Meet Me in the Middle

I live in the middle.

Not fully “abled.”
Not always “disabled.”
Somewhere in between.

It’s a strange place to be, honestly.

Because when people look at me, they don’t always see my disability. And because they don’t see it, they assume it’s not there. They assume I don’t struggle. They assume I’m just like them.

Until I slur my speech in a meeting.
Or turn my head awkwardly so my good ear can catch what someone said.
Or stumble over my words in a video and feel that familiar wave of insecurity rise up.

That’s when the attention hits.
Not curiosity. Not empathy.
But confusion. Discomfort. Sometimes pity.

It’s not always what they see—but what they don’t expect to.

And that’s what makes living in the middle so hard to explain.
It’s not just about how my body works—it’s about how the world reacts to it.

I’ve lived my entire life with cerebral palsy and a heart transplant.
And yet, I often find myself feeling like I have to prove I belong—
to the abled world and the disabled one.

Too “normal” for the disability community.
Too “different” for the rest.

There’s something that gets lost when you’re in the middle.
Support. Recognition. Community.
You’re not always offered accommodations—because no one thinks you need them.
You’re not always included in conversations around inclusion—because you don’t “look the part.”

And still… you feel it. Every day.

You feel it when your energy crashes and you don’t know how to explain why.
You feel it when your voice doesn’t cooperate and someone looks at you like you’re drunk.
You feel it when you avoid certain situations—not because you can’t handle them physically, but because you’re tired of being misunderstood.

It’s isolating in a different kind of way.

And I think more people live here than we talk about.

So I’m talking about it.

Because disability doesn’t always announce itself with a wheelchair or a cane.
Sometimes, it whispers. Sometimes, it hides.
Sometimes, it only shows itself in the quietest, most vulnerable moments.

And those moments matter.

They matter because they remind us that ability exists on a spectrum.
They matter because they challenge us to create a world that doesn’t just recognize difference when it’s obvious—but honors it when it’s subtle.
And they matter because every person—no matter where they fall on that spectrum—deserves to be seen.

So to anyone else living in the middle:
I see you. I am you.

And your story is just as valid, just as powerful, and just as worthy of being told.