Disabled Isn’t a Dirty Word

Even if your mom still hates using it.

The “D” word.

I didn’t grow up with it, but it lingered in the air. Like something tucked in the back of the coat closet, waiting for the day I’d finally dust it off and try it on.

People have always tiptoed around my limb difference, trying to navigate their curiosity and my feelings in one clumsy swoop.

“April’s just a little different, sweetie.”
“She has a special arm - isn’t that so cool?”

Except it never felt cool. It felt weird. Performative. Cringe. And even as a kid, I could feel the discomfort baked into those words.

But when we dance around disability, we unintentionally send the message that it’s something to be tiptoed around. Like it’s fragile. Or broken.

Or lesser.

That’s why people reach for phrases like “differently-abled” or “special needs.” I know the good intention is there, but it’s giving ✨participation trophy✨ energy.

Here’s the thing:
I am disabled.
It’s not bad.
It’s not a shame.
It just is.

Like being tall. Or artistic. Or Type A.

And while I love making things shiny & new, this one doesn’t need a rebrand.

It’s not something I need to overcome—because what if I never do? What if I don’t need to?

That realization was one of my biggest “small wins.”

Disability is part of my identity. It shaped how I grew up, how I dress, how I move through the world. It’s given me a million workarounds, weirdly funny stories, heartbreaks and hard-won confidence. But it’s never been all of me, just like your quirks or struggles aren’t all of you.

And still, for years, I hid.

I dodged questions, cropped out my arm, tilted my photos just right. Because being visibly different in a world obsessed with symmetry and sameness? Not easy or fun.

But I’ve learned there’s power in naming what is. Not sugarcoating it.

Calling myself disabled has been one of the most freeing, clarifying, community-creating choices I’ve made.

No pity. No pedestal. Just honesty.

And honestly? I kind of love that part.

Love you.

- April