'We're here. I love you'

The real life magic of community

Hello,

In light of current political and personal circumstances, I have been thinking a lot, as I always do, about community, about showing up, and, I suppose, about hope.

I have written a lot about these things in the past few months, but the same thoughts keep swirling round in my head. In particular, I’ve come back to the list I wrote a few weeks ago about how to build a community.

This is how you build a community

I love this list. And while I love writing, it’s my community building work that is really bringing me fulfilment and happiness in these bleak times. It’s the people around me who keep me going day after day, and despite everything feeling a bit crap at the moment, I am mostly filled with a deep gratitude for them all and this thing we are building.

I like to be the one providing community for other people, but the truth is that this week my community has showed up for me. And I wanted to talk a little bit about what that looks like. Because for all we talk about the things we can do to create and sustain community, this week has really reminded me that so much is achieved just by being there, by saying ‘I’m here, I understand, we are going to get through this together’.

(I must say here that my long-term friends have also been extraordinary recently. A special shout out to Rach, Marl, Al, Paul and all the girls, without whom I would surely have become a human puddle by now. I love you)

But what I find incredible about community is the ride-or-die relationships with people you (in normal friendship terms) don’t even know very well. There are people in the disability and queer communities who I would and do trust with the softest parts of myself who I have never even met and never will meet in real life. There are people I’ve met a handful of times who are some of the first people I turn to when shit hits the proverbial fan. Maybe that sounds ridiculous, but there is something about the ways these people show up for each other, express concern, share resources, and offer kindness, that sits at the heart of what I am slowly realising is the true meaning of community.

For many disabled people, including me, a lot of community stuff happens online, in Whatsapp chats and Instagram DMs, in comments and shares. Here’s what it looks like:

I’m so proud of you.

I’m sorry it’s shit.

Do you know someone who…?

Is there anything I can do?

I just need to rant.

Did you see that ridiculous thing?

Please take a day off.

Did you eat yet?

We’ll tackle it together.

Are you ok?

Send it to me, I’ll do this one for you.

I need a drink.

I’ll come to you, stay on the sofa.

What a shitshow.

No, you’re not imagining it.

You don’t have to fix this alone.

Yes, I feel the exact same way!

I’m here.

We’re here.

Here’s what it means: I love you, I love you, I love you.

The community around me is incredibly diverse, but time and time again it is the disabled women I know who hold me together. Amy, who I have known online for perhaps a decade but have met a grand total of twice, and whose campaigning wisdom I rely on so much.

Hannah Barham-Brown

who responds to every problem with a “let me talk to some people” and then actually follows through, and who I would follow quite literally anywhere.

Rebekah Taussig

, who despite being an ocean away makes me feel so much less alone in a big scary world, with her incredible words and kind messages that begin “hi, friend!”

Ali @ Seated Perspectives

, with whom I seem to be in mind-meld and who never fails to remind me that more things are good than bad. And

Ellen Jones

, who manages to be almost alarmingly sassy and stunningly kind at the exact same time, and who somehow puts up with my bullshit on an almost daily basis.

(Side note: you come for one of us, you come for all of us, and I know who I’m betting on.)

Of course, there are so many others, too many to list. I often say that community isn’t an idea, it’s a real, tangible, breathing thing. Water it and it grows. Send the message, ask for help, tell someone you love them. These things have power and, maybe, contain the closest thing I’ve ever seen to real life magic.

Speak soon,
Lucy

P.S. If you are disabled/neurodivergent and queer and looking for community, don’t forget to check out the events initiative I co-founded, Every Body Queer.

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Much more about community 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.