Tag: #disabilitypride

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(Un)marginalised S2, E6 with Carly Findlay OAM

The final episode of (Un)marginalised Season 2 has been created from our launch event for this season. It includes some audience responses and even a part of our audience Q & A.

In this episode I told the story behind the (Un)marginalised podcast, then spoke with Carly Findlay about ableism, lateral violence, connection & mentorship, curiosity versus nosiness, Intersectional Feminism, disability advocacy, disabled leadership and much more!

  • Content note for ableism, sexism, racism and sexual violence

Connect with Carly:

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Please note the views expressed by the interviewees do not necessarily reflect my own.

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(Un)marginalised: S2, E5 with Laura Pettenuzzo

In this week’s episode of the podcast, I spoke with Laura Pettenuzzo about internalised ableism, how using a wheelchair can be easier than walking, physio, writing days, spoons, dating with disabilities, easy English, how our intersections shape our reading and writing, chopped vegetables. 

Content note: ableism, internalised ableism, mental health. 

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Please note the views expressed by the interviewees do not necessarily reflect my own.

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(Un)marginalised: S2, E4 with Zoe Simmons

In this episode of the podcast, I spoke with Zoe Simmons about chronic pain, how weight and gender shapes our experience of the medical system, internalised ableism, changing our relationship with mobility aids, mental health challenges, shame, pride and so much more!

Content note: this episode contains discussions about fatphobia, ableism, Mental illness, suicide, sexual harrasment and assault

Find Zoe:

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Please note the views expressed by the interviewees do not necessarily reflect my own.

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(Un)marginalised: S2, E3 with Jess Kapuscinski-Evans 


In this episode, I spoke with Jess Japuscinski-Evans about sex on premesis access, what’s it like to be queer and disabled, public transport, Activism, allyship, emerging and elders in the arts space, disability-related humour, bringing together the physical disability and psycho-social disability communities, and much more. 

  • To support the ongoing making of the podcast, go to Liel’s Patreon account on: https://www.patreon.com/LielKBridgford
  • You can find the complete transcripts of the episodes on http://lkbridgford.com/unmarginalised-podcast
  • If you need support after listening – you can contact Lifeline on 13 11 14 in Australia (24/7). If you’re anywhere else, you can find support here: https://www.befrienders.org

To continue the conversation, go to Liel’s Instagram https://www.instagram.com/lielkbridgford/, Twitter https://twitter.com/LielKBridgford or Facebook https://www.facebook.com/lielkbridgford

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We’ve Got Pain All Wrong

Our pain and us

Pain is something I’ve been living with my whole life, and I think we’ve got it all wrong. 

Pain can mean many different things for each of us, and can include both physical sensations as well as emotional or psychological experiences. In this post I’ll focus on the physical sensation we get when we say ‘my leg hurts’. We all experience pain during our lifetime – no human can avoid it.

Despite how universal pain is, our capacity to describe and communicate about it is generally limited. Even medical professionals often resort to the simplified and useless request to rate our pain from 1-10 as the only measurement or decipherment of pain. 

This common practice has been criticised by people with chronic illnesses, pain and disabilities. Some of the arguments against its use is the oversimplification of a complex phenomena that includes our physical, social, emotional and psychological world. Our experience and perception of pain are also influenced by our history, genetic makeup and social circumstances, amongst other factors. Also, your 10 out of 10 is different from my 10 out of 10.  

Take for instance the pain a birthing person experiences as they push out a baby from their body. It can include intense pressure, cramps, burning, stretching, sharp knives-like pulses and many other sensations. A number on a 1-10 scale does not do this experience justice. We also know that pain perception is impacted by anxiety, how we label the pain, our attitude to it, and many other factors that are often missed in modern Western understanding of pain. 

This inadequate language, understanding and communication of pain means the way we respond to it can also be inadequate, ineffective or even harmful. Pain is simply labeled as Bad, and categorised as something that is undesirable, unattractive and unnatural, to be cured if possible, or at least halted.

This idea misses how pain helps us avoid injury, recover from previous traumas and indicate our bodies’ functioning. In some contexts pain is thought of as something to ‘push through’ and ignore in order to reach some external goal, like running a marathon. In cases of chronic pain, like mine, we think of pain again as something to ‘push through’ to reach the goal of survival. 

The conclusion many of us get to is that pain is nothing to concentrate on – it is too painful to think about our pain, let alone explore it! What we end up doing is neglecting our pain.

We may dissociate to cope with extreme levels of pain, or use alcohol or drugs to numb it. For me, dissociation is something I have had to do in order to survive recurring, at times intense, and trauma-related pain. Many of us have been told our pain isn’t so bad, or that it will pass by your wedding day, or worse of all – that it isn’t real. No wonder we have such a fraught relationship with pain. 

Why is this wrong? 

Having a fraught relationship with pain has an ironic impact on our body, mind, and may I even say, soul. 

Because we fear pain, we often get a stress or even a stress-survival response in our body when it happens. The fight/flight/freeze response that gets triggered by pain in many of us, generates stress hormones that are damaging to our body in the long term, and prevent us from using our complex thinking capacities. Basically this means that in that moment we cannot access the parts of our mind that reminds us of who we want to be, what kind of life we want, or what is important to us. Our brain is yelling DANGER DANGER DANGER at pain signals that may not by themselves be so dangerous. 

When we’re so distressed, we struggle to regulate our feelings. We may lash out at others we care about, or use substances, gamble, or smoke – or do anything that distracts or numbs our intense emotional reaction and our physical pain. In short – seeing pain as something catastrophic and Bad, leaves us less choice over our actions when we’re feeling it. 

Another way our problematic relationship with pain impacts our lives is a sense of isolation. Have you ever had the thought ‘No one has ever experienced pain like this before’? I have. 

Many people who feel pain tend to also feel that they’re the only one going through that. Because we don’t talk about it, it seems like everyone else is living pain-free, which isn’t the case. This isolation can make us less likely to engage with others or in activities that will help us deal with the pain, or to live the meaningful life that we deserve. This is often exacerbated by real physical need to rest our hurting body parts, which often means we’re alone. 

Ignoring the pain, something that many of us are told is a tough, cool, or even necessary thing to do, means that we actually end up trying to push it down. We spend so much energy, conscious or unconscious, telling ourselves something like ‘it’s fine, this too shall pass’ or ‘it’s not that bad’. Although in some contexts this may be useful (like for athletic training), generally this ends up damaging us also. We spend a lot of energy blocking out pain signals from our body, or gaslighting ourselves. This creates a lot of exhaustion, dissociation and trauma. 

The alternative

I was dissatisfied with the way my pain and I were relating to each other. I was tired of feeling angry, frustrated, and on the verge of tears when pain would flare up. I was sick of feeling like I wasn’t good enough because of my chronic pain. So I thought about an alternative – of more helpful ways to cope with pain. 

Instead of seeing myself as a failure when I couldn’t walk, I gave myself permission to listen to my body. I changed the way I view mobility aids, and now see them as something to help me live the life I want, alongside my pain. 

This is not to say that pain should be dismissed by ourselves or others – quite the contrary. Pain should be listened to, attended to, just like any other part of us. Acknowledging that we’re in pain, and giving ourselves kindness through it, can be our first step towards a better life. 

Beyond personal growth that we can all pursue to improve our quality of life, we need to change the way we treat and respond to each others’ pains. Instead of viewing people as either ‘normal’ or ‘abnormal’, what if we agreed that we all experience some pain, at some points in our lives, albeit our vast differences? What if we choose to treat others who are in pain with kindness, curiosity and empathy? Instead of letting pain get in the way of connection, what if we embraced it as a connecting link? 

When your friend is in pain, instead of offering to just reschedule your catch up, what if you offered to help in some way? What if we held spaces for each others’ pain? You could pick up medications from the pharmacy, or hold their hand, or remind them that they are still them. Help them listen to their bodies and practice being kind to themselves. 

We all benefit from transforming the way we relate to pain through increased compassion. Compassion towards ourselves and our fellow humans helps us cope with the most difficult times, and authentically connect with other people.

Where to from here

Here are a few steps to start reflecting on your relationship with pain – applicable to use with yourself and with another person: 

  1. Ask about pain – for example ‘How’s your body been feeling lately?’ or ‘How’s that back pain going at the moment?’ 
  2. Validate the pain – for example ‘That sounds painful’ or ‘I believe you’ 
  3. Ask how you can stay connected through the pain – for example ‘How can we change our plans to still include you?’ or ‘How can I stay connected to my loved ones through this?’ 
  4. Ask what may help – without the assumption that you or a particular drug can ‘fix’ it. For example ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ or ‘What might help me feel more grounded through this?’ 

Practicing these steps with myself, and with people I care about, has helped me transform the way I experience pain. Now I sit down, focus on my breath, and listen to my pain like it is music. 

Oftentimes this music, like your neighbours’ party, is out of my control. I cannot always turn it off, so I lay back and listen. Sometimes the tunes are nostalgic, like Britney Spears over the gym’s speakers. Other times the music is unfamiliar and surprising, like a new single. Other times the music is partly familiar, partly new, like being at your favourite band’s concert. You have probably heard this song before, and if you haven’t, it is almost a guarantee to strike your chords. 

All I want is for there to be seating, so I can sit down and concentrate on the music – outside and within. 

And before you go, check out: 

Where you can join me next month!  

Listening to my pain and my body has brought me more than internal peace, it has been a source of inspiration! With that in mind, here are some important Life Updates you may want to know about: 

  • The (Un)marginalised Season 2 Launch is coming next month!!! Check it out here! I have been working tirelessly on producing this event – the biggest one I’ve ever done. The Launch will be an in-conversation event with Carly Findlay OAM, and you can attend live in Naarm (at The Motley Bauhaus) or through the live stream. I cannot wait to share this event with you, that will include the story behind the podcast, your questions answered live on stage and more.

TO BOOK TICKETS visit melbournefringe.com.au or call (03) 9660 9666. 

This event is supported by the City of Melbourne Arts Grants.

  • I have been appointed as the Editor of this year’s Writing Place magazine, published by Arts Access Australia. What an honour it has already been to read others’ works, be inspired and think about my vision for this publication. 

Writing Place is published annually as a part of Meeting Place, Arts Access Australia annual forum on art, culture and accessibility. The magazine showcases the writing of d/Deaf, disabled and neurodivergent writers and poets. 

Submissions are still open until 11.59pm (AEST) on 11 September 2022. I would love to read your work! Find all the details on how to submit here.

Until next time, 

Liel K. Bridgford 

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Podcasting Reflection and a big Announcement

In lockdown last year while getting into podcasts, I felt like I was traveling a huge gap in societal understanding of intersectionality. I wanted to build within it – to create sign posts around the darkness and shine a light through it, so that others can understand.

That’s how the idea of the (Un)marginalised podcast was born. Within a few weeks, I had the generous help of a few people – friends, acquaintances and even a couple of strangers. 

I didn’t know much about podcasting, but I had a vision – of telling stories of lived experience of intersectionality, in a way that was authentic, engaging and moving. The vision grew and materialised with the help of many including Matt McCleish (the first co-producer and editor), Lior Kenigsman and Gilad Etzkovich (who created the perfect logo), and my guests – Emily McIntyre, Sue, Pascha, Julie G., Jennifer Hankin, and Shira. 

One day in December 2020 we started. Sue connected and we pressed ‘record’. Sue and I chatted and untangled the complexities of living through intersectionality, of what it means to belong, don’t belong and partly belong. It was a beautiful couple of hours, where we talked about many interesting subjects including Mothers Day, mental health, racism, and more.

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First Podcasting Interview!
[ID: a photo of Liel sitting at a wooden desk in front of an open laptop and a large microphone. She is smiling, looking down at the laptop and is wearing a black top, brown glasses and a white watch.]

Matt did an initial edit, while I orgniased more recordings. The next recording I did alone, with just my anxiety about technical issues. With each interview, I learned more about my interviewing skills and podcasting goals. Holding space, asking questions and expressing curiosity were already parts of my toolbox from counselling work. But I needed to learn other skills like when and how to disagree, and how to keep the conversation entertaining. I needed to find the light and shade, and I wanted to tell multiple stories simultaneously. 

Exploring and telling personal stories through an intersectionality lens has been a reflreshing, invigorating, at times tears-inducing process. Subsequent interviews went well, with thought-provoking conversations which I slowly got more comfortable to direct.

After sourcing out music and helping me find the right tone and structure to the episodes, Matt had to leave the project. He gave me a crash course in editing and soon I’ve spent nights editing. The whole thing took a lot more time than I’d anticipated, but I enjoyed every minute of it. 

Accessibility has always been a top priority of this project – I wanted to make sure the show reached as many people as possible, and made people feel safe and welcome. One of the ways to do this was to provide full episode transcripts, and it took me several hours per episode to transcribe. 

Becoming a podcaster has been such a learning curve. It was challenging to balance the funny, positive or entertaining content with the serious, heavy and sometimes even traumatic aspects of the storytelling. It’s not a balance that’s easy to achieve, and especially not in real-time interviewing. I had to get in touch not just with my curious self and the part of me that wanted to connect, but also with the content-consumer part of me that knows what an engaging episode sounds like. There were many different things to think about all at once! 

As I listened and moved tracks around on the screen, the importance and power of stories cemented in my mind. There is nothing quite like hearing from someone who has lived experience. To become an ally, to be an effective health professional, an advocate, or a good world citizen, one must engage with lived experience. 

My favourite part about the process was connecting with fellow humans. Although everyone has a unique story, there were many similarities. Validating isn’t a strong enough word to express how it feels when you realise there’s another human who shares your thoughts and feelings – it is more like anchoring my body into the ground. The season spoke to the fact that struggles I face are often struggles others face, and highlighted how many of those are avoidable, or at least could be mitigated through social justice. I can’t think of a better way to improve society than storytelling – and so I hope that by listening to those stories everyone can learn something and work towards a more just, equal world.  

The responses to the show have been incredible. It has received top ratings and excellent reviews. A couple of highlights were when Jennifer Hankin contacted me wanting to get interviewed, and when (Un)marginalised was ranked as number 3 in the top intersectionality podcasts of the year. 

The wonderful responses helped me feel that the work was worthwhile. Another aspect of podcasting that surprised me was how much money it cost. I’ve been using my personal savings for this, and due to the ongoing financial and time commitment, the season ended at episode seven. Finishing the season was sad, as I felt it was a job unfinished – there were so many more voices and perspectives I wanted to have on the show. 

With this in mind, I applied for grant funding, unsuccessfully. With the support of amazing and generous people I tried again a few months later – which brings me to the news part of this post:

A new season is coming, supported by the City Of Melbourne Arts Grants 2022. I am incredibly grateful and excited that the project was selected, and that I get to return to podcasting, producing and interviewing real people who navigate intersectionality.

Season Two Is coming!
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The second season will be even better, with a similar format. A couple of small changes are a focus on artists connected with the City of Melbourne, and one live, IN PERSON recording event in Melbourne (crossing all fingers!). So, if you haven’t yet listened to the first season, now is your chance. If you have listened and enjoyed it, please remember to rate, review and subscribe. Most importantly, tell your friends!

Until next time, 

Liel K. Bridgford 

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How a Book Can Change Everything

Last night my yellow hand-made bookmark lost its place inside Growing Up Disabled In Australia (GUDIA). I spent a good ten minutes trying to remember where I stopped the previous night, before realising – I finished it already. That was disappointing. GUDIA is a book I never wanted to end. It kept drawing me back in, for more. And when I finished, I wanted to go back to the start and read it again. With so many poignant components, it became the fastest anthology I’ve ever read.

I loved so many pieces in the book, and strongly related to the majority of them. That rarely happens when you’re a disabled person. Well, maybe now it’s going to happen more. 

It was important to me to write about this, because the gravity of publishing this book cannot be underestimated. For many people, this would be the first time they see themselves represented in Australian literature. For many disabled people, there’ll be moments of first – first time someone accurately expressed their feelings, experiences or thoughts. First time someone found an accurate metaphor for living in a body that others see as broken. First time someone shone beautiful and colourful lights on their bodies, souls, sorrows and joys. 

Admidtingly, I’ve previously read other anthologies by disabled people, published overseas. Even so, I found GUDIA to be unique and broad in terms of topics covered, as well as types of disabilities. I’ve learnt new things, laughed, teared up and folded far too many marks – I wanted to highlight and return to most pieces. No doubt I will be reading most of the stories and poems again. I found parts of my story in many pages of the book, and felt so deeply seen by various authors’ expressions of struggling with ableism in its many forms. I enjoyed the caricature story and the poems, which nicely broke the sequence of the essays. The diversity within the experiences, writing styles and emphases was excellent, and I particularly appreciated the cultural diversity within the texts. The various ways in which ableism is exposed and challenged are so fundamental – to understanding ourselves as disabled people and for people living alongside us to learn what it’s like. 

Some particular lines, metaphors and ideas are still in the back of my mind. I won’t name favourite pieces because there were too many, but my favourite themes were fighting internalised ableism, detailed and relatable descriptions of medical ableism in the system and in families, and disability pride and joy in various forms including speaking up, connecting with the disability community, sewing parachutes and dressing for a disabled life – a well lived life. 

The only thing I would have liked to see in the anthology were content notes or warnings. I’ve seen those in one previous disability-focused anthology and felt they were helpful. There are essays that mention for instance self-harm, medical ableism, bullying etc – so a little specific info like that could have been useful. 

If it’s not clear by now, I highly recommend everyone read this book. But in particular, if you work in the disability field, health, or the education system, and/or if you have a child with a disability – you must read this book. 

A book like GUDIA, where disabled people’s experiences are the centre, can and will change everything. It may finally make someone’s penny drop about giving their child choices in their treatment. It may generate empathy where there is none to invisible pain and trauma. It may probe a health professional or a friend to ask about how someone is experiencing their disability, rather than assuming. It may teach a parent or a teacher to explore disability with their able-bodied little humans, and provide language for disabled people to ask for help or explain how they’re feeling. It may plant a seed of hope in the heart of many who feel alone, and shine a light down a path where their experiences are validated and others are confident to reach out a hand.

This is how a book can change everything.

Until next time, 

Liel K. Bridgford 

P.S. this book has been edited by Carly Findlay and published by Black Inc. Books. 

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A letter to the over-achiever part of myself

CW: Internalised ableism.

Dear protective mechanism named achievement-focus,

For the purpose of this letter I will call you Little Creature – as you are like a separate being to myself who lives inside my mind influencing me to varying degrees, depending on my vulnerability at the time, and perhaps your mood. 

I am writing to you today because your presence in my life has become more prominent recently. You stick your head through a doggy-door and say hello by telling me the decision to study psychology instead of medicine was giving up. You wave by telling me staying in a job for over four years is stagnation.

I know you very well. Like a ghost you have a tendency to go undetected for a while, leading me on as if you’ve disappeared forever, in those breaks you take from sitting on my mind’s bank like a devil directing my interpretation of the world. Recently I have come to understand your origin, which is of course intertwined with my own.

Growing up I knew I was different from others – I had a ‘leg problem’ and that was a bad thing I had to live with. In order to make sense of life’s unfairness and my fate of pain, bullying, constant operations and traumas, I’ve come up with an equation that made life bearable. It was: pain + special powers = a sensible world. If special powers was removed from the equation, the world did not make sense anymore. I could also replace pain with trauma/disability/hospital visits/bullying etc. So then I’d get for instance bullying + special powers = a sensible world. This worked because bullying or trauma are painful parts of human life. Special powers however, are obviously a positive, uplifting part of life. This way the world could remain at lease a neutral place, somehow fair. I got a really bad luck item in my basket of life, but at least I had some undefined special powers – it meant not only the world was not so cruel but I was a worthy human after all. The simple conclusion I reached was I must hold some extraordinary qualities which compensated for my disability and associated pains – achievements resulting from these qualities were going to make it all worthwhile. This interpretation is not unique to myself. Other disabled people have described a similar experience. There is a social and historical context to this of course, as disability has previously been seen as a punishment or a gift depending on the time and culture one examines. Perhaps these reflect human’s natural tendency to attempt making sense of the world – to order its uncompromising chaos.

Anyway, this is how you came to be – Little Creature, you were born in that small room in our Tel-Aviv apartment on my single bed, above the blue checkered mattress. You were born in my mind and helped me feel as if the world was actually not a terrible place after all, I was worthy after all. You have helped making life bearable. You’ve helped me clean those Ilizarov pins and get through being teased. You have been effective all the while you’ve developed strong roots in my brain to help me survive.

But what about now? 

Now so much has changed – my life, the society I live in, my body and my roles. Everything has changed and so must we. I no longer think the world must be sensible. The equation does not make sense because the world is not neutral. It is much more complicated – even if I tried I could not assign a single value which will carry across genders, countries, cultures, days or even moments. Sometimes the world is fantastic and great things happen, nevertheless simultaneously terrible things happen. There is no simplifying this mess. I also don’t see my disability as a bad thing anymore. Regardless, you, Little Creature, keep telling me that if I do more, if I get ahead somehow, if I reach sufficient success, then the world will be ok. Then I will be ok – I will be worthy.

Today I want to tell you, Little Naïve Creature, that you have been exposed. You cannot hide as I won’t let you act in the background like a puppeteer telling me to be better all the time (i.e. that I’m not good enough) or accusing my past choices were wrong because I am still not there – in that elusive destination of success which will make my worth stable forever.

Right now I know my worth has nothing to do with my achievements. Knowing intellectually and experiencing in one’s body are two distinct things. I hope that this letter will help my body remember this, and internalise it so that you will become powerless, or at least weaker. You are no longer needed. My goals are to be happy and healthy, not to reach any particular milestone you think I should. As I am writing this, you are still whispering that’s not true and also giving me examples of goals I should have in order to be happy. But I am the most content right now – writing and reflecting in silence except for the dishwasher rain-like flow, paralleling the words I’m creating.

I know you are not leaving anytime soon, so this is not a goodbye. This is a hello, from now on I am perceptively watching you – I know what you are doing and I won’t let you spoil this for me. 

Liel K. Bridgford 

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Intentionally Disabled and (Non) Belonging

Recently someone asked me to consider changing my language from ‘disabled’ to ‘people with disabilities’ – a term they thought more modern. I use the word disabled intentionally. This is why.

For the majority of my life, I haven’t identified as disabled. As a child I would mostly walk with crutches and have an apparent impairment. My leg treatments meant I wasn’t able to play in the sandpit, go to the beach or participate in sports class. The constant operations and hospital visits also separated me from everyone else. I didn’t feel I belonged with kids around me, nor with my family. A cold sense of being different has always simmered inside me. The only chance I had to belong was to have a ‘normal’ leg – an impossible achievement. My peers called me disabled, amongst other insults, and I took it to heart, feeling ashamed of my failure to fit in. I’d cringe at the word disabled when it was used by medical or social services. My family insisted I was ‘normal’. The words ‘disabled’ and ‘disability’ had negative connotations – in my mind, family, and society. It meant you were less than others. I constantly tried to fit in to the able-bodied group despite knowing I didn’t belong. Even at times my leg could be hidden, I didn’t feel like a real part of the group. It felt like wearing a mask and pretending it was my real skin – exhausting and saddening. 

I also didn’t belong to any disability community. I’ve never met anyone born with Fibular Hemimelia, or any other disability. I saw people with visible impairments in hospital waiting rooms or clinics, but we all kept to ourselves. Despite being told others like me existed, I could not conceptualise it. I used to imagine kids like me in other places – they were like ghosts I was desperate to touch but couldn’t even see. It was a lonely existence. 

I didn’t belong to any of these groups; the able-bodied group or the disabled – I belonged nowhere. In her book Hearing Maud, Jessica White describes her identity as being in between the hearing and the living worlds. I have often experienced a similar sense of (non) belonging. By (non) belonging I mean a feeling of being and living in between, belonging to none of the identification groups available to you.

At university I came across the social model of disability – a seed was planted. Several years later, when I became a mother, I faced further ableism and barriers I’ve managed quietly for some years – medical, social and internalised. It started at my first antenatal class where a midwife judged and shamed any parent who wasn’t ‘active’ enough and referred to them as a “sideline mum”, explaining how not participating in kids’ sport made one a second-rate parent. I walked away knowing I will forever be judged for being a disabled parent. Worries about being judged and mistreated, and concerns about the implications for my child fuelled my fear, resentment and shame.

Connecting with the disability community, reading, writing, reflecting and undertaking therapy – has eventually made me realise the ‘problem’ was never me or my leg. The problem has always been my disempowerment, marginalisation, silencing, lack of access, and societal expectations – all of which have led to my (non) belonging. Gradually I developed an understanding of how the social model of disability applies to me. I’ve always been disabled by the society I was operating in – by doctors who kept promising one day I’ll be ‘fixed’, by peers who bullied me, by a society that didn’t consider it worthwhile installing a lift at our school or home. I was disabled by people’s staring, by others attempts to hide my leg and by ‘professionals’ who judged me for not being able-bodied. Painful moments in my life were always born from society’s expectations and views of disability, others’ choices and behaviours. I have been disabled by disempowering and discriminatory practices and spaces. My body, different from others as it is, is not inferior in any way. 

Once I freed myself of these expectations and views, that is – the need to be an able-bodied person, I became free to advocate for myself and others and live a better life. I liberated myself through changing my perspective, taking pride in myself – disability included. I’ve learned from many advocates about the use of disability-centred language (i.e. the word disabled) and it powerfully resonated with me. Nowadays I refer to myself as disabled as a way to 1. Reclaim the word which belongs to our community – letting everyone know being disabled is not an insult, but an identity. Just like I identify as a Melbournian. 2. Express my identification with the disability community and my pride, and finally 3. To express my adherence to the social model of disability, rejecting the medical model. I am disabled not by my impairment, but by the society in which I live. 

I am still disabled by a society that doesn’t prioritise installing lifts or ramps in health, recreation, community and employment places. I would not be disabled by our society if it was accessible. I wouldn’t be disabled if my employment, entertainment and recreation opportunities weren’t restricted by spaces and practices made only for one type of people – able-bodied people. I would not have been disabled if my needs were considered just as important as an able-bodied person’s needs, if my way of living was just as valued.

This is why I identify with and deliberately choose to use the term disabled. It is not an insult anymore – we have reclaimed it. I am proud to be disabled because it made me who I am, and I have a community to belong to now. The deep permeating sense of (non) belonging is difficult to shake. I often feel like the different or inferior one in a group. Identifying as disabled gives me strength, hope and connection. Speaking with my support people builds my sense of belonging – it is still in the making. There are still days and moments I feel disconnected and alone. Connecting, reading or listening to others’ stories feels like holding the hand of a long-lost friend. I have found my people. 

Identity is an idiosyncratic and evolving process. Some people with disabilities don’t identify with the word disabled. I choose it – thoughtfully, and deliberately. Disabled is not an insult, it’s who I am.

Liel K. Bridgford 

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Disability Pride and Me

July is disability pride month, and I’ve been pondering the idea the entire month. This is the first time I’ve even heard of, and can identify with, disability pride month. The sad fact that it took me over thirty years to get here doesn’t stop me from being connected with the idea. 

Disability pride has changed my life so significantly it is actually hard to put into words. I’ve written about this before in different ways – my journey of accepting who I am, my disability and my life. But how has this pride improved my life? Here are just a few things that have come to mind as I’ve reflected over the last month.

As a teenager, my leg was always out of sight, especially in photos (I didn’t crop the leg out – it was never captured). Image description: a teenage girl sitting on a white plastic chair at the edge of a lake, looking at the camera, smiling. She is wearing read bikini top and white shorts.

My mental health has improved (well apart from COVID anxiety). I no longer feel worried, scared, ashamed or guilty about my disability or my needs. Instead of constantly worrying about someone seeing my leg or commenting about how I dress or my limp, I feel free to wear what I truly like, that works with the weather, my mood and who I am. 

My physical health has improved. Despite being an Australian resident since 2015 I have never thought about even inquiring about disability support. The Israeli system taught me that is a traumatic process that isn’t worth my effort and time. By accepting that I am disabled, I’ve applied for NDIS funding and received it, allowing me access to services I never thought were even an option for me. A few weeks ago I’ve had an assessment with an occupational therapist for the first time in my life. I nearly cried of joy when she recommended meaningful modifications that would make my life more pain free and manageable.

I found a community. Having a disability community I can be a part of means everything to me. It means that after so many years of feeling like the outsider, the one who doesn’t fit in or belong, the ‘damaged one’, I now feel a sense of belonging to a community which is resilient, powerful, unapologetic and beautiful. Feeling ‘normal’ and that others out there are like me discarded so much shame and hopelessness. 

I found hope. Growing up I’ve learnt to wait for a ‘fix’ of my leg, my body, of me. That was the main goal of all my treatments. Unfortunately, I was never going to be ‘normal’ and felt I would never truly fit it. Disability pride has made me hopeful because I’ve changed my focus. I no longer wait for a fix of myself, because I am not the one who needs fixing. It is our society that needs to do the work – to reflect, fund, support, accept, and change. There is hope in my heart that we can make that change happen – because there are such strong voices out there advocating for that, every day.

People around me understand more. Since accepting who I am, talking and writing about it, I’ve noticed people in my environment responding. I got asked if I need a hand with something previously people wouldn’t have mentioned. People have told me that my writing and advocacy about disability have changed their perspective and their behaviour. My toddler knows about my pain and accepts my body and it’s functions because I talk about them without apologies or shame.

I am more me. As a kid, I remember pondering what would happen to me once the leg thing was ‘finished’. Even as a child I felt sad about being ‘fixed’, despite simultaneously wanting that to happen so bad. Now I know the reason for this ambivalcnce is disbaility pride. Even as a child I knew that my leg, my disability or my journey, could never be sepeated from me. They are an integral part of who I am. Disability pride has released me from this ambivalnce. I don’t want to be fixed, I don’t want a cure, or to be woken up with a ‘normal’ leg, like I used to dream about. My disability could never be taken away from me. If it ever was, there would be a big hole left in me – I feel empty and sad imagining life without my disability. I am different from other people, and I like it! I don’t want to be like anybody else in the world. I wouldn’t choose another journey. I wouldn’t choose an able-bodied body over my own. I would choose my leg, my disability and my life. Every. Single. Time. If it wasn’t for my disability, you wouldn’t have been reading these words. If it wasn’t for my disability, I wouldn’t have been me. 

Until next time, 

Liel K. Bridgford