For more than a decade, I never used the word ‘disabled’ about myself (Picture: Hannah Shewan Stevens)

‘Why are you using that?’ A stranger said, pointing to my cane.

That should have been the end of the conversation, instead, they scoffed, gave me a disgusted look and walked away. That told me everything I needed to know about their opinion of disabled people.

When such vitriol towards disabled people exists, it’s easy to see why it’s so hard for some people to accept the label – I know I certainly did.

For more than a decade, I never used the word ‘disabled’ about myself. I was ashamed of it, I feared it even.

But now, at 31, I finally feel genuine pride in my identity – in fact, it’s a defining part of who I am as a person – and this Disability Pride Month, I want others to feel the same.

I wasn’t always disabled: for the first 14 years of my life I felt like a normal(ish) kid (Picture: Hannah Shewan Stevens)

I wasn’t always disabled: for the first 14 years of my life I felt like a normal(ish) kid. I had a few minor health issues but nothing serious.

Then, in summer 2008, I contracted sepsis following a severe throat infection which, over the next few years, would lead to me developing numerous disabling chronic illnesses including: chronic pain conditions such as fibromyalgia and complex regional pain syndrome, joint hypermobility syndrome, and an autoimmune condition called localised scleroderma.

All this, I later learned, meant I technically qualified as disabled, but I never thought of myself that way.

I remember having this preconceived idea of what being disabled looked like: either you were a wheelchair user or someone who was hard of hearing and that was it. There was no in-between, no grey area.

There was also a part of me that didn’t feel like I was disabled enough to use the term (Picture: Hannah Shewan Stevens)

This belief wasn’t helped by the fact that, whenever I discussed my symptoms, everyone would tell me I was ‘sick, not disabled’ – as if being the latter was the worst thing anyone could possibly be.

Some went even further, saying they would ‘rather die’ than live my life and so I often found myself downplaying my symptoms to appear ‘normal’.

There was also a part of me that didn’t feel like I was disabled enough to use the term. I worried that I would somehow steal attention away from someone more ‘worthy’.

Everyone would tell me I was ‘sick, not disabled’ – as if being the latter was the worst thing (Picture: Hannah Shewan Stevens)

Nothing makes you more comfortable claiming an identity than facing the discrimination attached to it, though.

It was when trying to prove that I’m not ‘just an overly sensitive woman’ – yes, that’s a direct quote from a doctor – while fighting for basic medical care that my attitude around the word started to change.

I knew I should be receiving help and support but was being let down repeatedly – as many disabled people are.

Since accepting this as part of my identity, I have immersed myself wholeheartedly in the disabled community (Picture: Hannah Shewan Stevens)

But I also hoped that by embracing the word, I might be able to better explain my lived experience and improve my access to the world.

This didn’t stop the inequality overnight, of course – at work, for example, one ex-employer questioned whether I was ‘really disabled’ and took their time installing reasonable adjustments, such as a standing desk and flexible hours, despite my obvious need for them – but it has made me more confident in speaking up about such treatment.

In fact, since accepting this as part of my identity, I have immersed myself wholeheartedly in the disabled community to try and fight for our rights because the reality is disabled people still don’t have equality.

I will always celebrate being part of a one-billion strong global community that champions each other (Picture: Hannah Shewan Stevens)

An estimated one in four adults in the UK has a disability, but it’s my opinion that we are still used as scapegoats. We are portrayed by both the media and government as economic burdens and as a result we face higher rates of poverty, unemployment, and educational disparities.

Legally, we are supposed to have protections for these things, but society has only grown more hostile towards us. In the year to March 2024 there were more than 10,000 incidents of hate crime against disabled people recorded in England and Wales, yet only 1% were convicted of violent offences.

My heart breaks whenever I see headlines attacking our community. I feel rage when another friend tells me about being harassed in the street or how they were rejected from a job due to accessibility requirements. Most of all, though, I feel confused.

The disabled community is the only marginalised group anyone can join at any time, so why do so few non-disabled people care about how we’re treated? The ignorance is infuriating.

That’s why I think everyone should take a moment to acknowledge Disability Pride Month. It’s a chance to recognise our differences, celebrate our similarities and create a world that truly involves all of us.

I know that I wouldn’t be the person I am today without my experience of disability and chronic illness.

It’s why I will always celebrate being part of a one-billion strong global community that champions each other, even when the world wants us to sit down and shut up.

I won’t ever be silent.

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