Living in a Body That Won't Cooperate

People want disability to be one of two stories. Either it’s a tragedy — something to be pitied, spoken about in a hushed voice — or it’s an inspiration, where you’re “so brave” for the crime of going to the shops. The truth is duller and harder than both. Most days, disability is just admin.

It’s the maths you do before you commit to anything. Can I park close enough? How long will I be on my feet? Will there be somewhere to sit, or will I be standing through it pretending I’m fine? Everyone else just turns up. I run a quiet calculation first, every time, and I’ve been doing it so long I barely notice I’m doing it.

The grief that comes back around

There’s a loss in it that doesn’t announce itself once and then leave. It comes back. You’ll be fine for months, and then you’ll watch someone do something ordinary — sprint for a bus, throw a kid in the air, stand at a gig all night — and feel the old ache of a version of yourself that isn’t coming back.

I’ve stopped treating that as a failure to “stay positive.” It’s just honest. You can grieve a thing and still get on with your day. The two aren’t in competition.

A world built for other people

Most of the friction isn’t the body — it’s the world built around it, on the cheerful assumption that everyone using it is fit and young and in no pain. The step where a ramp could’ve gone. The form that assumes you can stand in a queue. The seat designed by someone whose back has never once betrayed them.

None of it’s malicious. It’s just thoughtlessness baked into concrete and policy. And once you notice it, you can’t un-notice it — which is maybe the one genuinely useful thing a dodgy body gives you: you start seeing all the people the world quietly wasn’t built for.

Building a life that fits

The turning point for me wasn’t acceptance in some serene, greeting-card sense. It was practical. I stopped trying to force my old life onto a body that couldn’t do it, and started building one that actually fit. Different work. Different pace. Different definition of a good day.

That’s not giving up. It’s the opposite. It’s refusing to spend your one life losing a fight you were never going to win, and putting that energy into a life you can actually live. Turns out a life built to fit you, rather than one you’re constantly failing to keep up with, can be a pretty good one.

I’m not brave, and I’m not tragic. I’m just a bloke doing the admin, getting on with it. And honestly? Most days that’s enough.