I recently came across a post from A Disabled Icon on Facebook talking about internalized ableism and how many people who become disabled later in life are also trying to unpack the ableist beliefs they grew up with.
Honestly, it hit me harder than I expected.
When you grow up in an able-bodied world, surrounded mostly by able-bodied people, you absorb things without even realizing it. You learn that productivity equals worth. You learn that asking for help is weakness. You learn that pushing through pain is admirable. You learn that independence is the goal.
Then one day your body changes.
And suddenly you’re trying to survive in the exact kind of body society quietly taught you to fear becoming.
I wasn’t born disabled. I remember who I was before.
I was fiercely independent. I had big dreams. I wanted to hike mountains in other countries. I wanted an animal sanctuary. I wanted a hobby farm filled with rescued animals. When I once asked my best friend what she thought I would be like if I hadn’t become disabled, she answered without hesitation:
“A force to reckon with.”
That answer stuck with me.
Because when people ask what I miss about life before disability, it’s easy to talk about the physical things. But what I really miss are the dreams. I miss the certainty that those dreams were still ahead of me.
One of the hardest things about becoming disabled later in life is that you’re constantly comparing yourself to a version of yourself that no longer exists.
For me, internalized ableism often sounds like:
“Why can’t I do things like I used to?”
“I should be doing more.”
“I miss the old me.”
Sometimes it even sounds like blame.
I’ve spent years wondering if different choices could have changed the outcome. If I had left the farm. If I had done something differently. As if disability was somehow a personal failure instead of something that happened to me.
But internalized ableism isn’t just the thoughts we have about ourselves.
Sometimes it changes the choices we make.
A trainer once told me I would never be able to use the elliptical safely. Instead of hearing concern, I heard a challenge. I wanted to prove her wrong.
Turns out, she was right. Today I have a torn meniscus in my right knee.
For years, I avoided using walking aids because I was made to feel weak for needing them. So I didn’t use them.
I fell.
A lot.
Now both of my knees are damaged.
Looking back, I wasn’t fighting my disability.
I was fighting the shame attached to it.
That realization has been difficult to sit with.
Because the truth is, I would never judge another disabled person the way I judge myself. I would never tell someone else they’re weak for using a cane, walker, wheelchair, or other mobility aid. I would never tell them their worth depends on how productive they are.
Yet somehow, I’ve spent years applying those standards to myself.
Another thing A Disabled Icon mentioned was the concept of a disability doula. Someone who helps people navigate not only the medical side of disability, but the emotional side too. The grief. The identity shift. The adjustment. The humanity of it all.
I found that idea incredibly beautiful.
Because disability changes more than your body.
It changes how you move through the world.
How the world sees you.
And sometimes, how you see yourself.
I’m still learning.
Still unlearning.
Still figuring out how to show myself the same compassion I offer other people.
Maybe healing isn’t learning how to become the person I was before.
Maybe healing is learning how to value the person I am now.
I’ve changed. I’m different but it’s not a bad.
That is a beautiful thing.