Wiley's Walk

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.

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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.

In discussions about inclusion, visibility often takes center stage. While being seen is undeniably important, it represents only the first step. True empowerment goes beyond visibility—it means giving individuals the tools, confidence, and support they need to advocate for themselves and actively shape their environments.

This article explores key aspects of genuine inclusion: self-advocacy, intersectionality, and inclusive leadership. It also looks at how to move past tokenism and create meaningful representation that leads to lasting empowerment.

Visibility: A Beginning, Not the End

Visibility—being acknowledged and recognized—is often the focus of inclusion efforts. While being seen is essential, it is only the beginning. Real empowerment happens when individuals with disabilities are not just visible but actively engaged in advocating for their needs and influencing the spaces around them.

Inclusion is not one-dimensional. It requires recognizing and embracing the full range of a person’s identity—whether it’s race, gender, disability, or other factors. Moving beyond visibility means creating environments where people feel confident expressing their needs and know they’ll be heard and respected.

Self-Advocacy: Taking Control of the Narrative

At the heart of true empowerment lies self-advocacy—the ability to speak up, express needs, and ensure those needs are met practically and feasibly. For many individuals, especially those with disabilities, this is essential because the systems they navigate are often not designed with them in mind.

Self-advocacy is about more than just asking for accommodations; it is about challenging structures when they can fall short and pushing for meaningful change. Research shows that self-advocacy leads to better outcomes in both educational and workplace settings, helping people set goals, request necessary adjustments, and stand up against discrimination (Fenn & Scior, 2019).

A powerful example is the work of Self Advocates Becoming Empowered (SABE), a group that has played a key role in advocating for accessible voting systems. SABE’s efforts have led to improvements in polling places, voting instructions, and ballots, ensuring that people with disabilities can vote independently and with dignity. This kind of advocacy drives systemic change, impacting not just local communities but also national election protocols (Moore, 2020).

In education, self-advocates have pushed for stronger enforcement of the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA), resulting in better transition programs for students leaving high school. These efforts focus on preparing students with disabilities for employment and independent living, helping them chart their own paths forward (Davis & Molina-Robinson, 2022).

Intersectionality: Exploring the Many Layers of Identity

Inclusion involves understanding how different aspects of a person’s identity influence their experiences. Factors such as disability, race, gender, and socioeconomic background interact in ways that shape how individuals engage with the world around them.

The concept of “intersectionality,” introduced by Kimberlé Crenshaw, explores how overlapping identities—such as race and disability—can affect both the challenges and opportunities a person may encounter. For example, a person with a disability from an underrepresented racial group might face different barriers compared to someone with the same disability from a different racial background (Frawley & Bigby, 2015). (Frawley & Bigby, 2015).

Ableism refers to discrimination against people with disabilities, while racism is unfair treatment based on race, and sexism is bias based on gender. These forms of discrimination can overlap, creating more complex challenges for those who belong to more than one marginalized group.

Privilege refers to advantages that come from certain aspects of identity. For example, a person with a disability who comes from a higher socioeconomic background may face fewer financial obstacles compared to someone with the same disability from a lower socioeconomic background.

Discrimination occurs when someone is treated unfairly due to their identity. A person with a disability may face ableism and, depending on their race or gender, additional barriers tied to racism or sexism.

Research shows that recognizing these intersecting identities is key to fostering true inclusion. Focusing on just one aspect of a person’s identity can miss important parts of their experience. Without considering the full range of identities, inclusion efforts can fall short, leaving some individuals feeling overlooked or misunderstood.

Inclusive Leadership: Elevating Every Voice

Empowerment isn’t solely an individual effort. Leadership plays a critical role in creating inclusive spaces where everyone feels heard and valued. Inclusive leaders set the tone for organizations and communities, ensuring that diversity is not only recognized but actively celebrated.

Leadership that is truly inclusive goes beyond awareness of diversity—it requires taking action. Training leaders in cultural competence equips them to navigate and respect differences across race, gender, and disability. Leaders must be able to identify their own blind spots and be willing to engage in difficult conversations about inclusion, privilege, and discrimination (Simmons, 2021).

Inclusive leadership also means creating opportunities for underrepresented groups to participate in decision-making. It is not enough to have diverse voices present—they need to be actively involved in shaping the policies and practices that impact their experiences.

For example, employees with disabilities should lead discussions on workplace accommodations, and organizations should ensure that individuals from various professional backgrounds and expertise have a role in leadership positions.

Building inclusive environments requires practical tools. Leadership training can help with managing conflicts that arise from cultural differences, adapting communication styles to diverse teams, and fostering mentorship programs that support underrepresented employees. These steps move organizations beyond diversity quotas toward meaningful inclusion where every voice matters.

Beyond Tokenism: Achieving Authentic Representation

A common barrier to true inclusion is tokenism—the practice of involving marginalized individuals in visible roles without giving them real power or influence. Tokenism diminishes the contributions of these individuals and ignores the larger systemic issues that need addressing. True representation goes far beyond simply having a seat at the table. It involves empowering individuals from marginalized groups to actively shape decisions that affect their lives. This requires intentional efforts to create leadership roles and decision-making opportunities for people who have historically been excluded.

The self-advocacy movement is a prime example of how individuals with disabilities are leading the charge for genuine representation. People with disabilities are increasingly taking leadership roles in advocacy groups, influencing public policy, and shaping the services they rely on (Walmsley, 2020). Moving from being present to leading these efforts marks a significant shift toward real inclusion.

Organizations that prioritize authentic representation ensure that individuals from marginalized groups are not only included but empowered to drive change. Whether it’s through leading policy discussions or guiding internal initiatives, these efforts show that moving beyond tokenism leads to more inclusive, effective, and lasting outcomes.

Empowerment: The End Goal of Inclusion

Inclusion goes beyond simply being seen or heard—it’s about equipping people with the resources and support to advocate for themselves and influence decisions that affect their lives. Empowerment is at the heart of true inclusion. It requires fostering environments where individuals can express their needs, contribute to decisions, and feel confident that their voices will be respected.

This level of empowerment is more than access or surface-level diversity. It means creating spaces that encourage self-advocacy, embrace diversity in all its forms, and foster leadership that listens and acts on the concerns of all individuals.

By cultivating these environments, inclusion becomes meaningful and sustainable, ensuring that all voices—not just the most visible—have the power to create lasting change.

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References

• Fenn, K., & Scior, K. (2019). The psychological and social impact of self-advocacy group membership on people with intellectual disabilities: A literature review. Journal of Applied Research in Intellectual Disabilities, 32(6), 1349–1358. https://doi.org/10.1111/jar.12638
• Frawley, P., & Bigby, C. (2015). Reflections on being a first-generation self-advocate: Belonging, social connections, and doing things that matter. Journal of Intellectual & Developmental Disability, 40(3), 254–264. https://doi.org/10.3109/13668250.2015.1028910
• Moore, D. (2020). Advancing accessible voting systems through self-advocacy movements. Disability & Society, 35(4), 665-680.
• Simmons, M. (2021). Leadership beyond tokenism: Cultivating inclusion and diversity in organizations. Organizational Dynamics, 50(3), 20-30. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.orgdyn.2020.100732
• Walmsley, J. (2020). The impact of self-advocacy movements in an era of welfare retrenchment. Disability Studies Quarterly, 40(1). https://doi.org/10.18061/dsq.v40

Was it the dress or the stares that made her feel so distant? Quinn couldn’t tell. She smoothed the hem of her off-shoulder floral dress, her fingers brushing the fabric in a rhythmic attempt to still her thoughts. Laughter and conversation buzzed like static in the banquet hall, muted by the low hum of air conditioning that sent a chill through her shoulders. She felt a palpable separation from everyone around her. It was as if an invisible door had quietly closed, isolating her from her classmates and their world.

Now, surrounded by familiar faces, Quinn still feels that barrier. Her disability affects her mobility, but that isn’t what makes these moments difficult. It is the way people treat her—the way they look at her. The lingering glances, the offers to help that are too-quick, and the ever-present layer of pity. People see her, but they don’t see her strength—the quiet resolve beneath the surface.

The Unexpected Invitation

Across the room, Ethan, the football team’s captain, moves effortlessly, naturally drawing attention. He navigates the crowd as if he belongs, a confidence Quinn never quite felt. Suddenly, his voice cuts through the noise, direct and unexpected.

“Quinn, would you like to dance?” She pauses, her mind racing. Does Ethan really want to dance with her, or is this just a polite gesture? The doubt creeps in, shadowing her instinct to say yes, as the expectations of others loom. Despite her doubt, she nods and takes his hand. As they step onto the dance floor, Quinn feels a calm settling over her. For once, someone seems to see her for who she truly is, and that matters.

Echoes of Judgment

Later, in the ladies’ lounge, Quinn overhears Amber Michael’s familiar voice, sharp and cutting through the air. Amber, always at ease in a world where Quinn never quite belonged, speaks in a low whisper to her friends.

“He’s only dancing with her because he feels sorry for her,” Amber says, casual, not cruel.

The words don’t sting—they just echo assumptions Quinn has heard before. What had felt like a fleeting moment of normalcy now seems tainted by someone else’s version of the story. Amber’s comment stirs old doubts, but Quinn knows the dance wasn’t about pity. It is just another reminder of the perceptions she has learned to ignore.

The Charity Case Myth

Amber’s words didn’t surprise Quinn. They reflected the common “charity case” narrative that Quinn and others with disabilities often encounter. Frequently, Quinn had been viewed as someone in need of assistance rather than as an equal.

Acts of kindness were sometimes perceived as more significant than intended. This narrative was evident in small gestures, such as quick offers of help and noticeable expressions in people’s eyes. Even well-meaning acts of kindness often reinforce the perception that people with disabilities need to be “helped” rather than fully included. Research suggests that such gestures, though well-intended, can perpetuate the idea that people with disabilities aren’t equals—they’re a cause (Darling & Heckert, 2010).

When Ethan asked Quinn to dance, she hoped his invitation was sincere. She wanted to believe that he saw her as another person at the banquet, not someone to be singled out. However, Amber’s comment reminded her of experiences she had encountered before.

Inclusion is not always straightforward; it can sometimes come with certain assumptions. Even with the best intentions, acts of kindness can be misinterpreted, causing people like Quinn to feel they are being “helped” rather than simply included.

For Quinn, that distinction matters. The line between pity and genuine inclusion is one she’s always aware of, even if others are not.

The Meaning of Inclusion

As Quinn steps onto the dance floor, she understands something important: inclusion isn’t just about being invited—it is about feeling like you truly belong. True inclusion means being valued for who you are, without the assumption that you need special treatment to fit in. It is not something that can be shaken by a glance or an offhand comment.

Research indicates that true inclusion goes beyond mere physical presence. It is about experiencing a genuine sense of belonging, where individuals are accepted for who they are. In this environment, accommodations are not seen as favors (Shakespeare, 2013). For Quinn, inclusion means being acknowledged for her whole self, not as an act of charity or inspiration.

Amber’s words do not undermine Quinn’s sense of belonging. Her feeling of belonging is not dependent on the opinions of others. It is not about what Ethan or Amber think; it is about how Quinn perceives herself.

Embracing Her Voice And Strength

That night, Quinn preferred the quiet comfort of blending in over drawing attention to herself. She had no desire to fit into anyone’s narrative or be labeled as an inspiration. All she wanted was to be treated like her classmates, to share in the ease of their interactions. Ultimately, she longed to be seen—truly seen.

Amber’s comment faded into distant noise, a reminder of the assumptions that often surround her. Quinn understood that she didn’t need to prove herself; she was not here to conform to someone else’s narrative. Her strength was rooted in her own truth and actions, quietly asserting her identity in the face of judgment.

Conclusion: The Call for A Different Path

As Quinn left the banquet hall, she felt a renewed sense of agency: her story was hers to shape. She understood that true inclusion isn’t defined by others’ perceptions but rooted in her own self-acceptance and the choices she makes. She doesn’t need anyone’s permission to belong.

This moment highlights the importance of recognizing the complexity of each individual’s experience. Acknowledging the strength in those around us fosters a deeper understanding of inclusion. True inclusion begins when we let go of the narratives we impose on others and allow them the space to be their authentic selves.

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References:

• Darling, R. B., & Heckert, D. A. (2010). “Disability and Identity: Negotiating Self in a Changing World.”
• Shakespeare, T. (2013). “Disability Rights and Wrongs.”

In recent years, accessibility has evolved beyond physical modifications like ramps or wider doorways. It now encompasses creating spaces that are not only easy to navigate but also comfortable and welcoming for everyone. While structural elements are important, true accessibility goes beyond ticking boxes—it is about designing environments that genuinely work for the people who use them. Rather than fitting everyone into the same mold, these spaces recognize individual experiences and needs (Kapsalis, Jaeger, & Hale, 2022)

Traditionally, accessibility focused on “universal design,” an approach aimed at accommodating as many people as possible. While this method does achieve broad access, it does not always address the diverse preferences and needs of every individual.

People with disabilities often require different solutions—what works for one person might be ineffective for another. This has led many experts to advocate for more personalized spaces that specifically cater to individual requirements, particularly for those with sensory sensitivities.

Take noise, for example. For some, a busy, noisy environment can improve focus and concentration. However, for others—especially those on the autism spectrum—too much noise can quickly lead to sensory overload, making it difficult to stay engaged. Studies have shown that adjusting factors like sound levels, lighting, and even the layout of a space can significantly improve comfort and reduce anxiety (Zhang, Carter, Greene, et al., 2024). This is where adaptable design shines—it tailors the environment to meet individual needs, rather than expecting people to adjust to the space.

Accessibility goes well beyond physical functionality; it communicates an essential message: you are welcome here, you belong here. Research highlights that thoughtfully customizing spaces for individuals with disabilities is really important for enhancing their overall experience (Capp, 2017; CAST, 2014) . When these adjustments are made, they can greatly boost a person’s sense of dignity and independence (Zhang, Carter, Greene, et al., 2024).

Tailoring environments to fit their needs empowers individuals to navigate their surroundings with more confidence and autonomy. However, despite these advancements, nearly 50% of individuals with disabilities still report feeling uncomfortable in spaces labeled as “accessible”. This highlights a persistent gap between accessible design and genuine inclusion. (Williamson, 2019).

This gap is especially evident in educational settings. Flexible learning environments can make a difference. Features like adjustable seating and designated quiet areas have been shown to significantly enhance focus and engagement for neurodiverse students (Restauri, 2024). These designs go beyond the notion of “special treatment.” Instead, they provide all students with the resources they need to thrive. Ultimately, this approach fosters a more inclusive and equitable learning experience (Armstrong, 2017).

Additionally, as technology keeps evolving, it opens up exciting new possibilities for personalized design. Take augmented reality (AR), for example. It allows people to visualize how changes to a space could impact their daily lives—well before any construction starts. This immersive experience gives designers valuable insights, helping them proactively address individual needs (Khowaja et al., 2020; Köse & Güner-Yildiz, 2021) With augmented reality creating spaces that feel truly inclusive becomes much easier, ensuring everyone feels considered and supported right from the beginning.

Ultimately, accessibility should be more than a legal checkbox—it is a shared responsibility. As the concept of inclusive design evolves, our focus should shift from simply accommodating diversity to celebrating it. Spaces should do more than just allow access—they should foster a sense of belonging where everyone feels valued and respected (Wiley’s Walk, 2024).

References

• Armstrong, T. (2017). Neurodiversity in the classroom: Strength-based strategies to help students with special needs succeed in school and life. ASCD.
• Capp, M. J. (2017). The effectiveness of universal design for learning: A meta-analysis of literature between 2013 and 2016. International Journal of Inclusive Education, 21(8), 791–807. https://doi.org/10.1080/13603116.2017.1325074
• CAST. (2014). Universal design for learning guidelines version 2.1. CAST.org.
• Kapsalis, E., Jaeger, N., & Hale, J. (2022). Disabled-by-design: effects of inaccessible urban public spaces on users of mobility assistive devices – a systematic review. Disability and Rehabilitation: Assistive Technology, 19(3), 604–622. https://doi.org/10.1080/17483107.2022.2111723
• Kennedy, J., Missiuna, C., Pollock, N., Wu, S., Yost, J., & Campbell, W. (2018). A scoping review to explore how universal design for learning is described and implemented by rehabilitation health professionals in school settings. Child: Care, Health and Development, 44(5), 670–688.
• Khowaja, K., Banire, B., Al-Thani, D., Sqalli, M. T., Aqle, A., Shah, A., & Salim, S. S. (2020). Augmented reality for learning of children and adolescents with autism spectrum disorder (ASD): A systematic review. IEEE Access, 8, 78779–78807. https://doi.org/10.1109/ACCESS.2020.2986608
• Köse, H., & Güner-Yildiz, N. (2021). Augmented reality (AR) as a learning material in special needs education. Education and Information Technologies, 26(2), 1921–1936. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10639-020-10326-w
• Restauri, S. (2024). Inclusive instructional design for neurodiverse learners. Online Learning Consortium Journal, 14(1), 23-45. https://doi.org/10.46303/cuper.2024.4
• Stevenson, K., Roberts, M., & Walsh, T. (2019). Reducing anxiety and improving focus through adaptive design for neurodiverse individuals. Neurodiversity Studies, 12(1), 45-57. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.nds.2019.03.005
• Williamson, B. (2019). Accessible America: A history of disability and design. New York University Press.
• Wiley’s Walk. (2024). From access to belonging. Wiley’s Walk. Retrieved September 16, 2024, from https://wileyswalk.com
• Zhang, L., Carter, R.A., Greene, J.A. et al. Unraveling Challenges with the Implementation of Universal Design for Learning: A Systematic Literature Review. Educ Psychol Rev 36, 35 (2024). https://doi.org/10.1007/s10648-024-09860-7.

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Quinn stood at the edge of the café’s bustling patio, listening to the hum of conversation and the clink of dishes. The uneven floor beneath her posed a challenge as she scanned the tightly packed tables, finally spotting friends in the distance.

Taking a deep breath, she began navigating the crowd—dodging a stroller here, a distracted server there—feeling the familiar pull of curious glances. Each step was a reminder of the daily balance between comfort and accessibility. Her walking poles felt heavier, burdened by the day’s strain.

Chairs were pressed together, leaving barely enough room to squeeze through. She heard one of her friends laugh at a table tucked between others, the cramped space made reaching them difficult. The lively atmosphere only highlighted the quiet, invisible walls Quinn kept running into.

Should she ask her friends to move? The question lingered, as familiar as it was uneasy. It wasn’t just about finding space—it was about deciding, once again, whether to express needs or quietly navigate around them.

Defining Self-Advocacy: Speaking Up for Needs

Moments like these go beyond simply finding a seat; they highlight the larger challenge of ensuring spaces accommodate the needs of individuals with disabilities. For Quinn, and many others, this is the essence of self-advocacy. It is not about convenience—it is about fostering accessibility and participation, leveling the playing field so that everyone can engage in shared spaces.

Self-advocacy means recognizing and communicating needs, even when it is uncomfortable. It often involves requesting adjustments in settings not designed with those needs in mind. It is not about special treatment—it is about ensuring needs are met in feasible and practical ways that promote accessibility, comfort, and dignity.

For Quinn, self-advocacy might mean asking her friends to move to a table with more space. Others who have disabilities might request accessible seating at a concert, appropriate lighting in a meeting room, or an assistive listening system in an auditorium. These requests aren’t overreaching—they are tools to support equitable participation. Each request helps create a more inclusive environment, where accommodations support equal access for all.

Everyday Acts of Self-Advocacy

Requesting a different table may seem minor, but for Quinn, daily decisions like these carry weight. Self-advocacy is not always about major changes—it’s about affirming that the needs of individuals with disabilities are valid, even in the simplest moments. Whether asking for more space, better lighting, or a supportive chair—each act reinforces that accessibility is a fundamental part of any shared space.

In that moment, Quinn realized speaking up wasn’t about causing discomfort or making a scene. It was about enhancing accessibility—not just for herself, but for others facing similar challenges. Self-advocacy becomes an act of care and inclusion.

Redefining Accommodation: Fairness, Not Favor

Living with Cerebral Palsy (CP), Quinn’s advocacy isn’t about seeking attention—it is about making sure needs are met. Self-advocacy often involves straightforward asks: a clearer path, better seating, or more space to move.

These requests challenge misconceptions about disability, showing that accommodations are practical necessities, not special treatment. For Quinn, asking for what was needed was a quiet yet powerful reminder that needs matter. Her request shifts perspectives that adjustments or accommodations are special treatment to essential tools for equal participation. This challenges the idea that accessibility is optional, emphasizing that accommodations help level the playing field and ensure everyone can engage in shared spaces.

Steps Toward Self-Advocacy: Listening to Needs

Before advocating for herself, Quinn had to acknowledge her needs. Self-advocacy begins with recognizing what’s required to function comfortably and expressing those needs when necessary.

Requests like Quinn’s aren’t extras; they help create spaces that are welcoming and functional for all. Over time, these requests built her confidence, emphasizing the importance of addressing discomfort rather than silently enduring it. Each successful advocacy effort reinforced her sense of agency and self-worth.

Living with CP sometimes means that routine tasks leave Quinn more fatigued than others might realize. Her walking poles aid mobility but also add strain as the day progresses. Previously, she had pushed through fatigue, ignoring her body’s signals. After experiencing injuries, she reassessed her approach, learning to pace herself and respect her limits.

Building Confidence Through Advocacy

For Quinn, speaking up not only made daily life easier—it also revealed the often-invisible challenges others face. The hardest part wasn’t always the lack of ramps or accessible seating; it was deciding whether to ask for what was needed.

For many, the toughest challenge is balancing self-advocacy with not wanting to inconvenience others. Overcoming this barrier is key to creating a culture of openness and support, where needs are met with understanding, not hesitation.

The Role of Allies in Supporting Self-Advocacy

Quinn’s self-advocacy didn’t evolve in isolation. With the support of friends and family who understood her needs, she developed the confidence to speak up for herself. Instead of taking over, her allies learned to offer help when needed and step back to let her advocate, creating a balanced, respectful partnership.

Allies play a crucial role in helping individuals with disabilities build self-advocacy skills. Their role is to stand alongside, offering support when necessary and space when appropriate. Self-advocacy is an ongoing process, driven by the belief that everyone’s needs must be recognized.

For Quinn, speaking up wasn’t just practical—it was a powerful affirmation that her voice mattered. In a genuinely inclusive environment, every voice must be heard and valued.

Achieving true inclusion depends on the persistent efforts of individuals like Quinn, supported by allies who understand the importance of accessibility. By speaking up and making necessary requests for adjustments and accommodations, they challenge barriers and create spaces where everyone can participate. Each act of self-advocacy reinforces that accessibility is not a favor but a fundamental right, ensuring that all voices are heard and respected.

References

• Campbell, F. K. (2009). Contours of ableism: The production of disability and abledness. Palgrave Macmillan.
• Dunn, D. S., & Burcaw, S. (2013). Disability identity: Exploring narrative accounts of disability. Rehabilitation Psychology, 58(2), 148-157. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0031691
• Iezzoni, L. I., Rao, S. R., & Ressalam, J. (2015). Accessibility of medical equipment for patients with mobility impairments: Can common equipment be made accessible?. Journal of General Internal Medicine, 30(2), 205-212.

The bookstore was quiet that afternoon, with only the soft rustle of pages turning and the occasional sound of footsteps on the wooden floor. Quinn had been coming here for years, finding comfort in the predictability of the space. She always gravitates to the same chair in the back, where the dim lighting isn’t ideal for reading but still offers a sense of peace and calm. Yet, even in this familiar setting, there are reminders that the space isn’t designed with her in mind. The narrow aisles and tightly packed tables barely leave enough room for her walking poles, a small but persistent reminder of the space’s limitations.

Over time, Quinn had learned to navigate these elements, making adjustments without thinking too much about them. Adapting became second nature, part of her routine. However, today, as she settles into her chair and opens her book, she can’t shake the thought: Why do people with various disabilities often have to adapt and make these adjustments?

The small accommodations Quinn makes—like angling her body to fit more comfortably or maneuvering her walking poles through tight spaces—are reminders that public spaces are often not designed for her. She adjusts her pace to avoid jostling others in crowded areas, carefully navigates around obstacles that others might not notice, and uses her poles to gauge the depth of uneven surfaces. Each of these adaptations underscores the daily challenges faced by individuals with disabilities in environments that often lack thoughtful design.

The ability to adapt in environments like this is often seen as a positive trait. Those who adapt and adjust are frequently praised, as if overcoming barriers in inaccessible spaces is an accomplishment in itself (Campbell, 2009). For Quinn and others with disabilities, adaptation is a necessity, not an accomplishment. Quinn is not seeking praise for navigating a system that wasn’t made for her; she’s seeking one that has accounted for her needs from the very beginning.

Most people without disabilities or specific health needs rarely have to think about whether spaces accommodate them. The environments they visit—such as bookstores, cafes, and public buildings—are inherently designed with their needs in mind, requiring no special adjustments. However, these spaces often fail to account for individuals with different needs. For Quinn, getting around involves constant evaluation: Will her walking poles fit through narrow aisles? Can she move without obstruction?

The subtle exclusion Quinn sometimes experiences in spaces like the bookstore isn’t intentional. Accessible features such as ramps and wider doorways are often added later, rather than thoughtfully incorporated from the start. While these features offer help, they don’t fully address the broader need for accessibility and inclusion.

What Quinn and others with disabilities want isn’t just accessibility; it is a rethinking of how spaces are designed from the outset. True inclusion isn’t just about adding accessible features. It is about designing spaces that work for everyone. Inclusion, in this sense, is less about solving problems retroactively and more about ensuring that no one feels out of place to begin with.

As Quinn settles into her chair with her book, she reflects on how instinctive her daily adaptations have become. She realizes that spaces should be designed with accessibility in mind from the outset, allowing everyone to move comfortably without constantly questioning their fit. True inclusion goes beyond adding wider aisles or lower counters; it’s about creating environments where everyone, regardless of their needs, feels genuinely welcomed.

As Quinn leaves the bookstore, her sense of familiarity and comfort is mixed with a quiet frustration. While she finds comfort in the space, its design still doesn’t fully accommodate her needs. The constant adjustments she and others with disabilities must make highlight a broader issue: many public spaces are not designed with diverse needs in mind from the start.

True inclusion involves a shift in how spaces are envisioned and designed. It is not just about adding features later but about integrating accessibility from the outset. For Quinn and others with disabilities, the goal is for environments to be welcoming and functional from the beginning. Moving forward, designing spaces that embrace everyone ensures that no one has to constantly adapt to fit in.

References

• Campbell, F. K. (2009). Contours of ableism: The production of disability and abledness. Palgrave Macmillan.
• Shakespeare, T. (2006). Disability rights and wrongs. Routledge.

I found it by accident, tucked between the pages of an old notebook from my twenties. Back then, I was driven by ambition and a desire for adventure. Among the notes and plans, I stumbled across a poem I had written—a poem that spoke to a journey I hadn’t fully understood at the time.

Living with Cerebral Palsy (CP) and depending on walking poles, I often found it easier to leave certain challenges unspoken. Revisiting this poem now, I see how deeply silence has shaped my journey.

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“Silence Lingers” by Kerry A. Wiley

Silence lingers, thick as air—
A breath withheld, but is it fair?
Is it peace, or hidden dread?
A message lost, a line of thread.

Beneath the scream, a deeper tone,
Not just sound, but truth unknown.
Is it anger? Is it pain?
Words too fragile to sustain.

Silence speaks, though none may hear.
Is it warning, or is it fear?
A scream is never noise alone,
But a voice unknown, its own.

Silence hides within the skin,
Holding truth that lies within.

In silence, there’s a heavy pause—
Unsaid words without a cause.
Is it shelter? Is it fear?
A space where nothing feels too clear.

A scream that shatters silent night—
Is it despair or fierce delight?
Between the breaths, a fragile state,
Is this the point where we both break?

A scream erupts, but what’s the cause?
What’s the rage? Is it freedom or a cage?
Is it longing to be free,
Or a cry lost in mystery?

In echoes deep, the silence grows;
What’s left unsaid, no one knows.

Silence speaks, even when no one listens.

Silence is not passive; it carries its own strength and depth.

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The opening line—“Silence lingers thick as air”—hit me in a way it hadn’t before. Silence, for me, isn’t just the absence of sound. It is the pause after someone notices my walking poles but doesn’t ask.

It is the gap between stares and questions that I have grown used to. In these moments, silence is more than quiet; it’s a space filled with unspoken emotions, assumptions, and sometimes, relief that I don’t have to explain myself.

Living with a visible disability often means navigating a world that expects silence from me—silence about the why and how of my life. Sometimes, that silence feels like a weight, heavy with unasked questions. Other times, it feels like protection, giving me space when I don’t have the energy for more explanations.

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The Dual Nature of Silence

Silence isn’t one-dimensional. At times, it is a welcome pause—freedom from having to constantly explain my condition or defend my independence. Other times, it can be overwhelming, especially when it feels like my thoughts are stuck in a loop, replaying things I wish I could say out loud.

The poem’s line “A scream erupts but what’s the cause / Is it freedom or a cage?” speaks directly to that internal conflict. Is the scream a release of frustration, or is it a reminder of the limits imposed on me by a world that doesn’t always understand?

For me, my walking poles represent both freedom and constraint. They allow me to move forward, but they are also a visible marker of the boundaries I live within.

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The Power of the Unspoken

“In echoes deep the silence grows / What’s left unsaid no one knows.” These lines capture the weight of the unspoken. There are moments in life when words fail to express the full depth of an experience, and silence steps in to say what words cannot.

This is especially true when living with a visible difference—there are stares, assumptions, and unasked questions that often go unanswered, not because I’m avoiding them, but because silence can carry more meaning than a long-winded explanation.

Sometimes, silence becomes a choice. Rather than constantly filling the space with words, I have found strength in letting silence speak for me. It is not about withholding information, but about recognizing when it is unnecessary to explain myself or seek validation.

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Silence as a Form of Resistance

Silence can also be a form of resistance. Johnston (2018) points out that silence allows individuals to control their narrative by choosing when and how to engage. By not always answering the unspoken questions or justifying my experience, I can resist the expectation to conform to others’ assumptions. Silence gives me control over my story.

Revisiting “Silence Lingers” highlighted the meaningful role silence has had in my life. Living with Cerebral Palsy has involved moving through spaces where silence holds emotions, questions, and assumptions. Instead of viewing silence as a challenge, I now see it as a space for thoughtful reflection and an opportunity to shape my narrative with intention.

The line “Silence speaks even when no one listens” holds significant meaning for me. Silence is not passive; it carries its own strength and depth. By discerning when to speak and when to remain silent, I have learned to navigate life without the need for constant explanation.

Ultimately, silence has not limited me. Instead, it has provided room for reflection, clarity, and the freedom to walk my path at my own pace.

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References

• Davis, Lennard J. The Disability Studies Reader. 5th edition, Routledge, 2017.
• Johnston, Claire. “Silence and Disability: Navigating Social Spaces.” Journal of Disability Studies, vol. 32, no. 2, 2018, pp. 45-61.
• Siebers, Tobin. Disability Theory. University of Michigan Press, 2008.

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