Talking about disability is not easy.
Not today.
Not when words weigh.
Not when a single "label" can open rights… and at the same time cause pain.
If this topic bothers you a little, that's okay.
If it stirs you, too.
It happens to me every time I write it.
I have a disability.
First for multiple sclerosis.
Now also for autism.
And yet, I do not consider myself a disabled person.
Not because I don't have limits or challenges.
Not because I don't need support.
But because many times it is not my body that limits me, but the spaces, the rhythms, and the perspectives that are not designed for me.
This article does not seek to convince you of anything.
It seeks to open an honest conversation, without slogans, without sides, without the obligation to agree.
What does it mean to "have a disability"?
From a human rights perspective, disability is not understood as something that "is" in the person, but as the result of the interaction between a person and their environment.
The Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (UN) states clearly: disability arises when the environmentdoes not adapt to human diversity.
This changes many things.
Because it shifts the question from"what's wrong with you?" to"what's missing here?".
“Disability does not reside in the person, but in the barriers imposed by society.”
— UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities
And perhaps here you might start to ask yourself something:
how many times have you felt capable… until the environment stopped being so?
Identity: when the word doesn’t quite fit
There are people who embrace the identity of “disabled” with pride.
As a form of belonging, of collective struggle, of political recognition.
And that is legitimate.
It has history. It makes sense. It has strength.
But there are also people —like me— who have a more ambivalent relationship with this word.
Because I don’t feel that way.
I don’t feel defined by my diagnoses, even though I recognize and accept them. I believe that my life is determined not by my conditions but by my decisions.
And yet, there are contexts that disable me:
- a space that does not consider my body,
- a rhythm that does not respect my timing,
- a norm that does not allow for nuances.
It’s not a contradiction.
It’s lived experience.
“Identity is not imposed from a legal category; it is constructed from experience.”
— Contemporary Disability Studies
Perhaps you experience it differently.
Perhaps this word brings you relief.
Perhaps it hurts you.
Perhaps both at the same time.
All of this fits here.
Labels: relief, wound… or both
Labels can be a lifeline.
And also a cage.
They can:
- name what has no name,
- open access to supports,
- lighten the guilt.
And at the same time they can:
- reduce us to a diagnosis,
- generate stigmas,
- make others decide for us who we are.
In neurodivergence, this is experienced with special intensity.
Not all of us need the same from a label.
Not all of us experience it the same way.
And not all of us are in the same moment.
“Naming can care or can hurt, depending on how and for what it is done.”
— Critical analysis of language in health and disability
If you have ever felt relief in naming yourself…
or rejection…
or both…
you are not alone.
Rights: essential, and sometimes exhausting
Here I want to be clear: rights are not questioned.
Thanks to the recognition of disability:
- we access supports,
- we demand reasonable adjustments,
- we claim accessibility,
- we defend our dignity.
But it is also true that exercising these rights is exhausting.
Because it involves exposing yourself.
Justifying yourself.
Proving again and again that "you need it."
Explaining the invisible.
And that wears you out.
"Having rights does not guarantee the ability to exercise them without emotional cost."
— Sociology of Disability
If you have ever felt guilty for asking for help, or tired of having to explain, this is also about you.
When the environment disables more than the diagnosis
There are days when my body is not the problem.
I can think.
I can create.
I can work.
I can love.
But the environment does not support.
And then yes: it disables me.
Not for who I am.
But for what is missing.
"Accessibility is not an extra: it is the foundation of coexistence."
— Universal Design Approaches
Maybe here we can change the question:
what if it were not about "including," but about coexisting?
Let’s talk without fear, without closed answers
Talking about disability can hurt.
Talking about identity can stir.
Talking about rights can frustrate.
But silence does not protect.
It isolates.
We need conversations where there is room for:
- the doubt,
- the contradiction,
- the fatigue,
- the pride,
- the discomfort.
Without forcing us to choose a definitive stance.
To close (and open conversation)
I have a disability.
And I also have agency.
I have limits.
And I have rights.
I have days when my body feels heavy.
And others when what weighs me down is the world.
I don't know if there is a correct way to live this word.
But I do know that we deserve to be able to discuss it with nuance.
If you feel like it, tell me:
- how do you experience the word disability?
- does it represent you, bother you, support you?
- what has it given you… and what has it taken away?
We are not here to judge.
Come to listen to us.
Verònica Martín
Co-founder of ATÍPICS.org
Neurodivergent. Human.