Ableism filled my twenties with heartbreak - and so much love

Hello,

This is the last thing I will write this year and, somewhat incredibly, the last thing I will write while in my 20s. It’s hard when big birthdays coincide with Christmas and New Year not to feel a little reflective. And the truth is, birthdays can be difficult for everyone, but particularly for disabled people. No matter how cheerful one may be, no matter how much fun your celebrations are (and this year’s have been a lot of fun), they serve as a reminder that life hasn’t gone how you hoped and that, success notwithstanding, you are nowhere near where you wanted to be.

I’m looking forward to my birthday, but I’m also feeling a bit sad. My 20s have involved some incredible highs (more on this further down the page), but also what feels like more than my fair share of heartbreak. I don’t mean romantic or even platonic heartbreak (although there’s of course been some of that!) but the heartbreak that comes from living with ableism. Some instances of this heartbreak are almost routine, but some of them really shatter the life you thought you were living, and there are still moments from my early and mid-twenties that I’m not sure I’ll ever fully recover from. Because of the weird nature of my life and brain, many of these moments are public knowledge, which comes with its own benefits and challenges, but others are held much more closely, too painful to share but shaping my life in profound and fundamental ways. I am, by nature, an optimistic person, but it is hard not to look back at my twenties and wish things had been a little easier along the way.

Of course, nowhere is that more true than when it comes to dating and relationships. You all know the story by now, so suffice to say that turning 30 is pouring some salt into old wounds. I wish, desperately, that I didn’t care, but it turns out that you can’t just decide not to be sad about something (outrageous, I know). Turning 30 and never having had a relationship, and knowing that that is at least in part because of ableism, is pretty shit. There is very little point pretending otherwise, especially as nothing changes if you don’t name the problem. I don’t really know what I’m trying to say here except this particular aspect of ableism doesn’t get any easier to deal with, and I hate how much it has shaped the past decade. I wonder what my 20s would have looked and felt like without it.

And yet, I resist that impulse. Because as painful and heavy as ableism has been and continues to be, it has led me to the things I am most deeply grateful for. You can’t have one without the other. Most obviously, (anti-)ableism is the basis of a career I genuinely love. My proudest moment of the decade was publishing a book all about how ableism affects disabled women, but many other highlights have come from covering ableism in the national press, writing about it on social media, being interviewed about it on the telly, and talking about it at events around the country. Sure, sometimes (ok, lots of the time) I wish none of it was necessary, but I know how immensely lucky I am to do this job on my own terms and find meaning and purpose in it (almost) every day.

Dressed up for a 30th to remember

But anti-ableism isn’t just a job, it’s a way of life, and it really has brought me so much that is good and joyful. For all the ways ableism has robbed me of romantic love, anti-ableism and disability itself have bought me the three great loves of my life: writing, community, and my friends. I really do mean that, and it is something I am so grateful for.

When I turned 20, I had already discovered writing, but I hadn’t really learned that writing about ableism could bring so much to my life, including a sort of radical honesty that I really cherish. In turn, I think that radical honestly has made my friendships so much better. By the time I was 20, I had begun, just, to make friends at uni, but I have to confess that I wasn’t convinced any of them would stick around, or that I was ever going to make any more friends as I got older (how incredibly wrong I was). I was also unknowingly weakening those friendships by refusing to talk about disability. We all had to learn to talk about it, how to acknowledge ableism and the role it was playing in all our lives. But doing so opened up new worlds for me. The uni lot are still some of my very favourite people, and I am so glad we have shared our 20s just as we shared our late teens, but they have been joined by countless others - from work, from events, from all over - who now make up a group of pals beyond my 20-year-old self’s wildest dreams.

And of course there are my girls. I write about them often because they are such a huge part of my life, these women who not only care for me but are my - and each others’ - fiercest cheerleaders and most loyal friends. These relationships are forged in the fires of ableism and they are stronger and deeper and richer for it. I love them all beyond words.

And then, there is community. I can scarcely believe that a decade ago I barely knew what community meant, let alone the huge part it would come to play in my life. Community has taught me solidarity, companionship, resistance, acceptance, joy. Pride. Community has patched me up and dried my tears over and over again. Community has given me a place and a purpose. And in ways I can’t quite articulate, I’m pretty sure the disability community somehow led me to the queer one. Without the pain of ableism I don't know that I would ever have found the joy of community, or of being fully and completely myself. Isn't that funny? Because ableism is shit but you lot, these communities? You lot are pure magic.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this. Ableism has filled my twenties with heartbreak and it has also filled them with love. There are so many things I wish were or had been or could be different, and so many things that I thank my lucky stars for. It’s all real, it’s all true, it all matters. And whatever my thirties bring, that’s a lesson I’ll always be able to hold on to.

Merry Christmas, friends, and a happy New Year. With love,
Lucy

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Last minute Christmas shopping?

There is no better gift than a good book with a gorgeous cover.

So if you’re looking for the perfect present for the activist in your life, or just want to reward yourself for finally finishing all that wrapping, why not nab a copy of The View From Down Here?

(Or send the link to Santa…)