When Love Challenged My Ableism
For a long time, I told myself I could never date someone else with a disability.
I didn’t say it out loud—not in a way that sounded cruel—but the belief was there. Quiet. Heavy. Sitting just beneath the surface. I told myself it would be too hard, too complicated, too close to the parts of myself I was still struggling to accept.
The truth is, I wasn’t afraid of their disability.
I was afraid of my own.
This was my internalized ableism—beliefs I had absorbed over years of being underestimated, overlooked, and made to feel like “less.” Somewhere along the way, I started believing that loving someone with a disability meant doubling my limitations instead of expanding my life. I thought love needed to look normal to be safe.
And then life did what it does best—it challenged me.
George was one of the first people who showed me that connection didn’t need to fit a traditional mold to be real. We met as children through early intervention programs, surrounded by families who understood disability before we did. As adults, when we found each other again, our bond didn’t turn into romance—but it didn’t disappear either. George taught me that love can exist without romance, and still be deep, steady, and lifelong.
Thomas challenged me in a different way. When I met him through an online cerebral palsy community, I was cautious—maybe even guarded. He had cerebral palsy and was deaf, and communication required patience, creativity, and vulnerability. Our relationship forced me to confront intimacy in ways I never had before. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t simple. But it showed me that connection doesn’t come from convenience—it comes from effort and trust. Even when our romantic relationship changed, the bond remained. Thomas taught me that love doesn’t fail just because it changes shape.
And then there was Lorenzo.
Lorenzo entered my life slowly—so slowly that for years, I didn’t realize what he was teaching me. We met on public transportation, saw each other on and off for years, and kept in touch through texts and calls that never quite turned into dates. I told myself we were just friends. But what I was really doing was protecting myself.
By the time Lorenzo and I finally came together, I had already loved two people with disabilities—despite once swearing I never would. And loving him felt different. Not because he didn’t have a disability, but because I had finally stopped running from mine.
Loving Lorenzo meant building a life that works instead of chasing one that looks right. It meant facing systems that punish disabled people for committing to each other. It meant redefining independence, partnership, and even marriage. And it meant realizing that the very thing I once feared—loving someone who understood disability from the inside—was the thing that finally allowed me to feel fully seen.
Looking back, I see how wrong my earlier belief was.
Loving people with disabilities didn’t limit my life.
It expanded it.
George taught me about steady love.
Thomas taught me about vulnerable love.
Lorenzo taught me about shared love.
And all three taught me how to love myself.
Internalized ableism told me I needed distance from disability to be happy.
Love taught me I needed honesty.
Gratitude
I am grateful for the relationships that challenged my fear.
I am grateful for the people who reflected parts of myself I once tried to hide.
And I am grateful that I learned this truth, even if it took time:
The problem was never disability.
The problem was believing I had to escape it to be worthy of love.
OUR BEAUTIFUL CHALLENGES 