We often hear of the powers of storytelling and the self discovery it brings. This has a positive ring to it – but what if the writing process unearths something unsettling? While reviewing my memoir for possibly the 99th time, in the long arduous process of publishing, I detected a whiff of internalised ableism within me.
The menace gnawing at my insides
You might dismiss the term as jargon that doesn’t resonate with your life, and you’d be partly right. But why do we read books or watch movies? We’re often intrigued by others’ lives, and that curiosity can evolve into empathy. It wasn’t until I read my manuscript for the 99th time that I shuddered, finally recognising the ableism I had unconsciously internalised.
Internalised ableism takes root when people with disabilities adopt ableist beliefs, leading to self-discrimination. It’s the idea that disability is negative and shameful – something to hide or erase. While I can’t conceal many of my disabilities, even if I wanted to, I realised during my first year in business school that I had felt compelled to justify needing more support than my non-disabled peers.
A Counterintuitive Revelation
Reviewing my memoir illuminated a counterintuitive truth: despite spending fourteen years in the development sector, I’d unconsciously treated disability as a negative topic to avoid. I feared that working or even volunteering on disability issues would pigeonhole me in a narrative of endless struggle rather than a facet of human experience.
I believed that disability work as limiting and undesirable – a mindset that revealed just how deeply I had internalised ableism. Living with multiple disabilities myself, I was all too aware of the challenges faced by even privileged individuals with disabilities, yet I couldn’t begin to imagine the daily struggles of those less fortunate.
I questioned why people with disabilities should be confined to disability work. While no one should be forced into a field against their will, it’s a sobering reality that disability rights remain one of the last frontiers in human development.
The struggle for empathy
Despite progress in many areas of social justice, the rights of individuals with disabilities are often overlooked, leading to discrimination and othering. I must admit, on more than one occasion in my previous life, I’ve sighed out loud when a wheelchair user boarded the New York City bus I was on, frustrated by the delay the necessary securing of the wheelchair caused. I prided myself on being a busy New Yorker, blissfully unaware of my lack of empathy for those with disabilities.
Reviewing my memoir clarified my question: why do people with disabilities always work on disability issues? The answer is simple. Those who experience disability or have loved ones who do are often the best equipped to advocate for change. We readily empathise with individuals facing poverty and at least in the developing world, are just beginning to empathise with those in the LGBTQ community. Yet society has conditioned us to believe that people with disabilities lack agency and require fixing.
Also read: How Prisons Perpetuate and Produce Disabilities
A shift in perspective
It’s only natural that I once viewed wheelchair users as lacking something that those without disabilities possess. Beyond the lack of mobility, there’s a more subtle cause at play here too. The absence of accessible spaces reinforces the notion that people with disabilities aren’t equal to those without – after all, individuals with disabilities are (made) invisible. This was more likely to be true in the United States before the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) of 1990 than it does today.
A pivotal moment came during the arduous, post-memoir job-hunting process when I spoke with an executive from Microsoft’s Inclusive Design team. What made the difference was that she didn’t push back my assertion that I didn’t want to make disability my entire identity; instead, she encouraged me to reflect on why I felt that way. She could have taken offence on why I spoke of disability with such disdain, but she didn’t.
While rereading my manuscript, possibly for the hundredth time, I landed on the chapter in which I discovered, in my first year of business school at Yale University that seeking official, personal tutoring from upperclassmen and women, who had excelled in the subject, was standard practice. A wave of relief had washed over me as I realised I was not alone in seeking help from peer tutors. Yet, I had prided myself on “pushing through” my disability, viewing it as a strength. I glowed with pride when I received praise for my resilience, but the thought of needing help made me feel like a grape, withering into a raisin – diminished and less capable. It took me four years after graduating to recognise this for what it was – internalised ableism.
Embracing change
Dismissing help or accommodations when necessary is neither a sign of incapacity nor strength – it is a harmful lie that leads to burnout and mental anguish. Worse still, the refusal to ask for or accept help perpetuates the stereotype that disabled people are “strong” or “inspiring.” I, myself, cringe whenever strangers and acquaintances call me an “inspiration” just because I use a wheelchair.
Determined to confront this unwelcome internalised ableism, I acknowledged its existence as the first step toward change. Gradually, I sought work in a disability-related field that genuinely appealed to me. Over time, I’ve come to view disability not as a negative but as a natural and valuable part of the human experience.
Tarini Mohan is a a writer and a development professional.
