You Can Accept Your Disability and Still Hate What It Takes From You

There is a strange expectation placed on disabled and chronically ill people that once we've reached some mythical state of “acceptance”, we're supposed to be completely at peace with everything that comes with it.

We should have embraced our bodies, found the silver lining, become impressively resilient and perhaps even be grateful for everything our experiences have taught us.

Preferably while smiling.

I don't think acceptance works like that.

You can accept that disability is part of your life and still be furious that something isn't accessible. You can love your life and still grieve things that have become harder or impossible. You can be confident in your identity and still occasionally think, I really could have done without this today.

Those things aren't contradictions.

Acceptance doesn't mean liking it

I write about disability and chronic illness from both a professional and lived-experience perspective, and one thing I feel quite strongly about is the way acceptance is sometimes misunderstood.

Acceptance isn't necessarily arriving at a point where everything feels okay. It can simply mean recognising the reality you're living in without having to spend every waking moment fighting against the fact that it exists.

That is very different from saying you have to like it.

There are things about disability that I can accept perfectly well while simultaneously thinking they are an enormous pain in the arse.

Accessibility is an obvious example. Sometimes the difficulty isn't actually your body at all. It's the building with three steps and no alternative entrance. It's the supposedly accessible venue where the disabled toilet has mysteriously become a storage cupboard. It's having to research somewhere with the level of preparation normally associated with an international military operation just to work out whether you'll actually be able to get inside.

Frustration in those situations isn't a failure to accept your disability.

Sometimes the situation is simply frustrating.

You can grieve something without hating your life

There's also a type of grief that can come with disability and chronic illness which isn't always easy to explain.

You may grieve a version of your life you expected to have, an activity that became harder, a career that needed to change, independence you once had, or simply the amount of effort required to do something other people barely need to think about.

And sometimes that grief changes.

You might think you've dealt with something years ago, only for it to appear again when your circumstances change. A new relationship, a new job, worsening symptoms, becoming a parent, seeing friends reach milestones, or simply encountering another inaccessible situation can bring old feelings back to the surface.

That doesn't necessarily mean you've “gone backwards”.

Human beings aren't really known for processing a major life experience once, filing it neatly away and never feeling anything about it again.

Unfortunately.

It can be particularly difficult when you're surrounded by messages about gratitude. Of course gratitude can be valuable. You can be grateful for the things your body allows you to do, the people you have around you, your work, your relationships or simply a good day.

But gratitude shouldn't become another way of policing difficult emotions.

You shouldn't have to follow every expression of frustration with a disclaimer explaining that you're still very grateful to be alive.

“You're so resilient” isn't always the compliment people think it is

Disabled and chronically ill people are frequently described as resilient, inspiring or strong.

Sometimes that feels lovely.

Other times, you may think: I wasn't really given another option.

Resilience can be incredibly valuable, but there's a danger in romanticising it. If somebody constantly has to adapt to inaccessible environments, advocate for themselves, manage pain or fatigue, rearrange plans and find another way around barriers, they may become exceptionally good at coping.

That doesn't mean they should have had to become so good at it.

I think this matters psychologically because people can start placing pressure on themselves to be the “good disabled person”: positive, independent, determined and endlessly adaptable.

Then the day comes when you're tired, angry or simply fed up, and suddenly you feel as though you're failing at disability too.

That's quite an achievement for one nervous system.

You are allowed to have days when you don't want to turn adversity into personal growth. Sometimes you may simply want things to be easier.

Perhaps acceptance is making room for both

For me, a more useful version of acceptance leaves room for complexity.

It might sound like:

This is part of my life, and sometimes I hate what it requires from me.

I value my independence, and I sometimes need help.

I can advocate for accessibility without feeling ashamed of needing it.

I can have a meaningful, joyful life and still experience grief.

I don't have to pretend everything is fine in order to prove that I'm coping.

This is often where counselling can be helpful. Not because difficult feelings about disability need to be “fixed”, but because there can be enormous relief in having somewhere you don't have to minimise them, reassure anybody else, or immediately look for the positive.

Coaching can offer something slightly different: looking at how you want your life, work or relationships to function within the reality of your energy, health and accessibility needs. Sometimes the question isn't How can I push myself harder? but How can I make this more sustainable?

And perhaps that's the part of disability acceptance we don't talk about enough.

Acceptance doesn't mean surrendering your right to want things to be different. It doesn't mean giving up ambition, pretending barriers don't matter or being delighted about every limitation.

Sometimes acceptance simply means allowing two things to be true at once:

I can value the life I have and still wish some parts of it were easier.

There is room for both.

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I'm Emma, a BACP-accredited counsellor, EMDR practitioner and trained coach. I work with adults experiencing a range of difficulties, with particular interests in neurodivergence, disability, chronic illness, trauma and self-esteem. I also write from lived experience of disability and chronic illness, so these aren't subjects I understand only through professional training.

If you'd like somewhere to explore the emotional impact of disability or chronic illness, or practical support around creating a life and way of working that feels more sustainable, I offer online counselling and coaching.

You can contact me through the contact page on my website to ask a question or arrange an initial conversation.