Let me begin with a truth that rarely makes it into policy discussions or public conversations:
I have a disability because I had my right arm amputated several years ago.

That fact alone affects how I move through the world. It influences how people perceive me. It impacts how I’m treated in both obvious and subtle ways. But I’m not writing this as a professional advocate, a policy analyst, or someone who studied disability in college. I’m writing this because I live it. Every day. This is not a conversation about theory. It’s about reality.

Living with disability is not a footnote in my story—it’s a central part of how I navigate this world. And I’m here to say, with absolute clarity: the way we talk about disability needs to change. The way we design policies around it also needs to change. Additionally, the way we interact with disabled people needs to change. Not someday—now.

Not a Tragedy, Not an Inspiration—Just Human

When most people think of disability, their minds leap to extremes. They picture someone completely dependent, in need of pity and charity. Alternatively, they imagine someone “overcoming” impossible odds. This person is considered worthy of admiration simply for surviving.

Both of these extremes dehumanize us.

I don’t need to be your inspiration. I also don’t need your pity. What I—and millions of others—need is something far more ordinary. We need dignity, access, and respect. We also need the freedom to live without having to constantly justify our existence.

Living with a disability is not inherently sad or heroic. It’s life. A different life, yes. A challenging life, sometimes. But also a life filled with joy, humor, creativity, intimacy, community, and growth. It is not something to be overcome. It is something to be lived—and lived fully.

The Real Barrier Isn’t the Disability—It’s the World Around Us

People tend to focus on the physical or cognitive aspects of disability. They see the wheelchair, the prosthetic limb, the service dog, or the hearing aid and assume that’s the disability. But more often, the real disability is in the environment around us.

It’s the stairs without a ramp.
It’s the employer who won’t accommodate.
It’s the policy written without disabled people at the table.
It’s the assumption that we are less productive, less capable, or less worthy.

This way of thinking—that the problem lies within the person—is rooted in what’s known as the medical model of disability. The medical model treats disability as something broken, something to be cured, minimized, or hidden. It centers the idea that if someone just tried harder, or had better healthcare, or pushed through, they’d be fine.

But many disabled people, myself included, prefer the social model of disability. This model recognizes that impairments are real. However, the true disabling factors are the societal barriers that restrict access, participation, and autonomy. We are not disabled only by our bodies. We are disabled by the systems that refuse to adapt to difference.

One in Four—and Counting

Disability isn’t rare. In the United States, one in four adults lives with a disability. That’s over 60 million people. And yet, we’re often treated as if we’re exceptions—outliers rather than a central part of the human population.

Anyone—anyone—can become disabled at any time. Through age, illness, trauma, accident, mental health crises, war, or simply the natural changes that come with time. Disability is a normal part of the human condition. The sooner we accept that, the sooner we can start designing a world that works for all of us.

I wasn’t born disabled. I became disabled later in life. And let me tell you, the world shifted the moment it happened. Not just because of what changed in my body—but because of how the world suddenly saw me. Or didn’t.

People stared. People avoided. People made assumptions. They offered unsolicited help or infantilized me. Others ignored me altogether. My competence was questioned in ways that never happened before. But my intelligence, my values, and my voice didn’t change when I lost my arm. The only thing that changed was how society chose to treat me.

Words Matter—So Let’s Use Better Ones

Language is powerful. The way we talk about disability affects how we treat people. It influences how we write policies. It also impacts how we build our communities. Too often, the language surrounding disability is outdated, offensive, or just plain wrong.

Let’s move away from terms like “handicapped,” “confined to a wheelchair,” or “suffers from.” These phrases center the disability as a negative experience, stripping people of agency and dignity. Instead, use language that respects the person and their chosen identity.

Some prefer “person with a disability.” Others embrace “disabled person” as a source of pride. Some identify as Deaf, neurodivergent, or chronically ill. There is no one-size-fits-all solution—but there is a responsibility to respect how people describe themselves.

And above all, we need to stop using disability as a metaphor for failure, weakness, or inferiority. “That idea is lame.” “He’s blind to the truth.” “She has a crippled budget.” These expressions embed ableism into everyday speech. And they matter more than we often realize.

What Policymakers Must Understand

To policymakers, I say this: disability is not just a health issue—it is a civil rights issue.

Every law, every budget, every building code, every public service must account for the fact that disabled people exist. They should not be considered an afterthought or a “special needs” group. They are full and equal citizens with the right to access everything society has to offer.

Access to education, transportation, healthcare, employment, and housing are not luxuries—they are fundamental rights. Even now, decades after the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) was passed, disabled people still experience discrimination. They still face exclusion and structural neglect.

Policy decisions that do not include disabled voices at the table are inherently incomplete. If you’re writing laws about access, equity, healthcare, employment, or education, you must actively involve disabled people in the process. Otherwise, you’re not doing your job. Period.

Investing in accessibility isn’t just the right thing to do—it improves outcomes for everyone. Sidewalk ramps help parents with strollers. Captioned videos help people learning English. Flexible work options benefit caregivers and chronically ill people alike. Universal design is inclusive design.

From Tragedy to Transformation

Becoming disabled didn’t destroy my life. But it did destroy the illusion that the world is designed for everyone.

It taught me to navigate the physical loss of a limb. It also taught me to manage the emotional labor of existing in a world that sees me as “less than.” It taught me to speak up—for myself, and for others. It taught me that shame often originates from external sources. Healing begins when we identify the injustice. Then, we work towards building something better.

I’ve had to find new ways to do old things. I’ve had to ask for help in spaces that weren’t made with me in mind. I’ve had to confront ignorance with patience and bias with truth. And I’ve had to fight—not to be included in extraordinary moments, but to be seen in the ordinary ones.

Disability didn’t take away my power. It gave me new kinds of strength.

The Joy and Resistance of Disabled Life

One of the greatest myths about disability is that it’s joyless. That we’re always struggling, always in pain, always waiting to be “healed.”

But joy is a form of resistance. And disabled joy is real.

It’s in the community we build with each other. It’s in the creativity we use to adapt. It’s in the laughter we share. It’s in the relationships we form. It’s in the pride we feel when we see ourselves represented—finally, fully, honestly.

Disability doesn’t mean we’re broken. It means we’ve had to become fluent in resilience, fluent in adaptation, fluent in hope.

So, What Now?

If you’re a general reader, I ask you to challenge your assumptions. Learn from disabled voices. Don’t assume you know what someone can or can’t do. Don’t make us prove our worth. Just believe us when we tell you what we need.

If you’re a policymaker, I urge you to go beyond compliance. Make inclusion your baseline, not your bonus. Involve disabled people at every stage. Fund our needs. Protect our rights. And honor our expertise—not in spite of our disability, but because of the wisdom it brings.

If you’re anyone with influence over how a space is designed, how a service is delivered, or how a story is told:
Remember that disability is not rare. It’s part of being human. And when you center lived experience, everyone benefits.

Final Thoughts

Disability isn’t a deviation from the norm. It’s a part of humanity’s natural diversity.

When I lost my arm, I didn’t lose my dignity. But I did learn how fragile that dignity becomes when people view you only through the lens of what’s “missing.” That’s why we must reframe disability—not as limitation, but as variation. Not as loss, but as lived reality.

My story is one of many. But it’s mine. And I offer it not for sympathy, but for clarity.

Because lived experience matters.
Because disabled lives are full lives.
Because dignity doesn’t require explanation.
And because we all deserve to live in a world built for all of us!!