I’m Surviving, Not Inspiring

I can’t tell you how many times since I started using a wheelchair people have called me inspirational, or given me that “oh, bless her heart (for living)” look I’ve come to absolutely despise.

Thinking about it this morning, I wondered—what is it that makes me inspirational now that I’m in a chair?

I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in 2004.
Nobody called me inspirational back when I was living with an “invisible” disability—working full time, managing the house (cleaning, laundry, bills, life, etc.), raising two little boys, and juggling all the extracurricular chaos.
Back then, people treated me like everyone else.
Before my illness became visible.

So what is it about a wheelchair that earns me a badge of inspiration?

I do far less now than I did before.
I need help with things most people take for granted—getting out of bed, using the bathroom, getting dressed.
I wouldn’t be alive without the care my husband provides.
(And no, he’s not a saint for taking care of me. He’s just a decent human being—my partner, not my savior.)

We’re both ordinary people doing our best with a shitty hand we didn’t get to choose.

So again: what, exactly, am I inspiring in people?
Survival? Endurance?
Pity, dressed up as admiration?

If people knew I pray for death more days than not, would they still find me inspiring?
If they knew how much I hate every fucking day I spend watching life pass me by—would that ruin the moment?

Am I inspirational because I smile in spite of the chair that now defines me?
Because according to the dictionary, to inspire means to fill someone with hope or encouragement.

So what is it?
Do I encourage you because, seeing me, your life suddenly doesn’t seem so bad?
Do I push you to live more fully, because you’re afraid you’ll end up like me?

Because that’s not the kind of inspiration I ever wanted to be.

The only people I’ve ever cared to inspire are my children.
I didn’t grow up chasing the spotlight.
I don’t want special attention.
I just want to blend into the crowd like everyone else.

So maybe next time you see someone like me, don’t call them inspirational.
Just say hello.
Ask how they are.
Let them be.

That’s the real grace: letting people exist without needing to make their pain poetic.

So again—what exactly is it about me in a wheelchair that makes people feel hopeful? Encouraged? Inspired?

Is it because you think you couldn’t do it?
Because seeing me like this makes you hold your comfort a little tighter?

Maybe it’s easier to label me “inspirational” than to face the terrifying truth that life can flip on a dime—and no amount of yoga, kale, or positive affirmations will stop it.

Maybe calling me inspirational makes my suffering easier to digest.
A tidy frame around a picture you’d rather not look at.

“Look at her go,” you say.
But I’m just… getting through the fucking day.

I don’t want to be your reminder to be grateful.
I don’t want to be your silver lining.
I don’t want to be anyone’s feel-good story.

I’m not here to give your life context or meaning.
My pain isn’t your moral compass.

You know what would inspire me?

A world that stops pretending disability is tragic.
A culture that stops treating caretaking like sainthood.
A society that doesn’t need visible suffering to validate someone’s struggle.

You want to be inspired?
Learn to treat disabled people like full human beings—with desire, rage, humor, flaws, dreams, boredom, sexuality, intelligence, and goddamn agency.

Don’t slap the word inspiration on us like a sticker that makes you feel better.

The only people I want to impress are the ones I love.
The ones who see me. All of me.
Not just the chair. Not just the smile. Not just the survival story.

Because I don’t want a pedestal. I want a place at the table.

So maybe—just maybe—the most radical, revolutionary thing you can do…
is let me be ordinary.
Let me be human.
And love me anyway.