Disabled, Not Broken

For a long time, I believed I was broken.

Not metaphorically. Not dramatically.

Just… fundamentally wrong.

Too tired. Too much. Too slow. Too sensitive. Too unpredictable.

Too everything for a world that only seems to value the steady, the productive, the “fine.”

It wasn’t that anyone said it outright. It was quieter than that. It was in the way teachers grew impatient. In the eye rolls in the emergency department. In the friendships that ended when I couldn’t keep up. In the systems that required “proof” of my struggle just to be eligible for help.

I didn’t have the language yet. I just had the shame.

Disability doesn’t feel empowering when you’re first living it

At first, it felt like failure.

Every flare-up, every panic attack, every time I forgot simple tasks or needed rest when others didn’t - it felt like a confirmation of what I already feared: I wasn’t enough.

And that belief stuck with me. 

Because the world doesn’t just overlook disabled people - it actively teaches us that our worth is tied to how unlike disabled people we can act.

Mask well. Push through. Minimise symptoms. Blend in.

I got really, really good at pretending.

But pretending is not the same as healing.

I kept burning out.
I kept spiraling.
And eventually, the cost of hiding became higher than the cost of being seen.

What changed wasn’t some magical epiphany. It was slow, painful, and real.
It was therapy. Community. Learning from others like me.
It was unlearning internalised ableism one belief at a time.

It was the moment I realised:
I am disabled.
That doesn’t mean I’m broken.
It means the system wasn’t built for me—and I’m still here.

There’s nothing broken about living differently.

There’s nothing shameful about mobility aids, medication, screen readers, stim toys, or resting when your body screams for it.
There’s nothing weak about saying “I can’t today.”
There’s nothing lazy about accommodating your own needs.

We don’t exist to impress or inspire others.
We exist. That’s enough.

And yet, it took me years to say that with my chest. To sit in it. To believe it on the bad days, not just the good ones.

This is why we made Halfway to Healing.

Because healing doesn’t always look like recovery.
Sometimes, it looks like rewriting the story you were told about yourself.

So if you’re somewhere in that middle place—if you’re disabled and still struggling to feel proud, if you’re unlearning the idea that you’re broken—you are not alone.

You are valid.
You are worthy.
You are not a burden.
And you don’t have to earn rest, love, or belonging.

~Sam🌿