Looking back to move forward

Hello,

As an activist, I am often asked who motivates me. If I’m really in work-mode, I answer by telling people about the hypothetical person who wants to do good but has never been asked to think about disability. If I’m feeling more open, I tell them about the community, about my disabled friends and the countless others like them. I tell them about the young disabled people I meet through my work, who are absolutely brilliant and deserve so much better.

I very rarely tell them about my younger self. I guess I worry it makes me sound selfish, to be doing this work for myself, even if a version of me who no longer exists except in my own mind. But the truth is I think about her often, trying to tease out what she needed most so I can get on and make it happen. So many things would have helped, but mostly I think she needed to see someone like her being outspoken, being successful, being open, being happy. It’s why, alongside ‘proper’ journalism and ‘proper’ activism, I share so many of the mundanities of my life online. I suppose it’s my way - the only way I have, really - of reaching out through time to hold her hand and tell her she’s going to be ok.

I’ve been thinking about her a lot this week, thanks to a confluence of events. Firstly, two opportunities came my way that little Luce would have been absolutely gobsmacked by. I can’t really tell you about them yet but one involved hanging out with one of my favourite people, Rosie Jones, for something very cool, and one involved being invited into a space where disabled voices (especially disabled voices like mine) are not regularly heard. And I couldn’t help thinking how remarkable it is that the same girl who once could barely speak to strangers is now making a living speaking up.

The second thing is that there’s a trend going round Instagram where people share what they’d tell their younger selves if they met them for coffee. It’s been so lovely to see my disabled friends share the lessons they’ve learned about self-love, advocacy, community, acceptance. Each post has been moving in its own way - a testament to how we have all carved out good lives for ourselves despite the obstacles society has placed in our way. Of course, I wondered what I would tell my own younger self. And it occurred to me that, of all the things I could tell her - how well writing has gone, that we live alone now, that she grows to like herself and her body in ways she cannot yet fathom - the main thing would be very simple: we have friends now; we’re not lonely. It’s so unbelievable that not only would little Luce be stunned to know it, I actually regularly have to remind my adult self of this fact: we have friends now; we’re not lonely.

And then, in my own weird version of life imitating art, I met a fantastic young disabled woman who reminded me so much of my younger self it was a little uncanny. S’s story is her own to share, so I won’t tell it here - and I suspect she’ll be telling it herself very, very soon. What I will say is that, despite all the things we have/had in common, she was so much more confident talking about disability and ableism than any of us were at 17 (or indeed 22). It was both scarily impressive and profoundly heart-warming to witness. I don’t take any personal credit for S’s brilliance, but I do think we - disability activists, writers, TV presenters, actors and so many others - have collectively created the conditions that allow young disabled people to talk so eloquently about their experiences. Hats of to them for grabbing those opportunities so firmly. The kids are, as always, alright.

Which leaves me with this thought: looking back for motivation is no bad thing, and neither is being the adult your younger self needed. I think there is beauty to be found there. But it’s only worth doing if it spurs you to do something now, if it carries you forward to make a change for the next generation and the next, and the next after that. That change is slow and painstaking and often invisible, but it is happening. Our younger selves can be proud of that.'

With love,
Lucy

---

Much more about growing up as a disabled girl in my book, The View From Down Here

Women's lives are shaped by sexism and expectations. Disabled people's lives are shaped by ableism and a complete lack of expectations. But what happens when you're subjected to both sets of rules?

This powerful, honest, hilarious and furious memoir from journalist and advocate Lucy Webster looks at life at the intersection; the struggles, the joys and the unseen realities of being a disabled woman. From navigating the worlds of education and work, dating and friendship; to managing care; contemplating motherhood; and learning to accept your body against a pervasive narrative that it is somehow broken and in need of fixing, The View From Down Here shines a light on what it really means to move through the world as a disabled woman.