The Not-So-Close Face of Ableism

Why everyday dismissals hurt as much as open hostility

I’m still trying to process what happened this week.

I was in my favourite shop when an older woman came up behind me, asked me to move, and before I could get out of the way, she pushed past — knocking me to the floor.

What happened next is harder to swallow. Instead of apologising, as I would have, she turned to my husband and said, “I asked her to move,” in the tone of someone scolding a toddler who’d run amok — not a sixty-year-old reaching for a pie from the freezer. As she carried on, I stood behind her, proud at least that I managed to say, “How rude!”

On one hand, we can’t legislate for nastiness. But I think there’s more going on here, so bear with me.

Contrary to common assumptions, I don’t think of myself as disabled until the world reminds me. (Thank you, Audrey — well remembered.) When I wake up, my priorities are simple: a pee, a coffee, a handful of pills. I don’t sit on the edge of the bed thinking, Hey world, I’m disabled. It doesn’t cross my mind, because I feel totally normal — or at least typical-for-Mole.

Then I turn on the radio, TV, or social feeds, and it’s only a matter of time before the world tells me otherwise. Many people don’t notice how hostile stories about disabled people have become. But minds take it in. I’ve slammed the off-switch rather than hear another tirade about “lazy scroungers” supposedly driving up the tax bill. Even our current Shadow Chancellor, Rachel Reeves, has made it a public mission to brand disabled people as “work-shy.” Rights to personal care are questioned. Support bills are shuffled onto those least likely to be fully paid — if they’re employed at all. A double whammy.

And it’s not just about money. While the press obsesses over the “cost of care,” disabled people are offered instead the “right to die.” I can’t describe how painful it is to read that my own government considers my life expendable. And yes, I think about that more often than I’d like.

I’ve learned to live with passing rejection, disgust, and sometimes outright hate. People make it plain I’m not welcome in their space. People who make a huge performance of looking anywhere but at me. On the street, strangers have hurled insults, told me what to do, or spoken to whoever I’m with instead of to me.

And that’s just the obvious stuff. At work, colleagues have dismissed what I say as untrustworthy or assumed they get to grant me permission to have help, act or speak. The cumulative weight of these “small” moments is heavy: every “If I were you…”, every “I’ll tell you what you need…”, every “You can try harder…”adds up. The message is clear: I’m a problem to manage, not a person to respect.

Then there’s the blurry line between friendliness and intrusion. Strangers demand the intimacy of friendship where it hasn’t been earned, treat me like a child, invade my privacy, or ask questions they’d never dream of asking someone who looked more “typical.” Most bystanders are too stunned to name it for what it is: prejudice. But that’s exactly what it is.

The truth is, we’ve all grown up on stereotypes about disabled people. We’ve all seen teachers dismiss students, groups close their doors to the “less able,” differences mocked as entertainment. None of this is new. But in the UK lately, the gloves are off. The bile allowed on our screens has soared. There’s no shame in shaming.

So no, I shouldn’t be surprised when people push me out of the way. But it still hurts. Because each moment like that isn’t isolated. It’s part of a pattern — the not-so-close face of ableism.