When I first became disabled, and I went looking for stories, I wanted to find some kind of map, some way to understand what was happening to me and what I found was “inspiration porn”. At first, I didn’t know what the story of disability was supposed to look like, so I read and watched what was available: profiles of someone who’d “overcome” a motorcycle crash, or a congenital condition, and gone on to run a marathon, start a company, write a book. The narrative was always the same – adversity, grit, triumph. These were people who had “achieved” in spite of it all. And so, lying in a hospital bed, I thought, “Oh, I have to be one of those people now.”
That pressure was enormous especially since I was only 18. I was worried about all of the usual 18-year-old stuff – getting a girlfriend, doing well in school, making friends. But it felt like the only way I could access these everyday normal experiences would be to become an inspiration.
But physical therapy is so hard…and boring. Progress is slow. But when the biggest thing I managed to do that day was stand, or shuffle a few steps, it sucked. Becoming that inspiration felt so far away. People around you will say, “That’s amazing!” but the same people still expect some performance of redemption. So even when they try to celebrate you, it doesn’t always land. Because we’ve all internalised the same narrow story.
It got more complicated when I started telling stories myself. Writing was how I processed what was happening to me. It was a way of reclaiming control over a body and a life that suddenly felt fractured. And I understood the formulas. I knew how to build a story that inspired, that hit the beats people expect: tragedy, struggle, triumph, cue applause. I did that. My earliest stage stories followed that model, and it worked. Audiences clapped. Not to brag but I won a few storytelling competitions. Because those are the kinds of stories people think they want to hear from disabled folks.
But the more I lived with my disability, the more those stories felt dishonest in what they left out. I wanted to talk about complexity, about grief and intimacy and the boring, endless repetition of doing a public transit commute. I wanted to talk about how inspiration can be a trap. But when I tried to bring more nuance, more contradiction, I started getting notes: “Can you make the ending a bit stronger? We’re looking for something with a clearer resolution.” And I realised: they weren’t looking for the truth. They were looking for the uplift. The inspiration was never for me – it was for them. A way to feel good, without having to think too hard.
So now, I’m trying to find a different way to tell stories that are messy, unresolved, complicated, still happening. Stories that don’t necessarily comfort. Because the truth is, disability isn’t a genre – it’s life. And I want to make space for that onstage.
Falling: A Disabled Love Story, Pleasance Courtyard, 30 Jul-25 Aug (not 6, 14), 3pm