Pushed Into Complicity

I’ve written about ableism for years, naming the quiet harm disabled people carry, the assumptions people make, the jokes people think are funny, and the way systems misunderstand us long before they understand our needs. I’ve written about privilege, accessibility, independence, autonomy, participation, equality and equity. Topics that need discussing. Today I’m writing about something harder. Complicity.

Disabled people learn early that speaking up comes with consequences. We’re told to be patient, grateful, calm, accommodating, to wait our turn, soften our tone, and trust that things will improve. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes the cost of naming harm and pushing what’s right becomes higher than the harm itself, affecting your life or the lives of those you love.

I’ve found myself in a situation this week that pushed this into sharp focus. I won’t name details. I don’t need to. Anyone who has lived inside a system that wasn’t built for disabled bodies or disabled minds will recognise the pattern. Something happened that shouldn’t have happened. It hurt. It unsettled me. It left me carrying emotions I didn’t want and shouldn’t have had. I waited, prayed, reflected, and hoped for repair, clarity, reconciliation, and to make sure the same thing wouldn’t happen again to me, let alone to anyone else.

Instead, it’s been reinforced that some systems don’t know how to hold disabled people when harm occurs. Sometimes they don’t know how to recognise, acknowledge, or name it. They don’t know how to fix it or safeguard us. Authority, power, and position is all that matters. When that happens, justice isn’t appropriately given, even when the attempt was made with good intentions. These systems ask us to carry the weight quietly because naming it would make the system uncomfortable. We don’t matter. The system does.

We’re ultimately told, “We won’t discuss it. Shut up. Don’t even consider mentioning it. Nod. Smile. Play along. You don’t matter here. The system is our priority. If you go against this, we will punish you.”

That’s forced complicity.

In those moments, complicity isn’t agreement, acceptance, moral silence, or support. It’s the survival instinct people develop when the cost of truth becomes too high. It’s the moment we realise that pushing for justice from the outside rarely works, and the only way to change a system is to be inside it.

It’s painful.

I’ve spent years writing about disability, theology, inclusion, and the harm caused towards disabled people. I’ve preached about it, taught workshops, held special services, fought for accessibility, named ableism openly, honestly, and without fear, and supported and advocated individuals and organisations. Yet now I find myself in a position where naming a specific harm publicly would cause more harm than it heals.

That tension is hard to carry. I feel like a hypocrite, as if I am betraying everything I believe in and undermining everything I’ve written or spoken about.

Disabled people often navigate this line. We know what injustice and ableism looks and feels like. We know when something isn’t right. We also know that sometimes the only way to create change is to stay in the room long enough to make it happen. That means choosing our battles carefully, shining a light gently instead of fighting loudly, and trusting that silence now doesn’t mean silence forever. History shows this pattern. Many disabled activists started quietly because they had no choice.

Disability rights is complex. There are multiple ways in which a disabled person can have their rights violated in different socio‑political, cultural, and legal contexts. Employment is one of the clearest examples. Employers are often unwilling to provide accessible accommodations. They find other reasons to justify not hiring us, renewing contracts, or supplying the equity an employee deserves over the forced, unacceptable, complicit actions. Ableism, complicit or implicit, sits underneath it all. Even today.

Speaking out should be the option, but that’s not easy. I was once told my voice was too quiet, against other justice movements. They have crowds, marches, and pressure that forces change quickly and prevents harm. I’m just a small dog yapping, presented as hostile and aggressive rather than a representation of harm.

I don’t want to be complicit. I hate this. It feels physically wrong. I know that being part of something makes me look complicit, but I’m not. My body and mind are screaming, shouting, and fighting. I’ll continue to do so. I won’t hide it. I’m not ashamed. This blog gets thousands of views a day, yet I still don’t have the platform needed to challenge what should be challenged. Until that day comes, I have to hold the fight inside me rather than act on it publicly. When the time is right, I won’t be complicit. I’ll be unapologetically me, hold those in the wrong accountable, and let the truth be named without hesitation.