The Violence of Being Disabled: Living with a Visible Disability in an Unready World

Living with a visible disability is more than a medical condition—it’s a daily battle against societal perception. This raw and emotional essay captures the silent violence of navigating an ableist world, the struggle for acceptance, and the journey toward self-love. Through personal reflection, the author unveils the unseen weight of being disabled in a world that refuses to see beyond it.

I am afraid.

I’ve seen people recoil when they notice. I see the aggression on some of the faces. I see their lack of control. I feel mine. 

I always feel my difference. 

I always try to forget. I’m starting to believe that isn’t the right approach to navigate this world. 

This world is a long way from understanding and accepting disability. 

In my early teens, I used to hide in the dark. Shame riddled me, causing a longer-term effect on how I carried myself. On my self-esteem. On who I am as a man. 

These things all came from society’s outlook on something I was unable to control. 

I see the lack of understanding, which is to say I feel it. The eyes look at you, then down and they stay down a little too long. 

And there’s a moment in which I feel there could be violence. And once upon a time there was. And not long ago it would have often been. 

And I don’t use to word violence lightly. It’s violence without the physical. It’s violence of self. It’s a violence of emotion—a natural force. How you feel afterwards is like a beating in which you need to carry it through the world. 

It occurs to me I shield my body. Learning the smell of my own fear. 

There are days in which I feel I’ve lost my body to others.

It’s walking through the world and others feeling they can be violent with your emotions and ask what happened. 

I’m seen as weak by some. Others think I am brave. I am neither, somewhere of a figment in between. 

Mostly afraid and stubborn enough to say what I feel needs to be said. 

Never for me, but for others. 

Yet, I’m tired of having this fight.

Tired of fighting for the same place in this world—others are simply given.

I once got into an argument with an older man in a hostel. He came over when another young man shook my hand and asked what was wrong with my hands. I was tired and simply wanted to go to bed. But on reflection, I was tired of the question. Tired of this being my normal. The man who’d never spoken a word to me prior crossed the room and stated he too had a disability. Beginning to describe his, obtained from flying commercial jets and the C02 that made its way into the cockpit caused him to have permanent brain fog. 

I said I was sorry to hear. And he accused me of belittling his disability. I sighed, simply wanting to leave, and cut him short. He stated his and mine were the same. 

I got upset and said it wasn’t. 

And he asked why not. Which I stopped and responded with frustration. 

The only reason we are having this conversation is because the young man in front of me noticed my hands and made a comment. 

To which you proceeded to tell me about yours. 

You didn’t ask for consent but recklessly plunged on ahead. 

I can’t hide. 

I’ve wanted to. 

I’ve needed to. 

Yet it’s not possible for me. And part of me is sorry for that man. The other part of me which feels I shouldn’t need to have this awkward conversation with strangers does not. 

Tears streamed down my face, as I went out onto the dark streets rather than to bed and walked around Bath in the UK. The old heritage buildings were shadowed by the darkness of night, hiding mine. The moon peeked behind the clouds and the light illuminated my darkness. 

What I came to realise is most people can’t comprehend how it makes me or others feel about themselves. 

Often belittling. Often presenting that the only part of you that is important is your disability. 

It’s the part they listen most intently to. The part all of their attention is drawn to when you speak. They care about your disability more than they care about you. I well up, writing this last paragraph. Realising how much those words typed out hurts. 

I’m more than that. 

More than my missing fingers and toes. More than what remains. 

I’m a strong person who has to carry myself with grit, grace and armour every time I walk out into the world. 

I’m the man who had to grow up earlier than he would’ve liked because he saw how cruel others can be. 

I’m the one who’s fenced off attacks, insults and inhumane comments more than you’ll ever know. 

I’m the man who has been used as a demonstration and model for others. 

I’m the man who never asked for any of it, but has to deal with the hand he's been dealt, even if it’s missing a finger. 

I’m the man who is still afraid but gets up every morning and faces the world. 

Because who am I if not. 

I’m the man who despite everything you’ve read in the essay is so incredibly proud of who he’s become. 

I’m the man who’s rooting for anyone with a disability. From close and afar. 

I’m the man who’s learning to love himself all over again because others never did. 

The same man that knows this is the best thing that has ever happened to him. 

This article, The Violence of Being Disabled: Living with a Visible Disability in an Unready World, was previously published by the author: https://timhartwriter.substack.com/p/the-violence-of-being-disabled