Tag: #disabledandproud

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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 

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How To Avoid Ableist Slurs (And Why Should You Care?)

CW: ableist slurs, ableism, ignorance. Note: I will be censoring slurs throughout this post in respect to people who may be affected. 

As a kid I heard slurs a lot. One of my classmates’ favourites was crip*. When I’d tell adults about names I was called, the advice was to “Just ignore it”. The bullies who used the slurs, or others’ right to shame and dehumanise me in this way was never truly challenged. In combination with physical barriers, medical and historical ableism, internalising that I was less than an able-bodied person was to be expected. 

Despite working in mental health and being involved in the disability community, I still hear many ableist slurs around me. Sadly, sometimes this comes from disabled people themselves. It’s understandable considering we rarely talk about this in our disabled community or wider society. 

What is an ableist slur? It is a word or a phrase used degradingly to exclude, marginalise and discriminate against disabled people. 

Fine, I’ll admit – as a kid I was told that those things were not true and that I shouldn’t listen to it. But it is extremely difficult to ignore degrading comments when those are being repeatedly drilled into you. Especially as a child forming your sense of self. If you are privileged enough never to have experienced such repeated abuse or bullying, just close your eyes and imagine someone telling you over and over again degrading comments about something you cannot change about yourself (people from marginalised communities – don’t bother, you know what I’m talking about). It is inevitable that you’d end up believing this “truth” about yourself.

Why should you care?

Ableist slurs are one tool by which society deems different bodies and minds as subhuman, therefore leaving the power outside the hands of disabled people. Using ableist slurs reinforces the status quo of disabled people being marginalised, excluded, shamed and discriminated against in our society. Ableist slurs therefore, work to further disable people with bodily impairments, cognitive difference, or who are otherwise considered “nontypical”. Historically, people who have been labelled with words such as “crip*” “craz*” or “blind” have been physically ostracised, abused, neglected and killed. Unfortunately, that still happens under our watch to disabled children and adults in Australia. 

You know that time you had a busy day at work, and you said to a colleague it was “craz*”? Imagine that this colleague has a mental illness you didn’t know about. How do you think that would make them feel? Add to this how often this person would be hearing a word previously describing mental illness used to describe an unpredictable, difficult to manage or stressful times. Using slurs as negatively descriptive words yells out – that person is unworthy, the other – subhuman. They do not deserve to be respected, or equally participate in society, because they are different. 

Almost one in five Australians live with a disability, many of these are invisible or dynamic, so you wouldn’t be able to tell simply by looking at a person. If you believe everyone deserves to develop a healthy sense of self, to feel proud of who they are and to be included in our society, then avoiding ableist slurs is a simple way to start your contribution. If you’re still not convinced, remember any able-bodied person can unwillingly join the disabled community tomorrow by means of an accident or illness. 

How to avoid ableist slurs?

  • Ask yourself the following basic questions: Does this word relate to a bodily/cognitive/information processing or other impairment? Has this word been used as a negative description of something (an object, person, behaviour etc)? Has this word been historically used to shame or dehumanise people? What context am I using this word in? Would I use this word if a person with the associated impairment was in the room? 
  • If in doubt, be cautious and choose an alternative word. Learn from the disability community (and other marginalised communities) about what constitutes a slur. 
  • Check the following blog which provides a list of slurs and alternative phrases: https://www.autistichoya.com/p/ableist-words-and-terms-to-avoid.html?fbclid=IwAR3zdBfc4PceYWf78vpcI5P4-kRC9lK0KiReq8Rf0Ognq1sJy5W9NGuhBD8
  • Reclaiming disability language is something only the disability community can do. This happens when a marginalised group owns back a perviously degrading phrase and creates new meaning to it by purposefully using it. For instance, using the word “disabled” as a way to express one’s feeling of being disabled by society or affiliation with the disability community. If you aren’t a disabled person reclaiming a word – avoid using it if possible. 

Where to from here?

We all make mistakes and have the potential to evolve. If you’ve used a slur and then realised it – apologise. Learn, and let humility be the guide in improving your respectful communication. If you hear or see others using ableist slurs – call it out. Just like you would if people use racist or sexist slurs. Educate your network and share this information. Think of your words – they do count.

Until next time, 

Liel K. Bridgford (yes I have a first name!) 

P.S. If you have comments or questions – feel free to leave those below. 

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A Sensitive Topic

*Spoiler alert for Sensitive – by Allayne L. Webster*

I’ve just finished reading Sensitive and I can’t stop thinking about it. This is my first book review on the blog. Although I read constantly, not often it feels needed to share my experience of reading something with the whole world. Sensitive made me want to. 

Sensitive is the book I wish I’d had growing up. Growing up I didn’t know any other disabled children – not, even, one. Even though I spent many days in a hospital, surrounded by other kids who were probably going through similar struggles to myself. Like any other kid in the world, I craved a connection with others who get it.

Sensitive is the first YA book I’ve ever read with a disabled protagonist. Actually, Sensitive is the first fiction book I’ve read with a disabled protagonist. It has exceeded my expectations of reading a book by and about a disabled person.

SJ is portrayed in such a warm and human way that she feels real – a literary achievement in and of itself. On top of her humanity, and perhaps making it more so, she struggles with external and internalised ableism throughout her journey. She faces the medical model of disability so strongly in her family and treating doctors that she learns to believe it – the notion that she should be fixed. Perhaps without even realising it, she faces ableist language from her closest people – her mother especially but also the doctors. At her lowest, she feels her life isn’t worth living and struggles to accept her body, herself, and the notion that she has this particular body. ‘Why me’ questions come up often. Being involved in the disability community, I know many people who’ve experienced such ableism and angst.

SJ’s relationships also reflect such common experiences. Her grandmother is a lovely voice of reason and anti-ableism that any disabled child deserves to hear. Her parents’ struggles with her disease is portrayed so realistically, and as a disabled person it got me angry and sad. SJ’s responses fantastically dance between disconnect, disempowerment, despair, hope, questioning, reflection, isolation, and reaching out. Although SJ liked the boy who initially seemed like a bully, his image did expand and improve. I wanted to tell SJ he is a jerk, but in some way her liking increased her humanity. 

SJ’s journey with internalised ableism doesn’t fully resolve, and that is perfection. This portrayal reflects many of our ever-changing relationships with our disabilities and bodies. Nicely, other characters provide hope that SJ could eventually come to love herself. She receives wonderful role modelling by Billie and Livvy – both friends who see her for the person she is. 

Sensitive brings to light the internal struggle any person living with a disability may experience at some point in their life. The medical approach and the family’s buying into the medical desire to fix SJ, illuminate our society’s failure to accept and understand disabled people. The interaction between the medical model of disability and internalised ableism is beautifully hinted about. 

Sensitive can be a powerful tool for able-bodied people to increase understanding and step into the shoes of disabled people. For health professionals, this could help understand the immense consequences of failure to see the person behind the condition. Most importantly, for any disabled person who has struggled with feelings of exclusion, bullying, or self-hatred – this book is guaranteed to normalise your experience and make you feel less alone. 

Finally, the author has mentioned reading a story about disability she related to in her youth. Thank you Allayne Webster for writing this book, and for making me feel seen and included.

Until next time,

L. K. Bridgford

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An Illusion of an Evolution

CW: ableism, parental ableism, grief about disability, anger. 

A recent article published by The Age discussed an exciting and revolutionary podcast called “Too Peas in a Podcast”. Hosted by two mothers of disabled children, it is presented as a safe place to talk about their difficulties as they raise their children. This initiative may be perceived as contributing to the building of social support networks or as raising awareness – both of which are integral to the wellbeing of parents and children alike. What unfolds in the content of the podcast and the article though, is in fact detrimental to the wellbeing of disabled people. 

In the article, the hosts used the stage to describe their revolutionary idea of having a “living grief”. This refers to the supposedly inherit continuous process of grieving one’s disabled child’s life. This essential building block of the podcast is in fact an old idea, which shames disabled people. Parents used to sacrifice their disabled children to the Gods, as an offering for their sins. Disabled people used to be (and still are), thrown into institutions, ignored and silenced. Disable people have always been seen as a burden on their families and society. Being sad, even distraught by having a disabled child is based on the presumption that disability is a bad thing, a tragedy.

The “living grief” and other negative perceptions of disability continuously present themselves in the podcast. In the episode discussing stigma, one of the hosts shared she has kept her children’s ADHD diagnosis a secret in their school to avoid stigma. She referred to it as “not managed very well” and argued it should be considered a disability because it relates to brain dysfunction. She went on to suggest that if ADHD would be considered a disability, no stigma would be attached to it. Only a small amount of research or connection with the disability community would prove that this is highly unlikely. The other host, a mother of a child with cerebral palsy, said in regard to her child’s diagnosis “You can’t fix it.”. It is clear the hosts view disability as tragic, their children as faulty to be “managed” and “fixed”, who deserve to be grieved about.

These messages are based on the objectifying medical model, on which the discrimination against disabled people has been based on for generations. It perpetuates the idea that bodily impairments are bad and are the basis of disability – suggesting that people who are not “typical” are objects to be handled and fixed by medical professionals. This is disabling – it means society blames individuals for their disabilities and takes no responsibility for including everyone.

This podcast isn’t revolutionary, it conforms to old and shaming ideas about disability. Ableism is not a revolution- it is the oppression of disabled people. The impact of these ideas run deep in our veins. When a child learns that they need to hide who they are to be accepted, that they’ve caused grief to their parents by being born – they internalise this ableism, and in turn suffer from guilt, shame, depression, anxiety. They may even consider suicide. 

The social model of disability, developed by disabled people, asserts that disability is based on limitations in the society one lives in, rather than individual bodies. Limitations include both physical and attitudinal barriers. Too Peas in a Podcast puts significant attitudinal barriers within the lives of disabled people. 

What is new though, is that we will no longer be silenced. I feel proud to say my community of disabled folks is strong and comforting. We are not to be grieved for. We are not to be silenced. We are, just like any other human – to be celebrated. We deserve to be happy about being alive, without others grieving our births. And so today I celebrate – being a disabled woman. I celebrate all my disabled siblings across the globe, who stand or sit or lay by my side. It is time that our voices be heard.

The absentminded punchline of the episode was that people should be careful with content they share, to avoid hurting others, and that “If you’re not living it, why are you sharing it?” Good question indeed. If you’re not the person living with the impacts of discrimination, ableism, shaming, lack of access, people grieving for your life, objectification – why are you sharing it?

Step aside and give us the stage. Be an ally and call out ableism. 

Until next time,

L. K. Bridgford 

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What happened when I was called “brave” for living with a disability

As a child, I was often told I was “brave” and “strong” for living with a disability. I was told I was an inspiration for handling life with a smile. I was called “resilient”, even a “hero”. I was only a child, living my life, handling the cards I’ve been dealt with the best of my abilities. This included a missing bone, operations and painful procedures. I always felt a cringe when people said such words, but only in the last year or so I got to fully understand why!

Being Non-Inspirational at age 15. Image description: a teenager is sitting on a rug on grass. She wears sunglasses and is holding green grapes. On her right leg is in a brace covered with a cream fabric band.

Being an object of inspiration porn has got in the way of me accepting my body, and myself. I felt I had to be “strong”, “brave” and “unstoppable”- examples of adjectives I’ve heard from others about me. We internalise so much of what adults tell us as we form our sense of self. And so when my foot or leg were sore, I also felt anxious as I felt I had to push through those feelings, pain and keep going.

The well-intentioned words came with an implication that I always have to inspire, it implied it is my duty to be a hero – overcoming immense obstacles. Mind Over Matter. And so I pushed. Sometimes my body caved in and provided temporary obedience. Other times- it yelled out NO by creating unbearable pain I could not ignore. This led to feeling inadequate and a failure as a person. It was disheartening not to be able to live up to my “potential” and the expectations I was carrying on my shoulders. Feeling I’m letting others and myself down quickly turned into feeling down about myself. 

Our bodies are matter, often with its own will. I learnt to ignore my body’s signals, But I still couldn’t transform my leg into having another bone, or magically make an eight-centimeter leg difference disappear. I’ve tried praying, hoping, crossing fingers. But our bodies obviously don’t always cooperate in the magical way we want it to. Able-bodied people might know what this means when they come across things like age, illness or pregnancy. Being out of control of your body can be distressing if you thought you were in control!

So what exactly is inspiration porn? Inspiration porn refers to considering an achievement something that isn’t considered extraordinary, if you take disability out of the context. This means people with disabilities are seen as objects of inspiration rather than real, live, humans, with their own values, aspirations, emotions. This type of behavior perpetuates two false and damaging ideas: one- that disability is a bad thing. Two- that living with disability is an achievement. None of these are true, and both ideas are damaging to us, people who actually live with disabilities. When people do this, they are objectifying one group of people (disabled people) to the benefit of another group of people (able-bodied people). This behavior makes our life harder, by making society exclude us rather than work on inclusion, so that we can live the fulfilled life that we deserve. In other words, by being the object of inspiration porn, we are being further disabled by the society we live in.

How did I change my view on this? Learning about the term inspiration porn was so relieving. I was able to look into my internalised ableism and expectations which were unrealistic. I realised I had become expectant of my body to function like it never had a missing bone in the first place. “Nothing stops her!” “So determined” – these in my head turned into an identity of being strong, and any complaint, or “caving into” pain or limitations, was considered a failure. I realised how damaging this is- to my body, mind and soul. I was ignoring pain signals, instead of thanking my body, I ignored then resented it, then kept on walking, cycling, or body pumping. I can be like everyone else. Then, my body fought back with more severe pain, to the point I had to stop. I felt low, depressed, resentful and angry. I was angry at myself, my leg, my life, my parents, at everything. This was the damage to my mind. And soul. I cried, and felt excluded, and let down by the world, but mainly, by myself, how did my mind not get over these obsctables? “You can do anything you want!” What a lie! This realisation was extremely difficult to comprehend. To try and reconcile my body’s signals to STOP and my mind’s signals to PUSH THROUGH.

It took a while, but I have decided. I’ve decided to listen to my body, to feel embodied, to connect with my senses fully. To accept that pain is natural and a good thing, because it helps us prevent tissue damage. I’ve learnt to accept my body is not like everyone else’s. It is unique. And that is a good thing. I may not be able to complete a 50 km hike in the mountains of India like some of my friends, but I can do things other people can’t. Like change the whole way I view myself, like understand emotional and physical pain deeply or teach people about inclusiveness.

Now, I feel grateful to have more acceptance of my body. More often than not I accept my limitations and crash on the couch instead of trying to vacuum. I don’t get frustrated, sad or depressed about my leg or back pain. I just take some pain killers, rest and chat to my disabled community about pain-reduction tricks. (Who knew magnesium can make such a difference?).

This is why I am writing this post. Because I don’t want the next generation of disabled children to go through the pain that I did to get here, they deserve better. We have social media and internet available, and we can use it to educate. We can help these children feel embodied, accepted and celebrated, rather than objectified.

If you still think you don’t care about any of this, and enjoy using your child (or other people) to inspire yourself or others, consider this- wouldn’t you prefer to be cautious, in case your child feels the way that I, and many other people with disbilities feel? Do you really want to take the risk?

So, how can you avoid using inspiration porn? Here is a guide: Don’t do it. Use the rule of thumb- put yourself in the disabled person’s shoes. Ask people what they want and need. Lastly, challenge your own ableist attitudes and call these out. Make our society a place we can all thrive in, not only those born with a particular body shape.

Until next time,

L. K. Bridgford

Note- my explanation of the concept inspiration porn comes from my understanding of it, based on reading and listening to disability writers and activists. (To name a couple: Stella Young and Carly Findlay). If you like to read or hear more about it, feel free to message me on social media (links at the bottom right of my website).

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Concluding a Decade

It was almost impossible not to write a concluding reflection about the last year, actually, about the last decade. 

I’ll start from the beginning. In 2010 I was serving in the Israeli Air Force as a First Lieutenant at Flight school. I built, from scratch, a role of managing three operation rooms and seven unique soldiers. I was responsible for their personal and professional well-being, all of whom were no younger than me than by two years. It was one of the most challenging and rewarding experience I’ve ever had. During that year, I’ve finished my service and went travelling around Thailand and Laos. I’ve learnt to connect with others using other things but words, and appreciate my privilege in the hierarchy of the plant. 

Me passing the baton. Image description: a person in khaki uniform, holding a purple tinsel, she is looking away from the camera.

In 2011 I was studying: history, Bible studies and literature, to improve my already-high high-school grades with the aim of landing a medical school spot. When finishing those exams (with excellent marks I must admit), I decided to go travelling again. Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand. During that trip I decided to ditch the childhood dream of medicine (thank goodness). I also met a nice Australian guy. 

Meeting an Australian guy. image description: two people on a hammock: a man is smiling with eyes almost closed, wearing a yellow singlet: a woman is smiling, looking at him, wearing a white singlet.

2012 was the year I moved to Australia to be with the Australian guy (ok, Mike) and study psychology. I’ve adjusted to living in the unpredictable and cold Melbourne weather, and the unfamiliar Australian culture. I’ve continued studying and getting to know Melbourne and Australia, volunteering in the community, and making life-long friends along the way. 

Learning about Christmas. Image description: a woman standing with one hand on her head. she is wearing a red long-sleeve top and red reindeer antlers.

In 2014, after finishing my psychology degree, Mike and I went back to live in Israel. I worked two mental health jobs (simultaneously).

Tel-Avivian life. A meal on the balcony was one of my favorite rituals. Image description: brown wooden table on balcony, a street visible in the background. On the table is a salad; two plates with sandwiches; a water bottle; glass cups.

In 2015, I got engaged (to Mike). Four days later my last living grandparent passed away. The year finished with a pre-wedding honeymoon in Europe and Japan. That was one of the best trips I’ve ever had. 

A moment in Japan. I am walking with a walking stick because I’m barely walking after exhausting my leg. There is always a price to pretending and pushing yourself too much. Image description: a woman is standing with a walking stick, holding an umbrella, camera hung on her neck. She is standing next to a pond, with trees in the background.

In February of 2016 I got married to Mike (the Australian guy). Then I started a Psychology Honours degree. While doing that, I started working as a mental health counsellor, a job which I am still doing. I graduated from my Psychology Honours degree. 

A bride. Image description: a woman in a white wedding dress. She wears a white flower crown and is smiling.

2017 was a tough one. I had to prepare for a testimony in a court case about my disability. It was something I never wanted to do, and never thought I’d have to do. I spent months with a therapist preparing for it. I tried to explain to my colleagues it wasn’t a holiday (even though I used all my leave to go). Testifying indeed was extremely triggering. The weeks I spent around family and friends, who didn’t know anything about it, was also challenging. No one knew about the court case. Hiding it, pretending I wasn’t going through re-traumatisation, was exhausting. Thankfully, the year ended on a positive note, as Mike and I moved homes and got Chilli the puppy (on the same day!). 

  • Bringing Chilli home. Image description: woman holding a cocker spaniel puppy, who is licking her face. She is smiling.

In June 2018 I gave birth to my son. I then spent almost a year at home full-time with him. That was one of the most challenging and rewarding experiences of my life. Yes, it was harder than my military service. The intensity and size of my emotions, as well as the natural tendency to reflect on one’s experiences after a baby’s arrival, brought me back to writing. 

With my precious one, at our six-week check up. Image description: woman sitting on green chair, holding a small baby. She is smiling. The baby is looking away from the camera.

In 2019 I’ve been writing, more and more. I’ve also been performing- reading out my poems to other people has been more rewarding and exhilarating than I expected. Connecting with other readers and writers, in person and online, has been brilliant. Importantly, this process of writing, reading, reflecting, and connecting, has brought me to where I am today. I am much more self-aware about my internalised ableism, as well as about the societal impact I’ve experienced throughout my life to create that. I am tackling both the external and internalised ableist attitudes now by challenging it daily. Sometimes multiple times a day. 

Performing my poem A Visit. Image description: a woman standing in front of red microphone. she is wearing glasses, light blue shirt and black scarf.

Today I’m determined to continue writing and connecting with people, educating others about ableism and promote inclusiveness. 

So what can I expect from the next year, or decade? It is hard to tell. I hope to be looking back and be amazed about the progress made by our society. I hope to be just as likely to pick up a book by a disabled woman than by a white cis man. I hope to be just as likely to see a disabled protagonist on TV and the movies, as an able-bodied white male. 

Why? Because it is time. It is time all of us marginalised and silenced people have a voice. It is time young, disabled, transgender, immigrant, Aboriginal girls feel included, like they have a place. It is time for them to know they can succeed and thrive, just by being themselves.  

Until next time, 

L. K. Bridgford 

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This Holiday Season I Am Looking At My Internalised Ableism Straight In The Eye

This is my second post about the topic, and I feel an urge to write it right now, as we are in the midst of the holiday season. ‘The most wonderful time of the year’ for many of us brings to mind images of ‘perfection’; a perfect family picture, a perfect meal, perfect weather, perfect bodies. Images of able-bodied plump babies, happy toddlers and well-rested parents overshadow our social media for months. Unless you are aware of ableism and are conscious about following disabled people who are proud of who they are and post real-life photos of their bodies. 

For many years, the majority of my life in fact, I have not been aware of ableism or the internalised ableism I have been living with for about thirty years. It is exhausting. Hating yourself and never feeling like you’re good enough is tiring. It means you’re always trying to cover up, physically and metaphorically. You omit parts of your day, your feelings, your experiences, your body. Of yourself. It is isolating as you are left feeling like no one really knows you or understand how you feel. How can they, when you’ve never let them in? 

My Holidays/Everyday shoes. These are custom-made to fit my very different feet. Comfort=Beauty. Image description: two black leather boots with white stripes on the sides.

The last year or so I have gone through a journey and started looking into my internalised ableism in the eye. If you don’t know what ableism is, do yourself a favour and google it. Thank goodness for technology. And books. Thanks to books and social media, I have been exposing myself to different views of disability and slowly been flashing out my own internalised ableism in the process. Realising I was feeling ‘less than’ so often has been a revelation. It’s happened through reading stories of other disabled people and realising I was not the only one feeling isolated, ashamed, excluded or in physical and emotional pain. Connecting with others with my own (rare) condition has also been life-changing, after never meeting anyone else with it. I have always been the only child with crutches, leg brace or regularly vising the hospital growing up. I’ve never seen any disabled persons on TV or in a book (and I read everything) or on the big screen. I learned that being able-bodied is the norm. I.e. to be beautiful, sexy, successful, you have to be able-bodied. And I wasn’t, and was never going to be. How depressing is that?

  • Post Christmas rest with one of several great books I got. Image description: two legs resting on a grey couch, with a cocker spaniel against the left one. The right one is shorted, skinnier with a smaller foot, scarred below he knee. A book is laid on the thighs, it is Play All by Clive James. 

After about a year of reflecting, reading and connecting, I can confidently say now that I am no longer ashamed of who I am. Of my disability. When I looked at my internalised ableism in the eye, I realised I had the power to release myself from it. I decided to get out of the prison society told me to live in. Learning disability language, and having role models who are proud of their disability, rather than ashamed, provided me with the tools to become ‘perfect’, as I am. To be truly happy with what I’ve got, accepting it and even being grateful for it. Having a disability provided me with life experiences I could have never had without one. All of which have led me to where I am today and who I am. And I love my life! I am not like everyone else (despite being told I was for many years) and that is a GOOD thing. I don’t want to be like everyone else. Actually, no one is like anyone else anyway. It’s called human diversity. 

This holiday season I have decided not to hide. I didn’t choose my clothing based on how much they’ll cover my scarred, small leg. Just based on my mood in the morning. I felt like wearing a dress and so I did. This morning, I went for a walk around the neighbourhood in a new and favourite pair of shorts. Walking with my head high and leg in the fresh air feels like bungee jumping (I have done that once before if you must know). My leg has been hidden behind long pants for so long, even in 40-degree days, just so I could pretend to be someone I am not. I am done pretending. 

This Hanukkah/Christmas time I am proud of who I am, and it feels great. So I am posting some photos of my real-unedited-life, including my leg. Because it is a part of me. And it doesn’t make my photos less perfect. In fact, my leg being there makes the photos even more special and perfect. 

Happy holidays.

Until next time, 

L. K. Bridgford 

Unedited Multicultural Holidays. Images description: first- small lighted Christmas tree, Hanukkah Hanukia and koala plush toy. Second- Blackboard with Merry Christmas and Hebrew Happy Hanukkah captions with chalk drawings, with plastic toys thrown around it. Third- Lit Hanukkah candles on stone Hannukia, Christmas decorations in the background.

P. S. If you need ideas about awesome people to follow on social media or great books to read, feel free to message me on social media (link on the bottom right of the page).

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Self-acceptance, shame and disability

It’s been a few months of contemplating how to write about this topic. I do not define myself by my body or my disability. I have however, been reading and coming to terms with parts about my disability and self-stigma, and I’ve decided to write publicly about it. It is not easy, but I believe it’s important. 

As a kid I was just a kid, defined by the friends I had, games I played, books I read. As I grew up, my disability became more and more disruptive, to what everyone did and expected me to do, to what I wanted my body to do. I’ve been excluded many times, from sports at school, youth movement activities, outdoor adventures like the beach. I’ve been bullied because of my disability many times growing up. It’s been many years of defining and redefining. I’m now again not defined by my disability. I don’t often talk about it, and as ashamed as I am to say it, I have been trying to hide it. The mere fact that today my disability is mostly invisible, makes it possible to pass as an able-bodied person. Reading about disability recently has got me thinking about my long-lasting self-stigma and shame, and I am working on correcting it. This post is the first step. 

So here it goes. I was born with a congenital condition called fibular hemimelia, in my right leg. This means I was born without one of the shin bones in the leg (fibula), and consequently with a small and deformed foot and knee. I have gone through 18 operations in my first 17 years of life to correct the angle and length of the affected leg. Operations are behind me, for now, and I am walking unaided with specially-made shoes or insoles. 

These days my disability impacts my life only minimally, with some pains and aches and the usual, long-term limitations I’m accustomed to (like no running, no rock-climbing or jumping off planes, to my great disappointment). I work, study, laugh and love like anyone does. I usually wear long pants or skirts to hide my very scarred and small leg. These days I’ve started wearing more shorts because of the weather. And also, because I am no longer ashamed. I am no less valued, beautiful, smart or hard-working than any able-bodied person. In fact, my disability made me who I am today, I have no doubt in mind.  

So, here are a few things I think you should know about disabilities, and ways in which you can help make our society a more inclusive place. 

  • People with disabilities are everywhere. They are your friend, colleague, neighbor. They are at the gym, pool, beach, movies, night clubs. They are that person who never wears a particular item of clothing to avoid exposing a part of their body. Of course, they are also using crutches, wheelchairs, vision aids, etc. 
  • People with disabilities are just like you– they want to be respected, given personal space, not to be asked or commented about their body or being touched without an explicit request. They strive for the same things that you do, like shelter, food, clothing, love, purpose in life. They want to have a conversation, make a connection, just like you. 
  • People’s aids are a part of themselves- often. I saw a kid the other day at the library who was playing on another child’s wheelchair. He was using it to race around, banging the chair on shelves and laughing. Meanwhile, the owner of the chair was struggling to get to it with his crutches. My heart ached for that child whose mobility was temporarily controlled by another child’s game. The adults around him didn’t say a thing. I have experienced similar things growing up.

It is not okay to use someone’s mobility aids as a game, it’s not actually funny. It is extremely disrespectful to use someone’s only means to be mobile or included in our society. “Asking” doesn’t make it right either, as an excluded person with disability, especially a child, often does not have the power to say no. 

  • Disabilities can be invisible. A few weeks ago, a father of two in Israel was murdered after trying to park in a disabled parking spot. Both his wife and child have a disability. 

Hold on and think before you judge, many people live with debilitating and painful invisible disabilities. The way people look can be deceiving.

  • People with disabilities want to feel included in our society. This can be hard when our language is often excluding, and we often assume people are able-bodied. For example, when health professionals jump to offer people “Go for a walk or a run” they are making an assumption the person is able-bodied. A person with a disability may often feel excluded by this and even hopeless, as they are unable to enact an apparently important suggestion. 

Use inclusive language instead– instead of a walk you can say “physical activity that suits your needs” or just be more curious around what is it that people want or can do. Instead of assuming all people are able-bodied and play able-bodied sports, be curious. Ask what people’s hobbies or favorite physical activities are. 

I hope this helps you think about people’s disability status differently, or even just think about it. My hope is that our future-society will be more inclusive to all, and in which this kind of blog post would be obvious and unnecessary. If we all made more of an effort, self-acceptance would soon replace shame for many people.

Every child with a disability and every parent to a child with a disability should be proud. Not ashamed. I am no longer ashamed. This post is proof.

What’s your proof?

Until next time,

L. K. Bridgford 

No longer ashamed. This is my proof.
Self-acceptance. Blogging about disability and feeling grateful.