They Told Me to Be Quiet About My Disability

They told me to be quiet about my disability.
That if I didn’t speak it, maybe it wouldn’t be real.
That talking about it would make it worse, like acknowledgment was a curse.
That the more I embraced it, the less likely I’d ever walk again.
So I stayed quiet. At first.

I silenced the ache. I muted the fear.
I swallowed my grief because somehow, expressing it meant defeat.
They made disability feel like a secret, like something to be ashamed of.
But here’s the truth no one told me: SILENCE DOES NOT HEAL.

For years, I carried the weight of “Don’t talk about it.”
Like my wheels were a failure. Like my paralysis was a punishment.
Like acceptance was surrender.

But I learned .Slowly, painfully, beautifully that there is power in saying “This is who I am.”
Not just quietly in the dark, but boldly, in front of the world.

Because my story didn’t end when I lost the use of my legs. It started there.
That’s where I learned what resilience really meant.
That’s where I met the version of me that is loud, joyful, unstoppable.

They never tell you about the stigma that clings to a wheelchair like dust.
How people speak over you or avoid your eyes altogether.
How the job market becomes a battlefield.
How love, relationships, motherhood  are all questioned, all debated, simply because your body now moves differently.
They’ll call you “inspiring” and “brave” — but never hire you.
They’ll say “you’re so strong,” and still leave buildings without ramps or accessible washrooms.
That’s the contradiction we live with. Every single day.

But they also don’t tell you about the wins.
Like learning how to manage your bladder with confidence.
Or navigating an unfamiliar city alone in your wheelchair  and smiling, not because it was easy, but because you did it anyway.
They don’t tell you how good it feels to roll down the street, with wind in your face, owning your space.
How friends, real friends, will carry not just your body when needed, but your soul too.

I talk about my disability now. Loudly. Happily. Shamelessly.

Because the shame was never mine to begin with.
It was built by a world too afraid to accommodate difference, too lazy to imagine access, too ignorant to see strength in softness, and pride in paralysis.

Disability doesn’t mean I gave up on walking.
It means I stood up in a different way.
It means I embraced joy in places I never knew existed.
It means I found pride in who I’ve become  not despite the wheels beneath me, but because of them.

There’s still work to do.

The barriers are still high — physical, social, emotional.
I still have to call ahead to ask, “Is your building accessible?”
Still have to prepare for stares, for unsolicited prayers, for assumptions.

But even in that… there is joy.

Because now, I don’t carry shame.
Now, I carry stories.
Now, I carry other women in wheelchairs  with words, with presence, with truth.
Now, I walk with my words.
And I rise with my writing.

So, if you’re reading this — in a hospital bed, on your first day in a wheelchair, or on your fiftieth.
Know that it’s okay to talk. To cry. To rage.
But also: know that joy will come.
It may take time. But it will come.

Because disability isn’t the end.
Sometimes, it’s the beginning of a fuller, louder, freer life.

And darling, we’re just getting started.