Recently, a friendship and professional relationship changed for me. It started me reflecting on disability, inclusion, and something I hadn't really considered before.
This person, like me, has suffered under institutional harm and judgement within church environments. They've experienced ableism, restrictive doctrine, and people deciding what they can and cannot do because of disability. Scripture has been used against them. Opportunities have been limited. Their gifts have been dismissed. People, like “Simon,” have mistreated them.
I've seen the eye rolls, sighs, negative facial expressions, and subtle shifts in tone. I've seen people speak to them differently and opportunities withheld. It hurts. I recognised the story. I've lived it.
For years, I championed them.
I fought for opportunities, encouraged leadership, promoted their gifts, opened doors where I could, and wanted them to thrive because I know what it feels like when everyone assumes you can't.
The difficult part is that the problem isn't always the system. Sometimes it’s this person.
That's uncomfortable to write.
Over thirty years of living with disability, spending time in disabled communities, advocating, studying theology, and talking with disabled people, I've realised there’s a huge difference between understanding a barrier and making it your identity.
Some disabled people have support needs that significantly limit autonomy. They require care, advocacy, and a strong support network. That doesn't lessen their value. My sister is one example. She lives in assisted accommodation and requires extensive support. Yet she’s full of joy, humour, and love. Her worth isn't measured by productivity or independence.
Others carry years of social, cultural, and institutional ableism. They've been told they're incapable for so long that they believe it. The world acts on them and they stop expecting anything different. If enough people tell you who you are, eventually you start believing them. You end up becoming a victim, where disability becomes your main identity.
Then there are those who turn disability into a competition. Every difficulty becomes a comparison. Every medication, symptom, diagnosis, or struggle has to be worse than everyone else’s. Conversations become disability top trumps where the goal is proving who suffers most. I find it hard. Disability becomes the centre of their identity rather than one part of a much bigger person.
Then there are people who acknowledge their limitations without allowing those limitations to define them. Disability affects their life, but it doesn't become their entire identity. They adapt, find workarounds, challenge barriers, ask for support when needed, and keep moving forward despite the reality of their situation. They thrive in each setting because they are forced by the world and themselves to do so. Despite their limits, they push on, taking more on than they should, and achieve well.
I place myself in that group.
I need care and support. I have no choice but to rely on Hannah or others. There are many things I simply cannot do. Yet, I still try, adapt, and find ways to participate, use the world around me, and maintain autonomy. Disability affects my life, but it isn't my identity.
The distinction matters.
Disability can explain a situation.
It shouldn't automatically excuse one.
Recently, this friend was given an opportunity they had wanted for years. It was a chance to lead, thrive, and demonstrate their abilities. I was genuinely excited for them. The result was good, but the journey there was difficult and, unfortunately, they let themselves down in how they acted. They will never admit that though.
Instructions were ignored. Agreed plans changed. Feedback was rejected. Mistakes were made. They acted unprofessionally. Argued. Whenever concerns were raised, responsibility landed somewhere else. A partner. Colleagues. Circumstances. Disability. Neurodivergence. Anyone and anything but them.
I hate this.
Compassion and grace matter because disability creates barriers, but that shouldn’t remove accountability.
If my ASD causes a misunderstanding, then that explains what happened. It doesn't stop me apologising. If my FSHD physically stops something, I still need to communicate that clearly. If trauma influences my reaction, I remain responsible for how I act. In all cases, I’m still an adult, accountable, able to regulate, and learn.
What made this harder was that the pattern eventually turned towards me.
Suddenly I was responsible for problems I hadn't caused. I hadn't communicated properly, understood, or supported enough. I didn't believe in them enough. Disagreements became arguments.
I realised I wasn't advocating for inclusion anymore. I was enabling behaviour. Behaviour that I didn’t agree with.
That's a difficult distinction to recognise.
Many disabled people, including me, have spent our entire lives proving ourselves. We work harder because we know people question our capabilities. We adapt, push, learn, change, and grow because we have no alternative.
When I make mistakes, I try to own them. Not because I'm perfect but because accountability matters.
Maybe that's what changed for me. I can still see the barriers, fight for their opportunities, and believe in their potential. As a leader, I want to empower those around me. I just can't carry misapplied responsibility. They need to own that themselves. Sometimes the greatest act of belief is letting people learn from their own mistakes.
No comments:
Post a Comment