Disability Pride Month can be a powerful time for changing perceptions and visibility… But what if you are tired, in pain, newly disabled or simply not feeling proud at all? In this piece, writer and disability advocate Tom Garrod explores a quieter version of disability pride: one that is less about slogans and more about stopping apologising for the access you actually need.
By Tom Garrod
I like the phrase Disability Pride Month. I also know how heavy it can feel on a tired Tuesday.
I have ataxic cerebral palsy. For me, that affects walking, balance, coordination, energy and fine motor control. Some days I feel proud of the life I have built around that. Other days I am mainly trying to get across a station without rushing, make my hands do what I need them to do, and finish the day without borrowing tomorrow’s energy.
That is why I think disability pride needs room for people who do not feel proud today.
Disability Pride Month can be powerful. It makes disabled people more visible in a world that still overlooks us or designs ordinary places as though we are an afterthought. But it can also create another standard to fail at: be visible, be positive, be educational, be brave, be honest, but still easy for non-disabled people to hear.
For me, disability pride does not mean feeling proud every day. It means belonging should not depend on feeling inspirational. It means I do not have to apologise for the access I actually need, even on days when I do not feel good about any of it.
For a long time, I thought pride had to look confident: loud, public, certain, and easy to capture in a social media post. My own disabled life has rarely felt that tidy.
There have been days when pride has looked like asking someone to slow down because I cannot safely match their pace. Some days it has meant booking a taxi instead of pretending the walk would be fine. Sometimes it has meant answering a patronising comment without shrinking, or going home early because I know the cost of staying.
None of those moments would make a dramatic poster. They still matter.
Quiet pride is often the decision to stop arguing with your own access needs. That shift can take years. It can also come and go. I do not think that makes it any less real.
Disabled people are often offered two awkward stories about ourselves.
The first is that disability is mainly sadness: pity, praise for ordinary daily tasks and quietly lowered expectations.
The second is that disability automatically makes us strong, resilient and inspiring. That version sounds kinder, but it leaves very little room to be an ordinary person having an ordinary difficult day.
I have experienced both. I have been praised for things that did not need praising. I have also had my abilities underestimated in ways that stayed with me far longer than the other person probably realised.
That is why Disability Pride Month can feel complicated. It encourages us to take up space, and that matters. At the same time, some disabled people are exhausted, newly disabled, grieving, in pain, burned out, waiting for support or simply trying to get through the week.
Some people do not feel proud yet. Some people may never choose that word. They still belong. When pride feels too big, I find it more useful to ask a smaller question:
What would I stop apologising for if I took my disabled life seriously?
For one person, the answer might be resting before they reach exhaustion. For another, it might be using a mobility aid without feeling they have to justify it. It might be asking for written instructions at work, declining an event with poor access, or telling a friend that walking speed is not a small detail.
None of those things are signs of giving up. They are signs of living honestly.
There is a version of disability pride that feels genuinely freeing. It says we are allowed to exist without shame, ask for access and want ordinary lives with ordinary problems.
There is another version that quietly becomes another demand. It asks disabled people to turn every difficult experience into a lesson, every barrier into a campaign and every painful day into something inspirational for other people.
I do not want that kind of pride.
The pride I trust is quieter and more stubborn. It says my life does not need to be inspirational before it deserves access. My body does not need to be easy before it deserves respect. I do not have to be cheerful to be believed.
Some years, pride may mean marching, campaigning, posting or speaking publicly. Other years, it may simply mean getting through a difficult month with a little less shame than before. Both count.
So if Disability Pride Month feels joyful to you, celebrate it. Share your story. Be visible.
If it feels more complicated, you are not failing the movement. You may simply be tired, private, angry, unsure, newly diagnosed or burned out.
Perhaps the place to begin is smaller.
Stop apologising for one thing that genuinely helps you.
Mine is saying:
“I move better when I do not rush.”
It is not a slogan. It is not especially inspiring. It is simply true.
That one sentence has probably done more to improve my life than any grand statement about disability pride ever could.
Perhaps that is where pride really begins. Not by proving anything to anyone else, but by giving your real needs an honest place in your real life.
About the Author
Tom Garrod is a disability rights advocate and writer who has ataxic cerebral palsy. He works in politics and campaigning, and writes about access, dignity and the realities of disabled life. Tom is the author of How to be Disabled, a book about building a life that fits your body, limits and ambitions.
This article is part of our Disability Pride 2026 series, where disabled writers share different perspectives on what Disability Pride means to them.