Disability Pride: Stop Feeling Sorry for Me. I’m Busy Living.

Every July, the internet suddenly discovers disabled people. The inspirational quotes start rolling in. People tell us we’re “so brave,” or say, “I could never live like that.” While I know most of those comments are well-intentioned, they miss the point entirely.

So let’s clear something up.

I don’t need your pity. I need your respect.

I’m proud of my cerebral palsy. Not despite it. Not because I’ve somehow “overcome” it. And certainly not because it makes for an inspirational story. I’m proud of it because it is part of who I am. That statement makes some people uncomfortable, and honestly, I think that says more about society than it does about me.

We’ve been taught to believe disability is something to fix. Something to cure. Something to hide. The goal, we’re told, is to get as close to “normal” as possible. But I’ve never wanted to be normal. Normal is overrated.

If you could magically take away my cerebral palsy today, you wouldn’t just be taking away tight muscles, a wheelchair, or the way I walk. You’d be taking away my perspective, my determination, my resilience, and the woman I’ve become because of every challenge I’ve faced. You wouldn’t be fixing me—you’d be replacing me. No, thank you.

Ironically, the person who understands that best is my 8-year-old daughter, Maggie. Every now and then I’ll joke with her and ask if she’d rather have a “normal” mom. Without hesitation, she always says, “No! I don’t ever want a normal momma.” Ever.

My daughters, Madelyn and Maggie, don’t see a broken mom. They don’t see someone who needs fixing. They see the mom who chases them around the house in her wheelchair playing tag, cheers the loudest, models on runways, speaks on stages, fights for people with disabilities, and somehow still embarrasses them like every other mom. To Madelyn and Maggie, I’m not an exception to motherhood—I’m simply their mom. And honestly, I think adults could learn a thing or two from an eight-year-old and a thirteen-year-old.

The truth is, my wheelchair has never been my biggest obstacle. Ableism has. Stairs have. Inaccessible bathrooms have. People assuming I can’t think because my body moves differently. Being talked over, underestimated, and treated like I’m a forever child because I have a disability—that’s what’s exhausting. Cerebral palsy isn’t what limits me most. Society’s expectations do.

One phrase I’ve heard countless times is, “I don’t even see your disability.” People usually mean it as a compliment, but I wish they’d stop saying it. I see my disability every single day. It’s there when I transfer into bed, when I drive my power wheelchair, when my muscles decide they’re done cooperating, and when I have to figure out a different way to accomplish something. My disability has shaped the way I solve problems, advocate for change, raise my daughters, and experience the world. Ignoring it doesn’t honor me. Acknowledging it does.

Here’s another opinion that might ruffle a few feathers: accessibility is not charity. It isn’t a favor. It isn’t something businesses deserve applause for because they finally decided disabled people should be able to enter the building. Accessibility is a civil right. We don’t congratulate someone for unlocking the front door for everyone else, so why do we celebrate the bare minimum when it comes to disability? The bar has been set embarrassingly low, and it’s time we stop applauding crumbs.

And while we’re being honest, can we stop acting like disability is the worst thing that could ever happen to someone? I’ve lost count of how many times people have told me they’re sorry I have cerebral palsy. Sorry for what?

I’ve built a beautiful life. I’m a wife. I’m a mother. I’m an advocate. I’m a speaker. I’m a model. I’ve rolled down runways that the fashion industry never imagined would include someone like me, and I’ve sat at tables where disabled voices have too often been missing. None of those things happened despite my disability. They happened with it. My cerebral palsy didn’t stop me from becoming who I am. It helped shape the person I was always meant to be.

Don’t misunderstand me. Disability Pride doesn’t mean pretending cerebral palsy is easy. There are days when my body hurts. Days when I’m frustrated. Days when I’m reminded that CP doesn’t take a vacation. But pain and pride can exist in the same body. Frustration and gratitude can exist in the same life. Loving who I am doesn’t require pretending everything is easy. It simply means refusing to be ashamed of my reality.

This Disability Pride Month, don’t tell me I’m inspiring because I got dressed or left my house. Don’t tell me you “forget I’m disabled.” And please don’t tell me how brave I am simply for existing. Instead, expect greatness from disabled people. Fight for accessibility before someone has to ask for it. Include us in conversations, leadership, and decision-making. Stop lowering the bar for us, and start removing the barriers in front of us.

Because here’s what I know for sure: I don’t wish for a life without cerebral palsy. I wish for a world without ableism. I wish for a world where disabled children grow up believing they belong everywhere, where accessibility is expected instead of celebrated, and where our value isn’t measured by how closely we resemble nondisabled people.

I am proud of my cerebral palsy because I am proud of the woman I have become. My disability isn’t my tragedy. It isn’t my burden. It isn’t the thing standing in the way of my life.

It is my life.

And it’s a life I’m incredibly proud to live.

So this Disability Pride Month, don’t feel sorry for me.

Stand beside me. Fight beside me. Build a world where disability isn’t seen as something to fix, but as part of the beautiful diversity that makes us human.

Happy Disability Pride Month.