How I found my own disability pride

The story of a long journey - and a bonus announcement

Hello!

So far this Disability Pride Month, we’ve looked at the history of the movement, why it’s still so overlooked, and why being proud to be disabled is still a radical act. (All these pieces are free to read so please do check them out).

These pieces are designed to give you a good grounding in what DPM is all about. But I also wanted to give you a personal sense of why it means so much to disabled people that this month exists. Because this is a really important part of the story.

So let me tell you a little secret.

I, Lucy Disabled-Isn’t-A-Bad-Word Webster, used to be fairly ashamed of being disabled.

This shame didn’t appear in a vacuum. It was borne from a world in which I had no disabled friends, in which I was bullied at school, in which I was repeatedly forced by teachers and others to attempt things I knew I couldn’t do. It was borne from a world that pitied me, in which I didn’t see disabled people on TV or in magazines, in which people recoiled at the sound of my voice. It was borne from a world that underestimated me, patronised me, and then, when presented with evidence of what I could do, told me I “wasn’t like other disabled people”. And it was borne from a world in which inaccessibility was accepted and exclusion was the norm.

I hated my disabled body; to me it represented a cage of difference. I hated relying on other people, I felt like a burden every time my disability prevented (as I saw it) those around me from doing something, and I would have given anything for a magic wand to take away my cerebral palsy. The idea of being proud to be disabled would have sounded absurd (if anyone had ever mentioned it - they did not).

Time passed, and I made disabled friends. This had a profound effect on my self-esteem; it’s just harder to hate things about yourself when you don’t hate them about other people. It also, who knew, helps not to be completely alone. I became more confident, but still, disability pride remained an abstract concept.

Indeed, until only a few years ago, I viewed being disabled as I viewed exam season or trips to the dentist - something to be endured and forgotten about, the less said the better. It wasn’t that I hated my body, it was that I was fed up with care, fed up with inaccessibility and, frankly, thought I ought to be more interested in other things: a job, politics, and whether or not my friend should ask out whoever they fancied.

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Disability pride came slowly to me, like dawn breaking on a December morning. It came in understanding the social model of disability, which taught me that disabled life is made hard by society’s inaccessibility and ableism. It came in recognising disability as an identity, and claiming it for myself. And it came in spending more and more time with the community, in spaces where I never felt self-conscious, less than or alone.

It all took time, and a lot of reframing. Every time I was angry, frustrated or upset, I had to remind myself to replace “I hate being disabled” with “I hate how society treats disabled people.” Every time I rebelled against being pigeonholed, I had to remind myself that there’s nothing wrong with being seen as disabled. Every time I felt like I was failing, I had to remind myself that success looks different for everyone. And slowly, slowly, I became proud to be disabled - and proud of myself.

This is why DPM is so important. Maybe it will help a young disabled person get to this moment of pride quicker than I did, and therefore live happier lives. Maybe it’ll help non-disabled people stop making disabled people feel ashamed. It definitely helps me remember to be proud and to keep raising my voice against ableism.

One big part of learning to be proud to be disabled was learning to celebrate wins even when they might not make sense to other people. Disabled life can go at a different pace and take an unusual trajectory, but that doesn’t mean the milestones - big and small - aren’t just as important.

So, please indulge me in a list of things that give me the disability pride feels.

• Learning to rest. Sometimes. Ish

• When a disabled person tells me they felt represented by something I wrote

• This newsletter - the work I’m doing here and the slow but steady growth I’m seeing

• Learning to advocate out loud, in the moment (not just on the interwebs)

• Being in a room full of disabled people, feeling at ease, and laughing until I cry

• Interviewing other disabled people and helping them tell their stories

• How many disabled people are out there getting shit done and dismantling ableism in their spare time

• Dancing when you are supposed to hide

• No longer hating my voice and therefore being able to show up on camera

• Looking in the mirror and liking what I see

• Convincing an editor that a disability story deserves column inches, and helping them use the right language

• Saying no to struggling up steps or into inaccessible toilets

• Listening to my body and giving it what it needs

• Getting to know disabled people online and feeling part of a huge, world-wide community

• Not allowing people to patronise me

• Quitting a ‘dream job’ that wasn’t good for me to do one that is

• Never, ever doing any work for free

• How accepting and diverse the community is

• And so much else

And as we’re talking about things I’m proud of… a little announcement!

Drumroll please.

I am immensely proud to be able to say that my first book, a memoir of disabled womanhood, will be published next year by DK Books!

The View From Down Here (book version) explores how ableism and sexism intertwine and shape the lives of disabled women, and celebrates the realities of this complicated, difficult, wonderful identity. There’s no way I could have written this book if I wasn’t proud to be who I am.

Subscribe now to be kept up to date with all things book - and be among the first to access pre-orders! Dreamy.

See you soon,
Lucy

P.S. This newsletter is taking a break next week because I am (finally!) going on holiday. Normal service will resume - anti-ableism and all - later in August.