By: Olivia Visser, Opinions Editor
Around 57% of adults in Canada use a mobility aid. If that doesn’t sound correct to you, it’s probably because you’ve never realized that glasses are an assistive device. However, glasses have become commonplace in society — with over 2 billion people globally having vision impairments. Perceptions of disability are often tied to preconceptions; for instance, those with invisible or less visible conditions are often overlooked in discussions about disability. The visibility of my condition changes regularly, and when it’s invisible I feel that way, too. But when I do require a noticeable mobility aid such as a cane, I still struggle to feel accepted. July is Disability Pride Month, and for me that looks like practicing self-love by embracing my mobility aids.
I regularly rely on custom orthotics and braces, which aren’t noticeable to others. The most visible device I use is my cane — something I’ve struggled to come to terms with needing and displaying. I’d like to think I’m proud of my cane, but I still can’t shake the shame I sometimes experience when using it. On my good days, I’m capable of many different types of exercise. I sometimes feel embarrassed when I use my cane after a long bout of good health, because I worry people will think I’m faking. I also feel pressured to fit into popular beauty standards, which tell me a mobility aid somehow “takes away” from an outfit. The Guardian reported only 0.02% of models in fashion campaigns have visible disabilities. As a result, mobility aids are often overlooked in media and fashion culture — leading people like me to assume we’re unwelcome. These ideas are all rooted in internalized ableism, which is when a disabled person takes on some of the stereotypes imposed by society.
I struggle to avoid internalized ableism sometimes, with uncomfortable glances from folks who know nothing about me. The other day, my cane triggered a conversation among a couple behind me. They recalled a friend who they thought was exaggerating their illness, wondering why they’d need a wheelchair at their age. I know they weren’t necessarily assuming the same about me, but no one wants to know their appearance reminds you of someone you assume is “faking.” What they didn’t see was my partner begging me to use my cane earlier that day, after seeing how much pain I was in. It can take time for some people to accept their mobility aids and actually use them when needed.
Sometimes the best response to “what happened?” is a brief “I decided to use my cane today.”
Situations like these remind me of the stigma associated with young people using mobility aids, and the idea that we should be able to outgrow these devices with physiotherapy or lifestyle changes. Knowing that some people hold these beliefs makes it difficult to feel comfortable in public spaces. Those who have dynamic disabilities — disabilities that affect your level of function differently depending on the day — also face unique prejudices. Yes, I can walk without my cane, but it can be difficult. It can hurt. It may mean I have to spend the next day resting. It doesn’t mean I don’t truly need a cane.
Many mobility aids are not easy to use, which is why it baffles me when people assume young folks use them for attention or aesthetic. My cane makes it difficult to manouevre around people in tight spaces, and challenging to do two-handed tasks or carry multiple items. It can slow down my walking time, lead to fatigue in other parts of my body, and is a pain to find space for when I sit down. This is partly because most public spaces aren’t accessible enough, but it’s also just clunky to have to lug around an extra item of its size. With or without mobility aids, please don’t assume someone is faking their illness. You’re not entitled to know about their medical condition unless they divulge that information voluntarily.
There’s also this stereotype that a mobility aid means someone is unwell, when it can be quite the opposite. Sure, I wouldn’t need my cane if I were able-bodied. But, my cane allows me to stay healthy and protect my body. Sometimes the best response to “what happened?” is a brief “I decided to use my cane today.” Normalize not needing a deeper explanation.
I’d be lying if I said it’s always been easy to feel pride about my disabilities. What is there to be proud of? Chronic pain? Debilitating fatigue? I don’t personally feel like my disabilities define me as a person — but they’re a huge part of who I am. And while I’m not a big fan of calling disabled people brave for surviving within their circumstances, I’m proud of myself for what I continually overcome. To deny space in my identity for my disabilities would be to deny an entire part of myself. Disability pride is the joy of being unapologetically yourself — disability and all.
To deny space in my identity for my disabilities would be to deny an entire part of myself.
I love my mobility aids. I love the places they’ve helped me reach, and the pain and discomfort they’ve saved me from. I love the stickers I cycle through on my cane, which make me grin when I look down. My favourite devices are my cotton candy-coloured wrist braces and moon bunny compression gloves. Feeling cute on a bad pain or mobility day makes a world of a difference sometimes. I’m not fond of my awkward ankle casts that I once had to wear for six weeks straight, but they helped preserve my ankle mobility after multiple injuries led to the end of my running career. I’m grateful that my body can still walk, hike, climb, swim, and more. I’m proud that my assistive devices make this possible for me.
There’s an exhausting feeling of defeat when I receive unsolicited questions or advice, because I know it means I’ve stood out from the crowd. No, I’m not interested in how your friend’s cousin cured her joint pain with some fad diet or tea. No, you don’t have to feel bad for me. I’m doing just fine most of the time. While I know their intent is likely not malicious, privacy is still appreciated. Still, I know it doesn’t reflect poorly on me, but is a reflection that disability awareness still has a ways to go. Leave your assumptions at the door when you see a mobility aid user, and remember that we’ve likely heard it all before.
I’m proud of my mobility aids because they’re an extension of myself. They represent the mental strength it takes to take a stroll around my neighborhood when I’m not feeling well. They signify my ongoing commitment to physical strength and endurance — something that has taken extensive effort. I also know that each individual’s experience with mobility aids is so different from the next. You may not always notice us, but we exist.
