I’ve just come off the phone with a social worker from the safeguarding team. The call was to assess my 'capabilities' as a disabled mother caring for my two neurodivergent children. It’s not the first time my competence has been questioned, but it never stops feeling like a punch in the gut.

The conversation itself was calm, professional, and thankfully ended with reassurance: there were no safeguarding concerns. My children are safe, loved, and thriving. The referral had come from a personal assistant (PA) who had worked with me for just two weeks. But that call spoke volumes about the quiet, constant scrutiny that disabled parents live under.

The judgement of being disabled and a parent

As a disabled person, you quickly learn that your life is a series of tests. Are you sick enough for benefits? Fit enough for work? Capable enough to parent? Every role - worker, carer, mother - is shadowed by doubt.

When you are visibly 'less able' than others, people assume incapability before possibility. They measure you against a standard they’ve never had to question. Other parents judge when my children’s disabilities aren’t visible. Strangers raise eyebrows at their behaviour in public. And then come the professionals - assessing whether I deserve support or whether I can be trusted to look after my own children.

The power imbalance is exhausting. You are required to open up your home, your body, your family, to people who hold authority over your life. And yet, you are the one who has to prove your worth, again and again.

The PA who 'knew ADHD'

The safeguarding call stemmed from a PA who believed she 'knew ADHD' because her own children have it. But you don’t know ADHD - you know one person with ADHD. One particular flavour of it, paired with that individual’s unique experiences and personality.

My children’s needs, behaviours, and brilliance are not carbon copies of anyone else’s. But because I’m disabled, she couldn’t quite comprehend how I could manage two neurodivergent children who, at times, have challenging behaviour. She mistook difference for danger.

What she didn’t see was that, as a disabled parent, I’ve developed finely tuned ways to support my children. I’ve learned to work with them, not against them. I don’t need physical intervention. I understand their triggers, their comforts, their rhythms. I know when to step in and when to give space. I know what soothes them and what sparks joy. That kind of intuitive parenting can’t be replicated by a stranger, no matter how well-intentioned.

Vulnerability and power

Living with disability means living with layers of vulnerability - not just physical, but social. I often have to invite strangers into my home to help me when I’m unwell. Most of my PAs have been extraordinary: compassionate, reliable, and often becoming an extension of our family.

But when it goes wrong, it really goes wrong. You are vulnerable in their care - not only physically, but reputationally. A single misjudgment, a misunderstanding, or a lack of empathy can open the door to systems of scrutiny that many parents will never experience.

Disabled parents are statistically more likely to face child protection inquiries. Not because of evidence of neglect, but because of assumptions about capacity, competence, and safety. Too often, help and surveillance become indistinguishable.

The bigger picture

My experience is personal, but it reflects a systemic issue. Our social care structures are built on a hierarchy of power - where disabled people are seen as subjects of assessment rather than agents of their own lives. The idea that a disabled person could be a 'good' parent still challenges deep-seated stereotypes.

It shouldn’t. Disabled parents bring creativity, resilience, adaptability, and empathy - qualities any child would benefit from. But these strengths are often overshadowed by fear and misunderstanding.

The safeguarding team found no concerns, because there were none to find. But the fact that the call happened at all says something troubling about how society still perceives disabled people: as perpetual risks to be managed, rather than as citizens and parents capable of love, competence, and care.

What needs to change

We need to shift the narrative. Disability and parenting are not mutually exclusive. Training for professionals who work with disabled families must move beyond box-ticking and deficit models. Understanding disability should include listening to disabled people about what works, not assuming what doesn’t.

Support should empower, not control. It should recognise that help is not the same as helplessness.

And we need to stop pretending that 'safeguarding' is neutral. It exists within power structures that too often privilege the non-disabled gaze - where being 'fit to parent' is measured against an able-bodied ideal.

I’m not angry at the individual who made the call. She didn’t understand, and in a way, that’s the point. It’s about how society trains us to view disability as limitation first, humanity second.

I’m proud of my children and the way we navigate the world together. They are creative, complex, funny, and loving. They are not unsafe. And I am not unfit.

Parenting, like disability, requires resourcefulness, patience, and adaptation.

It’s time the systems around us learned those skills too.

[Image captions: 1: Suzie holding a newborn baby. He has a tube going into a nostril. She looks at him lovingly. 2: Suzie out and about with a small baby tucked up in a pram and a toddler standing along side her. Over the children's faces are red hearts to maintain their anonymity. They're wrapped up in warm, winter clothing and stand near the trunk of a big, old tree]