Bravo Women!

 International Women’s Day: The Stories We Keep Missing

International Women’s Day rolls around every year with a familiar rhythm. There are hashtags. There are panels. Companies change their logos to for a week. Someone posts a quote about strong women, usually next to a photo of a woman climbing a mountain or staring determinedly into the middle distance.

I watch it all unfold and think: yes, but also… not quite.

Because the story we tend to tell about women is tidy. It celebrates achievement, resilience, and progress. It highlights pioneers, the followed, and glass ceilings shattered. Those stories matter. They should be told 

But they are not the whole story.

Some women are not climbing mountains - but making muffins. Some are just trying to get through a Tuesday without a system tripping them up again. Some are filling in forms that don’t quite fit their lives. Some are arguing for access to buildings that should already have been accessible. Some are explaining, again, why something that seems minor is actually a barrier.

And often, those women disappear from the celebratory narrative.

I spend a lot of my time thinking about language and accountability. My research sits in the awkward space where institutions say they value equality but struggle to recognise the ways they maintain inequality. What I have learned is simple and uncomfortable: systems rarely see the people they disadvantage.

It isn’t always deliberate. In fact, it usually isn’t. It’s quieter than that.

Policies are written for an imagined “typical” person. Processes assume certain bodies, certain lives, certain ways of moving through the world. When reality doesn’t match that template, the burden quietly shifts onto the individual.

Fill in another form. Explain yourself again. Ask nicely. Wait patiently.

If you push too hard, you risk being labelled difficult.

This is where the stories of many women sit: in the gap between official commitments to equality and the lived experience of navigating systems that were never designed with them in mind.

Add disability to the mix and the gap widens quickly.

Disabled women live at the intersection of two sets of assumptions. One about gender. One about disability. Both come with a catalogue of stereotypes: fragile, dependent, inspirational, burdensome, brave, emotional. Pick a flavour. None of them describe real people particularly well, but they shape expectations all the same.

The result is a strange contradiction. Disabled women are often highly visible as symbols — the inspirational story, the awareness campaign, the case study. Yet they remain largely invisible when decisions are made about policy, services, workplaces, and public spaces.

We are talked about more often than we are talked to.

Disabled Women are women.

So why imply we’re second-rate, half but nor fully sexy, bright, lively - SENTIENT!

International Women’s Day is a good moment to pause and ask a basic question: whose experiences count when we talk about women’s equality?

If the answer only includes women who fit neatly into existing systems, then we are not really talking about equality. We are talking about access to a structure that already works for some.

Real equality asks harder questions.

Who designed the structure in the first place?
Who does it work for?
Who keeps having to ask for adjustments just to participate?

These questions matter because progress is rarely just about adding more women into existing hierarchies. Sometimes the hierarchy itself needs examining.

Over the years, I have seen extraordinary resilience from women navigating these gaps. Women who advocate not only for themselves but for others who will come after them. Women who document problems that institutions would prefer to ignore. Women who quietly refuse to accept that exclusion is inevitable.

None of that labour is glamorous. It doesn’t make for a neat social media post. But it is the slow work that shifts culture.

And culture matters.

Most of us did not learn about disability, or gender inequality, through policy documents. We learned through stories — through television, films, books, news headlines, and casual conversations. Those stories shape what we think is normal, what we think is possible, and whose voices we expect to hear.

If the stories are narrow, our imagination becomes narrow too.

So perhaps International Women’s Day is less about celebration and more about expanding the narrative. About noticing the women whose experiences complicate the tidy version of progress.

The woman challenging a workplace policy that quietly excludes carers.
The woman pushing a university to recognise access barriers.
The woman documenting institutional failures so they cannot be quietly forgotten.

These stories rarely come with dramatic music or inspirational quotes. But they tell us something important about how change actually happens.

It happens through persistence. Through naming problems clearly. Through refusing to accept silence when harm is obvious.

And through building language that allows us to talk honestly about disadvantage, injustice, and accountability.

If there is one thing worth celebrating today, it is that collective effort — the steady, sometimes exhausting work of making systems fairer than they were yesterday.

Not perfect. Just better.

Because equality is not a moment. It is a process.

And there are still many stories left to tell.

A Different Perspective on Disability Equality: What’s Changed in Ten Years?

A decade is a long time, isn’t it? Long enough for fashions to recycle, technologies to become obsolete, and social movements to sprout new branches. Some days it feels as though everything has shifted. On others, it feels as though someone has simply changed the wallpaper while leaving all the old problems neatly pinned to the wall.

The world has changed. My word, it really has. And yet.

I’ll start with a confession: I never wanted to write the first Disability book. Not really. Partly because people told me they could do better, and partly because disability equality training was already my day job. Keeping up with developments in the field felt like trying to organise a filing cabinet during a small earthquake. When the request came for a second edition, I hesitated. Do I just send the first one again? Except I couldn’t. Too much had changed. And somehow, not nearly enough.

Yes, disabled people have a richer, louder, more confident public voice. D/deaf and Disabled People’s Organisations have multiplied like activist sourdough starters. Disabled people are speaking up — loudly, brilliantly, often with sharp humour. And yet we are still silenced, ignored, softened, filtered, or spoken about rather than with. The scale of change is impressive. The lack of change is infuriating. Both are true at the same time.

Because let’s be honest: things are better, but the situation remains unacceptable. As disabled workers we are undervalued, often underpaid, sometimes unpaid. As customers we are sidelined or treated as though access is a favour — a bit like being promised the VIP lounge, except the velvet rope is a broken lift and the bouncers are politely clueless. Out in the community, our presence is tolerated, moderated, occasionally domesticated — as though we are unusual pets rather than human citizens with rights, needs and, heaven forbid, knowledge.

Much has changed. But had organisations and governments acted on the invitation of the first edition — had rights to education, work and leisure been taken seriously rather than bookmarked for later — the landscape today might be far gentler for those of us who still face prejudice, discrimination and inequality as a matter of routine.

So here I am again. Thirty years into teaching, researching and living this subject. The world has changed. I have changed. And so this conversation must change too.

I will be publishing the second edition of A Different Perspective on Disability soon. But you can download a number of others goodies by clicking links below. 

 

  

A different perspective on disability equality

A Different Perspective on Critical Disability

A Different Perspective on Critical Disability PDF 

A different perspective on inclusive practice

Ouch!

 

Ouch

If you were sitting in a waiting room and someone walked in and smacked you in the head with a cardboard box, what would you expect to happen?

If I’d hit you, I know what I would do. If I were the one carrying the box, I’d apologise—profusely. Even if I hadn’t seen you. Even if I hadn’t meant it. It would still be my mistake. My responsibility. The onus on me to put it right, and not do it again. 

That’s why it feels so bizarre that, as a disabled person, when somebody hits me in the face with whatever they’re saying, I’m the one expected to apologise for being hurt. I’m told I shouldn’t have been sitting there. I shouldn’t have come on that particular day. I shouldn’t be in the waiting room at all—almost as if disabled people are supposed to warn the world of our presence before entering a building.

On a personal level, you can imagine how upsetting this would be if it happened once. But it doesn’t. It happens so often that the bump from the cardboard box is becoming quite painful. I find myself making more and more excuses not to be in any room anywhere—not because of one dramatic incident, but because I’m exhausted from being hit in the head and then told it’s somehow my fault.

On an organisational level, I genuinely don’t understand why a policy can’t be put in place to stop people knocking me in the face in the first place. If customers or patients were being regularly inconvenienced—or literally struck—surely it’s up to the organisation to make a change. Yet whether it’s parking bays, accessible entrances, safe walkways, or waiting rooms, the burden is consistently placed on the disabled person to complain afterharm has happened. Only then—maybe—is something reviewed.

This is against compliance - which is anticipatory - furthermore, it’s unfair.

Most of the time, reasonable adjustments aren’t made because no one at senior level has thought about them - or had disability equality training. Safe public spaces are assumed, and potential harm as a small operational detail, not something worth planning properly. But planning safe routes for staff to move through day in, day out, year after year is a management responsibility. It requires an impact assessment. It requires someone to think, “Could the way we work harm someone? Could this exclude someone? Could this be done better?”

I’ve noticed that many organisations have quietly stopped doing the very impact assessments that meaningfully include disabled people at all. The result? They hit you in the head first, wait for the complaint, and then consider changing the practice.

But here’s the sticking point: the complaint itself. I’m tired—angry, even—about having to complain in the first place. I retired in the hope of finally escaping the relentless expectation that I should fix the ableist systems I move in. And, worse, I should expect being hit. As an individual I was never responsible for educating every organisation I encounter. And frankly, I’m worn down by having to say, over and over again: can you please stop hitting me?

This isn’t a matter of personal sensitivity. It’s a matter of education, compliance, justice, and basic equality. No one should be behind you with a box. And in this analogy—and in real life—organisations should make sure their practice isn’t ableist. The fact that something wasn’t intentional doesn’t remove the responsibility to apologise. And it certainly doesn’t justify blaming me for simply existing in the space.

The aim needs to be to avoid hitting people in the first place—not to tell disabled people it’s our job to get out of the way.

International day of Disabled People

 

Celebrating Disabled People’s Creativity, Experience and Voices on the International Day of Disabled People

Pools and Prejudice: Death in the Shallows

On this International Day of Disabled People, there’s no better time to celebrate stories that challenge expectations, confront prejudice, and centre disabled lives with honesty and strength. That’s why I wrote Pools and Prejudice: Death in the Shallows— I hoped to balance tension, wit, and social commentary with rare precision.

If you’re looking for a book that will both grip you and make you think differently about the world, Pools and Prejudice: Death in the Shallows is exactly that. Today, we celebrate disabled creativity, disabled resilience, disabled truth-telling. 

I wanted the plot to shine a light on the realities of disabled people navigating a world that often refuses to see us clearly. 

The story follows Meg whose experiences of exclusion, institutional failure and everyday ableism are woven through a mystery that unfolds in and around a local swimming pool—a community space that becomes a microcosm of society’s attitudes towards disabled people.

I refused to soften the truth, and avoided speaking in metaphors or inspirational clichés. Instead, to give readers a narrative grounded in lived experience and disability equality: flawed systems, hidden hierarchies, the exhausting bureaucracy disabled people face, and the emotional resilience required simply to exist within them. And also hoped to capture the warmth, humour, friendship, and the small acts of solidarity that keep people going. 

Readers say: 

“Characters bring texture, complexity and humanity, each revealing different sides of disability, trust and belonging.

Pools and Prejudice is more than a mystery; it’s a challenge to look deeper—beneath the surface of institutions, beneath polite conversations, and beneath assumptions about what disabled lives should look like. It’s bold, unapologetic storytelling from a disabled writer who understands that representation is not a luxury but a necessity.”

On days like today, when the world pauses to recognise disabled people, their rights and their contributions, it reminds us why authentic stories matter. They expose injustice. They provoke conversation. They forge connection. And, importantly, they carve space for disabled people to be protagonists in their own narratives—complex, fierce, and fully realised.

Furthermore in order to respect Disabled People’s Identity and highlight Stereotypes, I was careful not to counter the negative stereotypes imposed on disabled people with equally toxic positive ones.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DLBHGBLX

Ableism, Impairment, and the Myth of “Luxury”

 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.

So Proud

With July just around the corner, I want to take a moment to say thank you — deeply and loudly — to the disabled people who stepped up in recent weeks.

It’s no small thing. In fact, it’s huge. It’s telling. It's powerful.

So many individuals, each with different experiences, knowledge, and energy levels, reached in and lifted each other up. They showed what community care really looks like. While others turned away or stayed silent, the disability community — once again — did the work. Few asked, “Is this really my job?” Most just rolled up their sleeves. Unlike, say, the MPs whose actual job it is to safeguard rights, dignity, and wellbeing. Oh, the irony.

I'm especially thankful to those who remind me — daily — that I’m in: In their family. In their friendship circle. In their community. In their locality. A message. A pancake. A quiet check-in. A social post. These small, beautiful acts mean the world when the government can’t or won’t uphold the full complement of human rights.

And yes, I heard the door slam as others moved away — some with a whimper, others with barely a shrug. Most shockingly, some of those who moved fastest were organisations whose entire business model depends on disabled people’s money. If upholding wellbeing isn't a strategic focus, what on earth is?

In the thick of all this, we also saw dystopian gaslighting dressed up as reasonableness:
“But you don’t need anything…”
“It doesn’t affect you…”
“You have food, heat, Netflix…”

And yet — in the face of ignorance, the community rose. With dignity. With action. With letters, posts, shares, and good old-fashioned care.

Thank you for your unflinching solidarity. You are the heroes of the hour.

There are more struggles ahead — we know that. But together, we are strong. Together, we are powerful. Together, we rise.

 

Nothing About Us Without Us… Can Be With Us.

How Often Do You Have Sex?

 

Now that I have your attention, let’s talk about narratives: How We Tell Tales

 

Think about narratives—the different types of conversations we have every day. Many of us change tone and wording without thinking. The way we speak changes depending on where we are and who we’re speaking to. You wouldn’t talk to your boss the way you talk to your best friend. You wouldn’t approach a stranger and immediately ask them about their intimate life. And yet, when it comes to disabled people, this social toggling or its sensitivity seems to disappear.

 If asked how often I have sex, I would expect the very close friend to have at least filled my glass a few times!

Public Narratives

 

Pick up a newspaper, and you will notice how journalists shape narratives to guide the reader’s focus. Consider a headline: George, 56, fell in the street because of a pothole. Why mention his age? Unless he is 5¾, George will be unlikely to want you to know his birthdate! Age is personal. A journalist will mention it because it jars—the wrong toggle invites a particular reaction. We identify with George if we're around his age; perhaps we’ll feel sympathy, concern, or a reminder of our own vulnerabilities. Journalism is about framing, about making certain details stand out while others fade into the background.

 

Similarly, if a journalist writes about sex in a professional context—say, a dentist having a relationship with a client—it’s because they hope their readers find it surprising. The narrative assumes that the mix of workplace culture and intimacy is unusual. In this case, there’s nothing to report. What dentists do in private is personal, as long as everyone consents. (Jill and John got married and lived happily ever after 🙂)

 

 

Misplaced Focus on Medical Matters

 

Getting the focus wrong—the toggling—often happens, sometimes unwittingly, when disability is written about. While many disabled people see themselves as human, the narratives about them often articulate a faulty, medicalised view. Reading about disability in mainstream literature, you’d be forgiven for thinking that most disabled people constantly need medical help. This framing can make disabled people seem less human, focusing only on their differences, often medical conditions. The narrative subtly shifts; the George headline becomes Autistic Falls in the Road.*

 

This brings me to a recent exchange in the supermarket. As I picked up a lettuce, I never expected to be asked about my condition(s). Not because I’m ashamed, but because it’s personal—jarring. Yet, I was asked what was wrong with me by a stranger. Sadly, it happens too often for me to ignore. Typically, in public, we don’t ask strangers deeply personal questions.

After ten years of study and research, I’m not surprised that disabled people are frequently subjected to intrusive questions: Are you taking medication? What’s your condition? Does your disability allow you to do this? These questions wouldn’t be acceptable to most typical social interactions, so why do they become acceptable when directed at people who appear disabled?

 

Literature and Personal Truths

 

Different literary genres use distinct storytelling methods. Mysteries, for instance, focus on action and facts, leading the reader in a straight line to solve the puzzle. Memoirs, on the other hand, rely on personal truths and emotional details, asking the reader to see the world from the writer’s unique perspective. As Mary Karr puts it in The Art of Memoir: “Truth works a tripwire that permits the book to explode into being.” So why tell tales about disabled people? Needy, lazy, broken, sick...

 

Disabled writers and scholars have pointed out that narratives about disability often follow a script that doesn’t align with their actual lived experiences. The focus tends to be on medical conditions rather than the person as a whole. This mirrors real-life interactions, where people feel comfortable asking disabled individuals personal questions of a clinical nature they wouldn’t ask anyone else   (Medical Model )

 

It’s not the same, but the equivalent of walking up to a stranger and asking, How often do you have sex?

 

So, the next time you meet someone, think about how you frame your questions. Do they reflect genuine curiosity about the person? Cats, curry, chardonnay? Or are they shaped by a narrative you’ve not challenged? Let’s move beyond the jarring stereotypes and towards conversations that recognise all people as complex individuals.

*totally disrespectful I'll agree!