Quinn had long since given up trying to blend in. The walking poles she relied on were as familiar to her as her morning coffee, yet every step seemed to pull the room’s attention her way.
She could feel their stares—eyes tugged toward her like magnets—drawn not to her face but to the walking poles that steadied her. At 23, those glances weighed heavier than her unsteady legs. Living with cerebral palsy had shaped more than just the way she moved; it had sculpted her interactions with the world, for better or worse.
It was a brisk autumn morning when she felt it again—the subtle shift of attention. Stepping into her favorite coffee shop, she spotted a man sitting a few tables away. His eyes flickered toward her and lingered a beat too long. Quinn could sense the discomfort in his gaze, even before she saw it.
He wasn’t staring outright, but the confusion—or was it pity?—was unmistakable. She had grown adept at decoding these looks, though their exact intentions remained a mystery. With a sigh, she shook off the unease and leaned her walking poles against the counter before stepping into line.
The barista caught her eye, smiling warmly.
“Hey, Quinn! The usual?”
“Yes, a vanilla latte, please.” she replied, forcing a small smile. The routine was comforting, a slice of normalcy where she could briefly forget the stares.
However, even here, she wasn’t truly invisible. The man’s gaze still hovered, like a fly refusing to leave. Quinn’s shoulders tensed, a familiar frustration bubbling up inside her. She didn’t have the energy today. She lacked patience for the awkward questions, the unsolicited advice, or worse, the syrupy praise about how “inspiring” she was for simply existing. It always felt the same. People didn’t seem to fully understand her, and they struggled to ask about her disability without making the interaction uncomfortable.
This moment reflected something Quinn had known for a long time: exposure matters. How many people, like that man, had ever interacted with someone like her? Someone with walking poles, someone with cerebral palsy? Probably not many, or at least not in a meaningful way. Without real exposure, people tend to fall back on stereotypes—seeing disability either as something to overcome heroically or something to pity.
As she took her latte and turned to find a seat, Quinn thought back to a conversation she’d had at work the week before.
“Why do you use those poles, anyway?” her colleague had asked. It hadn’t been meant cruelly, more out of curiosity, but the question still stung.
“They help me walk,” Quinn had answered, the sharpness in her tone more than she intended. She waited, knowing what was coming next.
“You don’t need them all the time, right?”
That’s where sensitivity comes in, Quinn thought. Understanding her condition required more than just observing; it required an emotional awareness that most people didn’t have. Just because she didn’t need the poles every moment did not mean she didn’t rely on them. Sometimes her fatigue was invisible, forcing her to explain herself again and again.
Quinn slid into a seat by the window, letting the warmth of her latte ease the tension in her shoulders. Her mind wandered back to college—back when she hadn’t used walking poles. Her disability less visible then, but that invisibility came with its own set of challenges.
People assumed she was lazy when she requested accommodations. Sensitivity, she realized, wasn’t just about what people saw. It was about understanding that invisible conditions could be just as real as the visible ones.
When the barista smiled earlier, it wasn’t just a routine gesture—it felt like a simple acknowledgment of her as a person. Quinn appreciated these moments, when her disability wasn’t the center of attention. However, there were still times when well-meaning but misguided questions made her feel vulnerable, as if she constantly had to explain and educate others.
The door jingled behind her, and Quinn looked up. A woman struggled to maneuver a baby stroller through the narrow aisle between tables. For a moment, Quinn considered offering help, but she hesitated. Too many times people had “helped” her without asking, eager to show their awareness but missing the mark entirely. She thought back to the man who had grabbed her arm as she climbed stairs, assuming she needed assistance.
“I’ve got it,” she’d snapped, her voice harsher than intended.
The man had quickly apologized, but his reaction had felt like a reflex more than genuine understanding. He had noticed her disability, yes, but he hadn’t known how to respond—hadn’t even asked if she needed help.
This is where awareness becomes important. It’s not just about recognizing that someone has a disability, but understanding how to engage respectfully—allowing the person to set their own boundaries. Often, the desire to help can be more about the helper’s intentions than offering truly useful support. For Quinn, meaningful awareness meant giving her the space to choose when and how she wanted assistance.
Sipping her latte, Quinn glanced out the window, watching people rushing by. The streets were a constant reminder of how much work remained when it came to accessibility—narrow sidewalks, steep ramps, buses that barely accommodated those with mobility challenges. But the barriers weren’t only physical; they were social. The stares, the whispers, and the assumptions that she needed to be “fixed” were just as limiting.
If people could understand that she wasn’t broken simply because she didn’t fit society’s idea of the norm, things might be different. What she and others like her needed was for others to meet them where they were—with more understanding of their realities, greater sensitivity to their experiences, and a thoughtful way of engaging.
As Quinn gathered her walking poles and stood, a quiet determination settled within her. Each glance and awkward interaction reminded her how much awareness still needed to grow. It wasn’t about blending in or being “fixed”—it was about creating environments where people of all abilities could move through life without unnecessary obstacles, whether physical or social.
Quinn knew and understood there would always be challenges—narrow sidewalks, well-meaning but misplaced offers of help, and lingering stares. Yet, small moments of exposure and genuine sensitivity could make a difference. For Quinn, it wasn’t about changing herself to fit into society’s expectations, but about fostering a deeper, more thoughtful awareness.
What she hoped for was not to be seen as an inspiration or someone to pity, but simply as another person with her own way of moving through life. With that, perhaps others might pause, reflect, and consider how to create more understanding and kindness in their everyday interactions.
Resources For Further Exploration and References
- Darling, R. B., & Heckert, D. A. (2010). Orientations toward disability: Differences over the lifecourse. International Journal of Disability, Development and Education, 57(2), 131–143. https://doi.org/10.1080/10349121003750874
- Imrie, R., & Hall, P. (2001). Inclusive design: Designing and developing accessible environments. Spon Press.
- Shakespeare, T. (2013). Disability rights and wrongs revisited. Routledge.
- Oliver, M. (1990). The politics of disablement. Macmillan.
- Siebers, T. (2008). Disability theory. University of Michigan Press.
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