It’s not our job to make non-disabled people comfortable

OK, so this is a bit late. Oops.

Between work, redoing my entire website, and some worsening fatigue — it’s been a bit of a struggle.

And honestly? I spent most of last week stressing out about our Canadian election, so not much was getting done until those results came in and I could finally breathe a sigh of relief!

And speaking of the election, something happened when I went to vote that inspired me to make a reel about how annoying it is when you’re disabled and people stare at you the second they meet you.

It wasn’t some big, dramatic thing that happened. Just an annoyingly familiar one.

I was in line to vote, and the poll worker had just finished with someone else and came to get me. As I stood up and started walking with her to the desk, her eyes immediately dropped to stare at my legs. Or my feet. Or the way I walk. Whatever it was, I could see her staring.

I didn’t say anything.

Mostly because I just wanted to vote and get out of there.

But I also realized: I’ve been conditioned — whether as a woman, someone who’s disabled, or both — to not say anything.

To not be confrontational.
To assume people mean well.
To give them the benefit of the doubt.
To cut them some slack.

If you’re also disabled, you probably know exactly what I’m talking about.

So, I made the reel. And then I got a comment from some guy. Actually, multiple comments.

Clearly, what I had to say really upset him.

He told me that I was overreacting. That people can’t help where their eyes go. That I should have used humour to put her at ease. That it was my job to help her feel more comfortable with my disability.

Read that again.

He was literally telling me that when someone stares at me for the way I walk, I should be the one to help them feel better about it.

Peak ableism.
And yeah, it pissed me off.

But it also made me think about how many times in my life I’ve done exactly what he was suggesting.

I didn’t call out the poll worker for staring. Honestly, I never call people out for staring. In my head? I’m saying all kinds of colourful things. But I stay silent. I pretend I don’t notice.

When people ask the classic “What’s wrong with you?” or “What happened?” I used to make up stuff like, “Oh, it’s just an old knee injury acting up.”

In film school, I’d take the elevator even though we were constantly told the elevator was for equipment only (which, was probably illegal, but that’s a story for another time). When people asked why, I’d laugh and say, “I’m just too lazy to take the stairs!”

I know. I’m cringing at my past self, too.

Even in elementary school, I’d pretend to be sick or hurt to get out of gym class — because that excuse was more comfortable for other people than saying, “I can’t do the mile run or the high jump.” Teachers and my peers understood sick. But disabled? That made them uncomfortable.

All this to say: I’ve spent so much of my life trying to make other people comfortable with my disability, even when it came at my own expense.

But that guy’s comment reminded me of something important:

It is not our job to make non-disabled people comfortable with our disability.

So many of us have been taught to downplay, explain away, or hide parts of ourselves just to make others feel more at ease.

But all that really does is reinforce the idea that disability is something shameful. Or abnormal. And it’s not.

So yeah, let’s not do that anymore.