Disability Pride Is Not Inspirational Porn

I have been struggling with writing Disability Pride blogs, and honestly, maybe that is the blog. Because disability pride is complicated. It is not always a cute graphic, a perfect caption, or a month where everything suddenly feels empowering. Sometimes disability pride is beautiful. Sometimes it is exhausting. Sometimes it is holy. Sometimes it is frustrating. Sometimes it is all of that in the same afternoon.

I am proud to be disabled, but that does not mean every part of being disabled is easy. I am proud of my voice, but I know what it feels like to fight to be heard. I am proud of the life I have built, but I also know how much work it takes to keep showing up in spaces that were not always built with me in mind. I am proud of being an AAC user, but I will never pretend communication access does not come with frustration, patience, and a whole lot of invisible labor.

wheelchair tennis team

That is the part people sometimes miss about disability pride. Pride does not mean pretending everything is perfect. Pride does not mean acting like barriers do not exist. Pride does not mean smiling through every hard thing just to make other people comfortable. To me, disability pride means telling the truth. It means saying I am not ashamed of who I am. It means saying my body, my communication, my access needs, and my story are not inconveniences. It means saying I deserve to be included without having to become inspirational first.

And that brings me to faith. I keep thinking about when Jesus gave the disciples power and authority to heal. Luke 9:1-2 says, “He called the twelve together, and gave them power and authority over all demons, and to cure diseases. He sent them out to preach God’s Kingdom and to heal the sick.” Matthew 10:1 says, “He called to himself his twelve disciples, and gave them authority over unclean spirits, to cast them out, and to heal every disease and every sickness.” For a long time, disabled people have been treated like we are the ones everybody is supposed to heal, fix, pray over, pity, study, or use as a lesson. But what if people have been looking at it backwards?

Alt text: A woman using a wheelchair reaches down to touch the ocean water at the edge of the beach.

What if God did not just make me someone who needs healing? What if God also made me someone who can help bring healing to other people? Not always physical healing. Sometimes healing looks like helping someone feel seen. Sometimes healing looks like telling the truth out loud. Sometimes healing looks like making another AAC user feel less alone. Sometimes healing looks like advocacy, access, laughter, friendship, faith, and reminding people that their voice matters.

Maybe my body does not look like what people expect power to look like. Maybe my voice does not sound like what people expect leadership to sound like. But Jesus has always been good at using people the world underestimated. First Corinthians 1:27 says, “God chose the foolish things of the world that he might put to shame those who are wise. God chose the weak things of the world, that he might put to shame the things that are strong.” First Samuel 16:7 says, “For man looks at the outward appearance, but Yahweh looks at the heart.” So no, my disability pride is not about pretending life is easy. It is about recognizing that I am not only someone to be helped. I am also someone God can use to help others heal.

But do not get it twisted. I was not created to make you a better person. I was not created to be your lesson, your pity project, your heartwarming moment, or your inspirational porn. My disability is not here to soften your heart on command. My life is not a sermon illustration for people who refuse to see disabled people as whole human beings. My body, my voice, my communication, my access needs, and my story do not exist just so somebody else can feel more grateful, more humble, more compassionate, or more inspired for five minutes before going back to the same inaccessible world.

That is not disability pride. That is people turning disabled lives into emotional entertainment, and I am not here for that. For too long, disabled people have been treated like props in other people’s personal growth stories. People see us living our lives, going to school, working, speaking, creating, worshiping, advocating, or simply existing, and somehow they turn that into a lesson about themselves. They say things like, “You inspire me,” when what they really mean is, “I cannot imagine living your life, but watching you do ordinary things makes me feel better about mine.”

That is not the compliment people think it is. Because I am not living my life as a motivational poster. I am living my life because it belongs to me. There is a difference between respecting someone’s strength and reducing their whole existence to inspiration. There is a difference between being moved by someone’s story and using their story to avoid doing the harder work of inclusion. There is a difference between seeing God’s purpose in someone’s life and deciding their purpose is to make you feel something.

I believe God can use my life. I believe God can use my story. I believe God can use my voice, my advocacy, my humor, my faith, my stubbornness, and even the parts of my life that other people misunderstand. I believe God can bring healing through me. I believe He can use me to help someone feel less alone, remind another AAC user that their voice matters, challenge systems that need to change, and speak truth in rooms that have been way too comfortable talking about us instead of with us.

A young woman with glasses smiles while handing a yellow folder to someone across an office desk.

But there is a difference between God using my story and people using my story. God does not use me by stripping away my humanity. God does not use me by turning me into a symbol instead of a person. God does not use me by making my disability the only interesting thing about me. God does not use me by asking me to be quiet, sweet, grateful, and inspirational so other people do not feel uncomfortable. That is not God. That is the world trying to make disability easier to digest, and I refuse to be reduced to something small enough for other people to swallow.

Genesis 1:27 says, “God created man in his own image. In God’s image he created him; male and female he created them.” That includes disabled people. That includes AAC users. That includes people whose bodies, minds, communication, and support needs do not fit the world’s narrow idea of normal. Psalm 139:14 says, “I will give thanks to you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Your works are wonderful. My soul knows that very well.” Not wonderfully made, only if I am healed. Not wonderfully made only if I am easy to understand. Not wonderfully made, only if I inspire somebody else. Wonderfully made, period.

I can be disabled and still be whole. I can need access and still be powerful. I can use AAC and still be a leader. I can receive support and still have authority over my own life. I can encourage people and still refuse to be objectified. I can tell my story and still decide who gets access to it.

That matters because disability pride is not about performing joy for nondisabled comfort. It is not about pretending everything is easy. It is not about being the cheerful disabled person who never gets angry, never gets tired, never calls out injustice, and never makes anyone uncomfortable. Disability pride means I get to be fully human. That means I get to be faithful and frustrated, soft and strong, grateful and honest, funny and tired, proud and still complicated, disabled and still called.

First Corinthians 12:22 says, “No, much rather, those members of the body which seem to be weaker are necessary.” That verse means a lot to me because God’s kingdom was never built only around the people the world calls strong. The body needs all of us. Not just the loud ones. Not just the fast ones. Not just the polished ones. Not just the people who communicate in ways the world finds convenient. All of us.

My life can point to God without becoming a prop for other people’s shallow inspiration. My story can bring healing without being handed over for people to use however they want. My presence can challenge people without me being responsible for managing their discomfort. So yes, I believe Jesus gave power to heal. And yes, I believe He can use me to bring healing into the world. But that healing is not about making nondisabled people feel warm and fuzzy because they watched me survive. It is not about making people clap because I did something ordinary while disabled. It is not about turning my existence into a feel-good moment.

Sometimes healing looks like truth. Sometimes healing looks like access. Sometimes healing looks like boundaries. Sometimes healing looks like refusing to shrink. Sometimes healing looks like reminding people that disabled people are not here to be studied, pitied, fixed, or consumed. We are here to live, lead, love, speak, create, and belong.

Romans 12:6 says, “Having gifts differing according to the grace that was given to us, if prophecy, let’s prophesy according to the proportion of our faith.” That means my gifts do not have to look like somebody else’s gifts to be real. My calling does not have to sound like somebody else’s calling

Alt text: A smiling woman wearing a lanyard stands behind a retail counter with her hands raised in excitement.

God can use an AAC voice. God can use a disabled body. God can use a woman the world underestimated. God can use a story people tried to make small. But God using my life does not permit people to use me.

So do not call me inspiring if you are not willing to help make the world more accessible. Do not praise my strength while ignoring the barriers that required me to be that strong. Do not say my story moved you if it does not move you toward inclusion, dignity, access, and respect. And please do not confuse my calling with your comfort.

I was not created to be inspirational porn. I was created in the image of God. I was created with purpose. I was created with a voice. I was created with gifts. And I was created to take up space, not just make other people feel better about theirs.

So maybe my Disability Pride message this year is this: I am proud, but I am not performing pride for anybody. I am proud in a real way. A lived way. A tired but still showing up way. A “do not talk around me” way. A “my voice matters even when it takes longer” way. A “God can use me, but people do not get to use me” way.

Disability pride does not mean I have everything figured out. It means I am no longer apologizing for existing.