Imagine being stopped at the supermarket and told, "You're so inspiring for just … being out and about!"
Good intentions or not, if we unpack what is really being said, it's that my existence as a disabled person is viewed as some sort of motivational seminar.
To praise me for doing my weekly shop is not a compliment.
It's a reminder that society doesn't expect people like me to step out of the house, let alone thrive.
As someone who lives at the intersection of disability, womanhood, and cultural diversity, I experience the weight of language every day.
Both when it harms, and when it heals.
And I have learnt that language isn't just about communication.
It is about recognition, belonging, power. So yes — I notice words.
I feel them in my bones (or in my prosthetics, depending on the day).
Outdated ideas of tragedy and limitation
Language is never neutral.
Every word we choose or avoid reflects something deeper about the world we live in and the world we are helping to shape.
When we talk about disability, race, gender, or culture, the language we use has the power to either uphold harmful systems or challenge them.
It can reinforce stigma, or it can drive change.
Too often, the words used to describe disabled people reflect outdated ideas of tragedy, helplessness, or limitation.
Phrases like "wheelchair-bound" or "suffers from" a disability are still commonly used — even in professional settings, ignoring the social model of disability.
These words are not just inaccurate; they are loaded with assumptions.
They paint a picture of disabled lives as less fulfilling, less capable, or defined by deficit.
Language shapes policy
The words we use shape how people think.
They influence decisions about access, about who is considered capable, employable, or valuable.
They inform public attitudes — and ultimately, public policy.
If we frame disability as something to be pitied or fixed, rather than recognised as a valid part of human diversity, it becomes easier to justify exclusion.
This can be through inaccessible infrastructure, underfunded support systems, or policies that treat disabled people as burdens rather than contributors.
Language, in that way, is not just a reflection of society — it's the blueprint we use to build it.
Positive power of language
I have felt the power of language used with care, intention, and respect.
When someone uses the word disabled confidently and appropriately, it tells me they understand that it is not a slur.
It is not shameful. It is an identity. An identity shaped by barriers, yes, but also by strength, creativity, and community.
I recall a friend once corrected someone mid-conversation who used an outdated term to describe my disability.
It wasn't done in a performative or aggressive manner, just calmly and confidently.
And this simple gesture meant everything. It told me: I've got your back. I value your identity. I'm willing to grow.
Reclaiming once harmful language
There is something incredibly powerful in reclaiming words.
In many disability communities, people have reclaimed the word "crip", a term historically used as an insult, and transformed it into a symbol of pride, resistance, and solidarity.
It's not a word I use lightly or casually, but I understand why others do.
Reclamation is an act of agency. It says: You no longer get to define me with your language. I define myself.
I have had to do this with cultural identity as well.
For years, I would hear people describe certain cultures, including my own, as "exotic" or "ethnic," often in a way that reduced centuries of rich tradition to a takeaway menu or a colourful outfit.
When people speak about culture as something foreign or other, even unintentionally, it reinforces the idea that whiteness is the norm and everything else is a deviation from it.
Worrying about 'getting it wrong'
I've had conversations with friends and colleagues who genuinely want to do better but worry they may get it wrong.
And to them I say — the goal isn't perfection. It's reflection.
It's being willing to pause and ask (often uncomfortable questions), such as:
- Whose language am I using?
- Who does it serve?
- Who might it exclude?
When we shift our language, we begin to shift our thinking.
And when enough minds shift, policies follow.
That's why it matters when government documents use "people with disabilities" rather than outdated medicalised terms.
It matters when race and culture are acknowledged without euphemism or erasure.
It matters when our language tells the truth, especially when it is uncomfortable.
The language we choose can challenge assumptions. It can open doors. It can signal to someone — particularly those who have long felt invisible or misunderstood — that they are seen, respected, and that they belong.
There is no expectation to get it right all the time.
What matters is you caring enough to try. Ask questions. Apologise if you make mistakes. Learn for next time.
And most importantly, listen to the people whose experiences are different from yours.
Because language doesn't just describe our reality — it creates it.
