined heart doesn't rush past these realities or spiritualize them away. It moves slowly through them, noticing what's actually there: the tenderness in adaptation, the deepening that happens when two people choose each other repeatedly, in the real conditions of their lives. Love and disability don't contradict each other. They're learning the same difficult language together.