Growing up, my biggest dream was to be, “just like everyone else,” normal, average, and indistinguishable from my peers.

Not only was that a pretty boring wish, it was also impossible. Growing up disabled, I gained my greatest sense of achievement when I was able to do something the exact same way as my able-bodied siblings, especially my older sister.

Growing up I was ashamed of my disability because I thought of it as my ultimate flaw and the cause of everything that went wrong in my life. I believed that if I could get rid of my disability, or at least convince people it didn’t matter, all my problems would be fixed, as simple as that. From the time I was 3 years old, I went to physical and occupational therapy sessions, focused, whether intentionally or not, on making me “as normal as possible”.

I was told by medical professionals, teachers, strangers, and even my own family that how I existed was wrong. I was told I held a pencil wrong, wrote my name wrong, opened a bag wrong, and ate my food wrong. I was embarrassed because no one wants to be that wrong. No one wants to spend hours a day focused on how they don’t live up to other people’s expectations.

Even when it was accepted that I would do something a different way, it was always a fight. My mom had to argue with my school that at 5 it should be okay for me to use a computer instead of focusing on handwriting. My way of being was always seen by my classmates as, “special treatment,” and my friends openly wondered why I was different.

To avoid my difference, I begged for a jump rope, along with ballet slippers, rollerblades, tap shoes, and a whole list of things I was convinced would show my friends I wasn’t really different at all, but it never worked, and I always felt disappointed when I still couldn’t do things the same way as everyone else. Instead of learning to do things my own way, I hated myself for standing out, when all I wanted to do was blend in.

As I grew, I slowly started to find my space in the world. I traded the rollerblades for a journal, and learned that I could write, and write well, but still, I felt the need to minimize my disability, and never let anyone see how much help I needed, or how differently I did basic everyday things. I clung to the idea that disability was something to be overcome and secretly believed that to be successful in life I had to learn to be just like nondisabled people, only 10 times better. I didn’t like when people would bring up my disability, and I still felt self-conscious doing things like eating in front of my friends, for fear that I would do it wrong.

Back then, the ultimate compliment was someone “forgetting I was disabled.” Back then, if my friends forgot to think about access needs because “they didn’t see me as disabled,” I felt like I succeeded. I felt like I successfully camouflaged the worst part of myself, and now people were really seeing me, and not my wheelchair, but I had never been more wrong about anything in my entire life.

As I got older and found the disability community, things began to shift. I realized that when people would forget about my disability, they were forgetting about an important part of me and the way I experience the world. I started to see that disability was nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it was a really important part of my identity and of what made me the person that I am. I realized that 

I learned accepting disability wasn’t a failure, but a victory. In owning who I am, I was able to find strength I never knew existed. In becoming unashamed of disability, I could become unashamed of myself.

I began to realize that instead of focusing on passing and overcoming, we need to re-center the problem of disability. We need to talk about changing culture and society, instead of breaking people down to fit into boxes where they don’t belong. Instead of focusing on making yourself fit into the nondisabled world, we must question why we are so uncomfortable with differences.

I began to realize that by being ashamed of disability, I was perpetuating the idea that who I was somehow less desirable, less valuable, less human than nondisabled people. I began to realize that there was nothing wrong with me and that I needed to focus on changing society, instead of myself, and stop being ashamed of my existence.

Being disabled and unashamed is a radical idea because it means flipping everything we know about disability upside down. It means saying that disability is not what keeps you from participating in life, but the unwillingness of our society to accommodate difference.

When I was younger, I used to long for the day when people would, “see past my disability.” Now, I cringe at the very thought. I cringe because I no longer wish to erase or modify myself to fit into boxes of normalcy created by nondisabled people. I cringe because I am now disabled and unashamed, and that is an ongoing fight, where none of the battles are easy to win.

I am disabled and unashamed, not because it’s easy, but because it’s the only way to survive.

Being disabled and unashamed means proclaiming that who you are is not a problem that needs to be solved or an issue to be fixed.

It means refusing to apologize for not fitting into a society that wasn’t made for you, and fighting to change society rather than changing who you are.

Being disabled and unashamed means refusing to hide who you are because your differences and identity might make other people uncomfortable, and instead, questioning their stereotypes, prejudices, and preconceived notions about disability.

Being disabled and unashamed means being unafraid everything that makes you different and finding pride, strength, and even beauty in those differences, and I am 100% here for that.

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