The foundation of much of my work is the social model of disability, developed by disabled activists who challenged the idea that disability lives in the body.
In this model:
A wheelchair user isn’t “disabled by their legs”; they’re disabled by a building with no lift.
A neurodivergent person isn’t “limited by their brain”; they’re limited by systems designed only for neurotypical processing.
This shift, from “what’s wrong with you?” to “what’s wrong with the world you’re moving through?”, has been transformative. It moves responsibility away from individual bodies and onto the environments and structures that exclude.
But the social model, powerful as it is, often focuses on barriers and problems. That’s where the affirmative model of disability adds something vital.
The affirmative model:
Where the social model says, “The world disables us; it needs to change,” the affirmative model adds, “And our disabled lives are valuable, rich, and worth celebrating in their own right.”
For me, this combination is crucial. The social model gives us a framework to challenge injustice and redesign systems. The affirmative model gives us permission to embrace disability as an integral, beautiful part of who we are, not a tragedy to minimise or hide.
Both models shape how I think about language. Are we speaking about disabled people as problems to be managed, or as people whose lives, bodies, and perspectives enrich our communities?
Ableism is discrimination in favour of non-disabled people. Disablism is discrimination against disabled people.
Both describe systems and attitudes that assume:
These ideas don’t only appear in laws or policies, they embed themselves in everyday speech.
Examples of Ableist Language
Some phrases are overtly harmful. Others are so embedded in our vocabulary that we barely register them:
Most people don’t use these phrases with harmful intent. But language shapes culture, and culture shapes who gets to feel safe, respected, and equal.
As disability activist Jamie Hale writes: “Dismantling ableist structures doesn’t start with language, but building a world without them requires that we change our language.”
Language does more than describe the world; it builds it.
When someone says “wheelchair-bound,” it frames the chair as a prison. But my wheelchair is freedom, dignity, and independence. It carries me through airports, onto stages, and into classrooms. Without it, I am limited, not by my body, but by inaccessible design.
When someone tells me, “At least I’m not in a wheelchair like you,” I’m reminded how deeply ableist assumptions run. They assume disability is the worst-case scenario. For me, it’s simply one aspect of a rich, creative life.
Changing language isn’t about being politically correct, it’s about telling a more accurate story of disability, one that honours variation and human dignity.
People often panic about getting it wrong. But inclusive language is much simpler and kinder than it seems.
A few general principles:
Dance language is full of action verbs like “walk,” “run,” “jump,” and precise limb instructions. But this assumes bodies work in the same way.
I prefer phrases like:
This isn’t softening the work, it’s expanding the possibilities.
As a wheelchair-using dancer, I may not “jump,” but give me “rebound” and watch what I can create. Inclusive language is not about limitation; it is about opening the door to each dancer’s creativity.
My favourite phrase with my children, one borrowed from the wonderful dancer and choreographer Marc Brew, is: “Let’s roll and stroll.”
My understanding of disability and inclusion broadened when I began working with Jurg Koch, who adapted principles of Universal Design for contemporary dance. Together, we asked:
What if ballet itself - not just the studio - could be redesigned to welcome more bodies, not fewer?
Universal design asks us to:
This thinking transformed my artistic life, but it also changed how I move through the world. It reframed disability not as a limitation to be negotiated, but as a source of perspective, creativity, and problem-solving.
I often notice how disabled people are portrayed in media, and how much those portrayals shape public attitudes. A few years ago, a photographer approached me during a performance project and asked if he could take a “powerful, empowering shot” of me standing at the barre while my wheelchair sat in the background. His idea was to show me “overcoming” something.
He meant well. But the message beneath the image he wanted was unmistakable:
Freedom = standing
Burden = the chair
For him, the chair symbolised something tragic or limiting. For me, it’s simply a tool, an enabling, joyful, and essential part of my life. Without it, I would be far more restricted.
This kind of imagery is everywhere: disabled people photographed away from their mobility aids, captions celebrating “defying the odds,” narratives centred on overcoming rather than living.
These stories flatten the complexity of disabled experience. They erase disabled pride, culture, creativity, and identity. They reinforce the idea that worthiness is tied to how closely one can approximate a non-disabled ideal.
We deserve stories that celebrate disabled people not for escaping disability, but for embodying it, fully, proudly, and without apology.
Mobility aids are simply tools, extensions of the body that enable participation. Some people use them all the time, some intermittently, and some not at all. The need fluctuates, but the stigma remains stubbornly fixed.
Yet mobility aids open possibility:
Seeing aids as “sad” or “limiting” tells us more about ableist culture than about disability itself.
While compliance and accommodations matter, they are only the beginning. Radical access asks us to transform the culture, not simply make exceptions.
Radical access means:
This is slow work. Political work. Cultural work. Relationship work. But it is also joyful work.
Access isn’t a checklist, it’s a commitment to one another.
True inclusion grows from:
Discomfort is not failure; it is the beginning of change.
Ableist language has been passed down for generations, mostly without malice. Now that we notice it, we gain the chance to speak, and act, differently.
There is no perfect vocabulary. There is only intentionality, learning, and care.
So ask yourself:
What’s one small shift I could make this week?
One phrase I could retire?
One conversation I could open?
Language shapes culture. Culture shapes access. Access shapes possibility.
Let’s build a world where everyone’s possibilities can flourish, not by exception, but by design.