You think you’re complimenting us, but…

Able-bodied people are not disabled.

Did I just blow your mind?

If you can walk without any problems, you will never know what it’s like to be a (full-time) wheelchair user. If you can see, you don’t know what it’s like to be blind. And so on and so forth. You can imagine—and you probably do, because I think it’s human to imagine and empathize—, but you’ll never know.

This can lead to ableds telling us disabled people things they think that, were they disabled like us, they would like to hear, except… they probably wouldn’t, and so we don’t either. In this article I’ve noted a few compliment-attempts-that-come-out-wrong that I’ve been the recipient of before (if not in those exact words, in the sentiment expressed). I’ve tried to explain them so that if you’re able-bodied, you’ll hopefully understand what I mean when I say you’re not being as nice as you think you are.

I don’t see you as disabled

What you think you’re saying: “I don’t treat you any differently than any of my able-bodied friends or family members, I love you just as much as anybody else.”

What we hear: “I have to ignore a whole part of you to be able to love you as much as I love my able-bodied friends or family members.”

I am disabled, period. It is a part of me and it always will be. Whether you see me as disabled or not has no bearing whatsoever on the fact that I cannot go up or down stairs unaided. In fact, not seeing me as disabled hinders me much more than it helps me; it means that you don’t consider my needs—not preferences, needs—at all when you think of me.

Someone who doesn’t see me as disabled might make a dinner reservation without mentioning it, only to find out only once we arrive that they put us on the second floor and there are no other tables free, whereas someone who does see me as disabled would have asked for a table on the ground floor from the get-go. Do you see how one situation is more pleasant for me than the other?

I see myself as disabled. Well, it’s not like I have a choice really, since I can no longer even pass as abled unless I’m basically sitting down and not moving, but I’ve accepted disability as a part of my identity. Not the only one, or even the biggest one sometimes, but it’s there, it’s permanent, and it’s not an insult if people who care about me think about it too sometimes. Quite the contrary in fact.

If I were in your shoes, I would probably have killed myself

What you think you’re saying: “You are so strong and brave, I don’t know how you deal with everything life throws at you, I’d never be able to do it.”

What we hear: “How can your life be worth living?”

(I mean, some Twitter trolls do think disabled lives aren’t worth living and we should kill ourselves, but that’s not the people I’m talking about.)

As I explained in this article, this sort of sentiment implies that there was a choice made at some point in our lives, a decision taken. Some people are born with a disability, others acquire it or develop it later in life. In either case, our existence isn’t a choice, it’s just our existence.

When you have a thought like this, that you would hate your life if you ever became disabled like me, you must remember that anybody can become disabled at the drop of a hat. Car accident, broken spine, wheelchair users for the rest of your life. Brain trauma triggers a hidden gene that suddenly expresses a rare genetic disease. Accident with a rotating saw at work, and suddenly you’re an amputee. Anything can happen to you at any time, and if it does, do you really think you wouldn’t want to live anymore?

By saying this, you reduce our lives to our disability, without considering that we have things we enjoy doing, people we love and who love us, and that there might just be a point to our lives other than just “being disabled.”

This can also lead down the slippery slope of thinking, “disabled people have no quality of life, so what is even the point of saving them if they get sick?” In this time of COVID, this is a VERY dangerous way of thinking for the medical community.

You’re not disabled, you’re diffabled / differently abled / handicapable / you have special needs

What you think you’re saying: “’Disabled’ is such an ugly and insulting word to call yourself, look at all these pretty neologisms you can use instead!”

What we hear: “Disability makes me uncomfortable so let me make up ugly neologisms to side step the concept.”

Repeat after me: Disability is not a bad word. You can say it, you can use it. Dis. A. Bil. Ity.

As I said in this article, disabled people decide what they want to call themselves. If they prefer referring to themselves as diffabled, handicapable or even special unicorns (true story), then so be it.

The one thing you must remember though is that it is never, ever an abled’s place to ignore disabled people’s preferences or talk over them. We keep hearing about all these new ways ableds make up to talk about us in classrooms, in doctor’s offices, in the news, on television, and it seems nobody ever consults any of us about it. Just call us disabled, we swear we won’t eat you!

All we hear when you say one of those words is that you’re not saying disabled. Why? Did you just not know it was okay? Well, now you do and you have my permission to call me so (or handicapée in French). But if you insist on using your cutesy made-up word, all we get from that is that you’re not comfortable with the word. And if the word bothers you, what does that say about the concept, the disability, the disabled person? Do I bother you?

What these three examples have in common is that they’re about you, the abled, and not the disabled person you’re talking to. Your needs, your wants, your discomfort. You don’t like the word disability, you don’t like thinking about it, you don’t like imagining it. In Harry Potter book 5, there’s a moment where Ginny reminds Harry that she’s already been possessed by Voldemort, and he says he’d forgotten. “Lucky you,” she replies. Lucky him for being able to forget this traumatic event she will never forget.

Lucky you for not being disabled. Lucky you for being able to forget we have specific needs ridiculously few people and places understand, let alone cater to. Lucky you for being able to dream about running and jumping, and then not waking up with the realization that you can’t do that anymore. Lucky you for even having the possibility of not thinking about disability.

We know you mean well when you say the things I mentioned above (well, at least we hope you do!), but the next time you want to express that sentiment or a similar one to a disabled person, think of what it is you’re saying exactly, if it’s really what you mean, and if the other person needs to hear it.

And if the answer is no, say something nice about our hair or our shirt or something. Disabled people are, above all, people; you can compliment us about something other than our disability.