We went away this weekend. Nothing unusual in that — except the people we went with were disability-equality savvy.
Now, let me say upfront: not every friend has to be an expert in ableism and disability equality. But I’ll tell you this — when they are, it makes all the difference.
Here are a few reasons why.
1. No “Disability 101” over dinner
For once, I wasn’t treated to the “So… what exactly do disability, impairment, and ableism mean?” interrogation. I could actually enjoy my meal, talk about cats, books, juggling, and nuns (yes, nuns).
It’s exhausting when every social occasion turns into a free tutorial.
2. No five-minute TED Talk on my life
Equally refreshing: I wasn’t subjected to the dreaded, “Oh, you’re disabled” — let me tell you everything I know about disability in five minutes. Here’s the thing: I’ve been disabled for nearly sixty years. It’s also my professional field. Disability studies is as vast and complex as any other academic subject. So imagine sitting there while someone regurgitates hearsay, badly, and expects you to nod along. It’s like being Black and having someone ‘splain racism. Or being a woman and having someone explain feminism — to you.
3. No blurring of private and political
Another common misstep is confusing impairment (the private, intimate realities of living) with discrimination and injustice (the public, structural problem of ableism).
I don’t need someone comparing my impairment to their friend Jack’s ingrown toenail. Jack is lovely, I’m sure, but no.
4. No pity-fest
And then there’s the fawning: “Oh my god, you have done so well to put up with so much!”
Yes, disabled people deal with barriers every day. But pity just reinforces them. What mattered with these friends was simple acknowledgment: We know the crap you face. We’ve got your back.
That solidarity lands very differently.
5. Luxury ≠ immunity from ableism
Here’s a big one: the confusion between luxury and privilege.
When I say I struggle with certain things, some people rush to say: But you have a house, a car, food — how can you complain about ableism? Be grateful, you silly woman.
This is a false dichotomy. I can live in great comfort and still face — and resist — institutional, organisational, and everyday ableism.
And the kicker? Sometimes, when people realise they’ve dismissed me unfairly, they double down: Well, if you weren’t so lucky, you wouldn’t be able to help others the way you do.
Let’s be clear: my commitment to others isn’t conditional on my circumstances. I help because injustice exists — not because of where I live or what I own.
Why it matters
Being with people who get it — who understand ableism without turning every moment into a spectacle — is liberating. It frees space for friendship, joy, and yes, conversations about cats, books, juggling, and nuns.
And maybe that’s the point: when the weight of ableism isn’t constantly dragged to the table, there’s finally room for the rest of life.
Because in the end, ableism isn’t undone by luxury, or blurred by impairment, or softened by pity. It’s challenged in the everyday — in the private workings of friendship, in the refusal to confuse comfort with justice, and in the quiet relief of simply being treated as a whole person.
