Building A Life in a City that Didn't See Me... Until It Did

Moving 1,000 miles away from home is hard. Throw a few disabilities and a service dog into the mix, and suddenly that kind of move feels nearly impossible. But that’s exactly the situation I found myself in at 19. 

In 2021, I left gray and gloomy Seattle, where I was born and raised, for always-sunny Los Angeles. I landed in this massive city completely alone: a small disabled girl with a service dog and a dream of being in the entertainment industry.

When most people picture LA, they imagine fame, luxury, and high-rise apartments overlooking a sprawling city. That could not have been further from my reality. 

I moved into a tiny single dorm barely big enough for me and my dog, one that also had a reputation for cockroach infestations. Perfect.

My mom and younger sister stayed for a week to help me get settled. And as soon as they left, I was suddenly in the middle of Hollywood, knowing absolutely no one. 

Because the weather never changed, the days blurred together. Between juggling classwork, 15-hour school days at my musical theatre conservatory and making sure both Champ and I had our daily needs met, I slipped into a depression. Almost every night, I called my mom in tears, begging her to fly me home. But she knew there was nothing waiting for me back home except familiarity, and the same old routine from a generally small town. I wouldn’t be fulfilled there. As suffocating as Hollywood felt, it was where I needed to be.

I’ve never been a shy person. Anyone who’s talked to me for more than thirty seconds knows I’m extremely outgoing. I thrive on meeting new people. I genuinely love learning about others’ stories. But as I adjusted to this new routine and this new “home”, I started retreating from my classmates. I shrank in on myself, and every time I tried to find something to contribute to a group conversation, I came up empty. 

One day, Champ and I were settling into class before it started when a girl with bright eyes and a head of black curls kneeled in front of me. Normally, I’d find this gesture patronizing or infantilizing, but something about her felt sincere. I knew her name, we shared several classes together, Eve. She told me our cohort was planning an outing that weekend. They wanted me there but were worried their ideas wouldn’t be accessible enough for me to actually attend. 

I was shocked that a group of my peers not only saw me, but genuinely wanted to include me in an outing they weren’t obligated to invite me to. They actually wanted my input on something that we could all do together. Up to that point in my life, I don’t think anyone my age had approached me in that way.

That one kind gesture opened the entire world for me. From that moment on, I was surrounded by my chosen family. These peers went out of their way to research coffee shops and restaurants that were wheelchair accessible without me ever having to ask. If we arrived somewhere with stairs and no elevator, someone would scoop me up and carry me down, or walk with me as I slowly made my way one step at a time, while another person grabbed my chair and had it waiting at the bottom. We’d crack jokes the whole time, or pick up our conversation right where we left off, the inaccessibility of the world barely fazing us.

They drove Champ and me to the emergency vet and sat with me for hours in the lobby. They took me to and from the airport before and after holiday breaks. They grocery shopped for me, filled my fridge, and took Champ out when I was bedridden with pneumonia. They were truly the best part of college for me. 

Once Champ and I found our footing in LA, I began connecting with the local disability community. I met dozens of disabled creatives just like me. Before I knew it, I was being invited to red carpets, award shows, film sets for the Easterseals Disability Film Challenge, festivals, and house parties filled with disabled people who just got me. 

Almost five years later, I look back on my time in Los Angeles and couldn’t be more grateful for the life I’ve built, the opportunities I never expected, and the incredible chosen families who shaped every step of my journey. Moving 1,000 miles away was terrifying, but it led me straight to the people who make this city feel like home.

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Cassidy Huff is a nationally recognized disability rights advocate, writer, and content creator. As a physically disabled and hard of hearing woman, she brings a unique perspective to her work, centering equity, accessibility, and authentic representation. Cassidy is a best-selling author, public speaker, and the host of a podcast focused on amplifying disabled voices and lived experiences. Her advocacy spans across digital media, education, and entertainment, and her work has been featured in national campaigns and conversations around disability rights. In addition to writing, Cassidy is the director and producer of two original web series highlighting adaptive adventures and the disability community. She uses her platform to inform, empower, and shift narratives—whether through writing, long-form, short-form content, or public speaking.