Courage is often portrayed in sweeping gestures. You know, the soldier in battle, the activist at the podium, the climber on a windswept peak. Yet for many of us, courage shows up very differently; In the quiet, often unglamorous acts of self-honesty, and in the choice to live with honesty and integrity, despite being in a world that often resists the truth of our existence.
As disabled people, we often face a unique pressure: to fit into a mold that was never built for us. We are taught, explicitly and implicityly, to mask our needs, downplay our differences, and strive to be «normal». I should know, I’ve done it all! But what if courage isn’t found in becoming something else, but rather in daring to be fully, visibly and unapologetically ourselves?
As mentioned in a few previous posts, I was quite the ‘weirdo‘ from early on. From the several daily small seizures in the middle of primary-class (at the time still undiagnozed) which made my teacher think me both dumb and a troublemaker, and made my friends confused, to the daily times I chose to sit by myself at the beginning of the school forrest. Sure, on the one hand this was (as mentioned) due to me refusing to play with the kids that would bully me a few hours later – but It was equally in order to sit alone and reset my mental and emotional battery – which as a an epileptic, very easily runs out, by all things going on in the average schoolground.
Later in life, as I entered University – I simply made it a general point to tell everyone of my epilepsia (still do!) Because, it’s not a question of «if» I get a seizure, its a question of «when» – and when you have several seizures every day, it’s impossible to actually live a life without being preopared for it to come. And for me, that in itself is a sign of courage, as I refuse to roll over and die just because some people would rather pretend people like me don’t exist.
For anyone interested in learning more about this, and the several other ways that embody the lived experiences of disabled people, I would strongly reccomend Robert McRuers book «Crip theory: Cultural Signs of Queerness and Disability«. The book is one I myself used for my MA-thesis in the heritage of disability on display, and works as a framework that reclaims disability not as something shameful of pitable, but as a powerful, complex identity. With it McRuer encourages us to challenge abelist assumptions, to disrupt expectations, and to embrace our bodies and minds as sites of wisdom and resistance.
Believe it or not, this is one of the ways the concept of ‘passing’ originates from. From both disabled (and black) people either pretending to either ‘pass’ as an «able-bodied» (or white) person – or quite strongly reisting to do so. Personally, I’ve done both, greatly depending upon the situation and what is physically the safest for me.
As Audre Lorde once wrote, «Caring for myself is not self-indulgent, it is self-perservation, and that is an act of political warfare.» (A Burst of Light, 1988)
In the same spirit, choosing to center our needs, speak our truths and shape our lives around what sustains us is not weakness – it is defiance.
To live with integrity as a disabled person is to resist a culture that insists we hide. It is to claim our space, tell our stories, and believe that our truths matter.
You are already courageous. Every time you ask for help, name your boundaries or simply exist without apology, you are practicing a radical kind of bravery.
From Eli Clare’s «Brilliant Imperfection: Grappling with Cure» (2017)
«I want a world where we value interdepencence over independence access over ability, justice over cure. Where disabled bodies and minds are not seen as broken but as deeply valuable. Where difference is not something to be overcome but rather something to be voven into the fabric of our communities».
Take a moment today to recognize one way you showed up with courage. And if you feel like it, share that story. You never know who needs to hear it.
– Silje
