Hello friends! If you didn’t know, July is Disability Pride Month all over the world. Typically during this month, we see posts about disability that remind people how empowered we are as disabled people, or why it is important to fight to be seen. A whole lot of things pop up this season for disabled folks; asking us to show our disabled pride on our sleeves. I love seeing those posts too, and while I think they are important, I also feel it is totally necessary to also talk about all the things that we hate about being disabled. In my opinion, disabled people are often forced to flex this happy exterior just to make it through. I think it’s equally important to find space to vent and let loose some of the hard feelings. So, that’s what I want to explore this next edition. Come along with me, and maybe getting these out will help you feel better if you’re disabled, or help you understand a disabled person if you’re not.

I hate that I need so much help

One of my biggest pain points as a severely disabled person is the honest truth that I need so much help. For almost every big thing in my day, I need something. From getting up out of bed to getting a glass of water, someone needs to be there for me. This is exhausting in and of itself, because I have to wait for someone to come help me all the time, and my patience often wears thin. Of course, I am grateful for the care that I get – but knowing that as I get older, and my disability becomes more and more involved, my care needs will only increase is a difficult thing to face. Because I need so much help, I can’t just hop on a flight without thinking about hiring someone or whether or not my chair will be damaged. People think that having someone help you with your ADLs must be a breeze, right? They often fail to consider the emotional weight of actually needing someone, and a lot of times I can’t fucking stand it.

I hate worrying if my non-disabled peers will be okay

This one drives me absolutely bonkers. When I am about to meet a new non-disabled person, I often find myself hit with a pang of worry as I go to meet them. My little inner voice starts telling me to downplay the level of my disability. Or, I’ll steel myself by not asking for any help with anything. I find myself so much more worried whether my non-disabled friends will be okay with who I am, and what I am as a disabled person, that I don’t usually enjoy the encounter at all. Instead, I am running all the possible scenarios over in my head, trying to think 5 steps ahead of them, to ensure that my disability doesn’t interfere. I know that some of you feel that crushing, crippling pressure too, and it’s okay to have tough feels about non-disabled friends.

I hate the media’s narrow view of disability – especially this month

I could write a blog post all about my disdain for the media, and the way that disabled people are portrayed within it. But, for this point, I’ll stick to the way the media only showcases certain types of disabilities and certain types of disabled people. I hate that I never really see a severely disabled person on-screen or in any media rep of disability. I never see someone who needs care or who can’t communicate using speech, or who needs their arse wiped. It usually sticks to disabled folks who have more abilities than a lot of us, and that leaves those of us who can’t conform without a version of ourselves to draw from. I hate that even in the middle of 2025, media centred around disability is mostly about paralysis, and then within that, they can’t even give the roles to a real paralysed disabled person – gah, that grinds my gears! I hate that there aren’t enough stories about NDIS cuts, marriage inequality, and so many other stories that deserve our attention.

I hate “that” face

I was out on a walk just this morning at my local dog park, and as I was walking by myself listening to my murder pod in my headphones, on three separate occasions when I smiled at someone, they gave me THAT face. Every disabled person reading this knows exactly the face I am talking about. It’s that face that isn’t really a smile, but isn’t not a frown. It’s as if the person didn’t know they might encounter a disabled person, and then when they did, they got scared. I’ll let all you non-disabled folks in on this too: when you make this face, disabled people don’t know what to do either. It sends us a message that we’ve done something bad, or that we just, inherently, are bad. You can smile at a disabled person – it’s okay. But, when you make that face, it makes us mad. Please don’t do it.

Well, I don’t know about you, but getting those things off my chest makes me feel a lot better. I promise the next blog will be a lot happier. Thanks for letting me flip the script on this one, friends. Until next month.

Order my new book Notes From a Queer Cripple: How to Cultivate Queer Disabled Joy (and be hot while doing it!) wherever you get digital/physical books.

Andrew Gurza