✊ Introduction
There’s a strange tension that happens when I say it aloud:
“I’m disabled.”
Sometimes it’s followed by silence.
Other times, I get that head tilt — the kind that’s equal parts pity and awkwardness.
And occasionally, someone will leap to correct me:
“Oh no, don’t say that. You’re not disabled, you’re just differently-abled!”
“You’re so inspiring!”
“You have special needs, that’s all.”
The message underneath all of these reactions?
That “disabled” is a bad word. Something to be softened, hidden, replaced.
But here’s the truth I’ve come to stand in, fully and proudly:
I am disabled. And that’s not a dirty word.
🚫 Where Did the Shame Come From?
The discomfort with the word “disabled” doesn’t come from disabled people — it comes from a society that’s uncomfortable with disability itself.
Historically, disability has been framed as:
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A tragedy
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A punishment
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A burden
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A defect
We’ve been institutionalized, excluded, pitied, and ignored.
And so, over time, even the language used to describe us has been softened into euphemisms that center non-disabled comfort instead of disabled truth.
“Handicapped.”
“Special.”
“Differently-abled.”
“Challenged.”
“Handi-capable.”
Even “inspirational” becomes a shield to avoid talking about real accessibility or injustice.
🧠 Why Euphemisms Aren’t Harmless
At first glance, words like “differently-abled” sound positive. They emphasize ability over limitation. That’s good, right?
But here’s what’s really happening:
1. Euphemisms erase the reality of disability.
By avoiding the word “disabled,” we avoid talking about the discrimination, inaccessibility, and barriers that come with it. You can’t fight what you won’t name.
2. They place the burden on the disabled person to be palatable.
We’re expected to reframe ourselves in a way that doesn’t make others uncomfortable. That’s not empowerment — it’s silencing.
3. They often come from a place of ableism, even if unintentional.
By implying “disabled” is negative, euphemisms reinforce the idea that disability is something shameful — something to fix, pity, or gloss over.
💡 “Disabled” Is Not a Slur — It’s a Statement of Reality
I’m not ashamed of being disabled. I’m frustrated by the inaccessibility I face.
I’m exhausted by the assumptions and lack of accommodations.
But being disabled? That’s not a flaw. It’s a part of who I am.
Disability is a natural part of the human experience.
It’s diverse, dynamic, and intersects with every gender, race, nationality, and age group.
Using the word “disabled” allows me to:
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Acknowledge the structural barriers I face
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Join in global activism for rights and accessibility
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Embrace my identity with pride, not shame
🌍 Disability Is a Community — Not Just a Diagnosis
When I say “I’m disabled,” I’m not just talking about my personal body or mind.
I’m aligning myself with a global population of over 1.3 billion people — the largest minority in the world.
That includes people with:
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Visible physical disabilities
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Chronic illnesses and pain
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Neurodivergent identities
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Cognitive disabilities
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Sensory disabilities
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Mental health conditions
Being disabled connects me to a shared struggle — and a shared power.
We’re not alone. And we’re not invisible.
🔄 Reclaiming the Word “Disabled” Is an Act of Resistance
We live in a world where ramps are still optional.
Where closed captions are inconsistent.
Where hiring discrimination is rampant, and representation in media is tokenistic at best.
So yes — reclaiming the word “disabled” is radical.
It says: I see the barriers you built. I name the systems that exclude me. And I demand change.
It pushes back against the idea that disability is just an individual problem to be solved through grit or positivity.
No — the problem is ableism.
✍️ My Own Journey with the Word
For years, I avoided calling myself disabled.
I used terms like:
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“Struggling with health stuff”
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“Chronically ill, but managing”
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“Just going through a phase”
I thought using the word “disabled” meant giving up.
That it would define me in a way I didn’t want.
But what I didn’t realize was this:
Not naming my disability didn’t make it disappear — it just made me feel more alone.
When I started using the word out loud — in my writing, in conversation, online — everything shifted.
I found community. I found clarity. I found strength.
Calling myself disabled wasn’t giving up. It was showing up.
🧱 What Happens When We Embrace the Word?
Something beautiful.
We stop fighting to “overcome” our disabilities and start fighting to overcome the barriers society places in front of us.
We stop chasing “normal” and start building spaces where all bodies and minds are welcomed as they are.
We stop shrinking ourselves to fit other people’s comfort — and start expanding the definition of inclusion.
🛠 So What Should Allies Say?
If you’re not disabled, here’s how you can help:
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Respect the language disabled people use for themselves. If someone says they’re disabled, don’t correct them.
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Don’t use euphemisms unless someone specifically asks for them.
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Amplify disabled voices instead of speaking for us.
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Challenge the idea that disability is inherently sad, tragic, or shameful.
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Include accessibility in your work, spaces, and thinking — always.
❤️ Disabled and Proud
To be clear, not every disabled person will choose to use the word.
Some may prefer other terms, or none at all. That’s okay. Identity is personal.
But for me — and for millions of others — “disabled” isn’t a label we hide from. It’s one we own.
We’re not less-than. We’re not inspiration porn. We’re not fragile.
We’re disabled — and we’re proud.
📣 Final Thoughts: Say It Loud
Language has power.
And when we take back the words used to silence us, we take back our power too.
So the next time someone flinches when you say “disabled” — stand firm.
Educate them if you can. Share a resource. Use your story.
Because the word “disabled” isn’t dirty. It’s dignified.
It holds truth, community, and strength.
And I’ll keep saying it — until the world listens.
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