curiosity isn’t a free pass

Since the last newsletter it’s sure starting to feel a lot like fall here in Vancouver, which means a lot of rain. This might be an unpopular opinion, but I actually love the rain.

The one thing I don’t like about fall is the cooler weather — I have terrible circulation, so I’m always cold, and this weather actually kind of sucks for me. 🥶

This month’s newsletter is going to look a little different — instead of the usual Inclusivity Roundup and Fave Fashion Finds, I’m diving deep into my full review of A Different Man. If you saw my Instagram stories back at the beginning of the month, you might have seen my initial thoughts on the film.

I’m also sharing a story about a recent experience with some “ableism in the wild” that got me thinking about boundaries and those “curious” questions we get as disabled people.

So grab your favourite warm drink and get cozy. ☕️

“I’m Just Curious” Isn’t A Good Reason

Ah…the good old “I’m just curious.”

That phrase. It’s one that disabled people hear constantly. It’s the excuse people give when they feel entitled to ask about our bodies or disabilities, as if curiosity somehow makes it acceptable. If you’re disabled, you know exactly what I mean.

My latest experience happened at the dentist.

So, a bit of backstory, about a year ago, I was diagnosed with trigeminal neuralgia, a chronic pain condition that causes severe nerve pain in my face. It flares up a few times a month for me, triggered by things like drinking (especially through a straw), eating, and brushing my teeth. As you can imagine, I was anxious that a dental cleaning might set off the pain, so I decided to let the hygienist know.

It all started in the waiting room. When the hygienist called my name in the waiting room, she looked me over and asked, “Are you OK?” while gesturing to her leg. Now, it was a cold day and the cold worsens my already poor circulation and makes my balance and coordination even worse than usual. But I just brushed it off with a quick “Yes” because I sure wasn’t about to go into my medical history in a room full of strangers.

Was this annoying? Yes. But if she had listened to my “yes” and let it go, I wouldn’t be too bothered.

So we got into talking about my trigeminal neuralgia and my concerns and our plan of action. She was great about it, listened closely, and suggested ways to make the appointment more comfortable, and I felt really reassured.

But then she said something that really caught me off guard — “And I see you walk kind of differently.” 😬

My stomach dropped. I could feel myself disassociating, which is just my instinctive reaction to comments like this.

Again, I almost brushed it off, thinking, “Well, she’s a medical professional.” But then I caught myself. She’s a hygienist, not my neurologist, and I wasn’t there to be questioned about my mobility or appearance. I was there to get my teeth cleaned, and this was a complete overstep.

This kind of “curiosity” is all too common. Non-disabled people often feel entitled to point out or question things about our bodies, almost like we’re a curiosity or spectacle rather than a person. And if we react, it’s always, “But I was just curious!”—as if that somehow makes it OK.

Some might argue that to normalize disability, we should welcome these questions. But not every disabled person wants to be an educator 24/7. And frankly, it’s exhausting. Sometimes, we just want to exist without explaining ourselves. There’s already so much information out there—created by people who choose to educate and advocate. And while I’m open on social media, sometimes in real life, I just don’t have the mental or emotional energy for it.

Boundaries and context matter. Sure, there might be appropriate times and places for conversations about disability, but “curiosity” isn’t an open invitation. Disabled people deserve the same respect as anyone else — the chance to decide when and if they want to share personal details.

Movie Review of A Different Man

As someone with experience in film and a passion for disabled representation, reviewing a movie that tackles the theme of disability felt like the perfect intersection of my interests.

Too often, disabled characters are reduced to stereotypes on screen.

We see the “tragic figure” who serves as a lesson for others, the “inspiration” who overcomes impossible odds to make others feel better about themselves, or the “angry outcast” who’s bitter about their lot in life.

Disability is often sanitized to make it more “palatable” or “acceptable” for general audiences — so much so that it becomes unrecognizable and totally unrelatable for those of us who actually are disabled.

So watching a film that presents a version of disability that feels authentic, nuanced, complex, and grounded in reality (or at least as close to it as a fictional movie can) is….refreshing.

I’ll preface this by saying that A Different Man is one portrayal of disability. Disability is not a monolith, and not everyone will relate or agree with me — and that’s OK. Film is art, and this is a portrayal, not a documentary. I’ve seen some criticism that neurofibromatosis isn’t mentioned explicitly, which is fair — it could have raised more awareness. But on the other hand, it also makes room for people with any disability or visible difference to feel represented.

🚨Warning: Spoilers ahead.🚨

Edward (Sebastian Stan), is a struggling New York City actor with neurofibromatosis.

He is unassuming and shy, which becomes even more obvious when his new, sort-of-flirtatious neighbour Ingrid (Renate Reinsve) moves in next door. My gut reaction was, “Oh no, here we go.” Movies love to bring in the beautiful non-disabled love interest who “heroically” falls for the disabled character. Well, I was wrong. But we’ll come back to that.

Edward ends up undergoing a radical (and fictional) medical procedure which drastically changes his appearance. He reinvents himself as Guy. And Guy becomes the complete opposite of Edward — movie-star good looks, rich, and successful.

But then he runs into Ingrid, and finds out that she has written a play based entirely on his old life as Edward. And turns out, she’s kind of a terrible person. She’s written Edward’s life story for her own gain, writing a play that does nothing but perpetuate stereotypes about disabled people.

And then we meet Oswald (Adam Pearson). Another actor with neurofibromatosis who comes across the play during rehearsals and befriends Guy. And where Edward was shy and assuming, Oswald is confident and outgoing, comfortable in his skin.

And it seems like Guy kind of resents Oswald for this.

As Guy’s life—and mental state—begin to unravel, it becomes clear that his transformation was never going to be the answer he hoped for. While he may have a new face and identity, he still has all the same internal demons as before.

It’s a nuanced take on self-acceptance.

This isn’t a movie with a motivational call to action or a clear answer before the credits roll. There’s no profound life lesson about disability, self-acceptance, or loving yourself.

And it doesn’t need that.

What’s important about A Different Man is how it’s starting the conversations we need to be having.

Conversations about how disabled people are treated by society, about the lack of disabled representation in Hollywood, about the ethics of non-disabled actors playing disabled characters, and whether it’s right for non-disabled producers/directors/writers to be at the helm of films that center on disability.

Until next time!