I’m Not Your Inspiration

“You’re so inspiring!” A phrase that every disabled person is very familiar with. Usually accompanied by “If I was in your situation, I don’t think I could do it.” or “How do you stay so strong?”

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By the age of five or six, I had already internalized these words. When the world around you constantly fills your head with the notion that the only thing you’re good for is to be someone else’s inspiration, you don’t even recognize the problem within that ideology. Much less within society itself.

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It wasn’t until my late teens when I began to challenge this idea. I really wanted to know why someone would tell me something like this. Was it to make themselves feel better? Was it an attempt to grapple with the reality that they, too, would eventually become disabled? What was it that drove someone to make such a comment? 

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When someone in the grocery store checkout line would inevitably tell me they were inspired by me just being there, instead of shrugging it off with an awkward “Thanks.” I made a habit of asking them “Why?” 

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Most of the time, they weren’t ready for that question. So they would fumble for the answer, which was usually something along the lines of “Because if I were in your shoes, I don’t think I could live with myself.” 

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Instead of flippantly commenting on their blatant ableism, I realized the gravity that this moment could hold if I chose to educate instead of scold. Now, this is something I eventually had to unlearn too. It’s not the responsibility of every disabled person to educate a non-disabled person on ableism. Nor is it our responsibility to answer a stranger’s creepy questions about how we shower or have sex.

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However, every once in a while, the educator inside me emerges and I can’t stifle the desire to politely educate the person in front of me, even though it’s not always successful. 

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Society would like us to believe that me existing and performing the same tasks you do every day is an “inspiration”. We see it everywhere. From billboards showcasing Paralympian amputees running a 500 meter race, accompanied by big bold letters that read “What’s your excuse?” Or an Instagram post of a little girl without hands, holding a crayon in her mouth, and a caption that says “Before you quit…try.”

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Growing up disabled, I never saw anyone who looked like me on TV, in movies, on billboards…unless it was in the context of being inspirational. So on the days where I wasn’t able to get out of bed, I couldn’t help but beat myself up about it, because I wasn’t inspiring anyone. I was only inspiring when I was out, living my life, amongst non-disabled people. 

Most teens had a “rebellious” stage where they would defy their parents, stay out with their friends, skip school, drink, and party. I, too, had a rebellious phase. But mine looked a little different. Instead of rebelling against my mom, I started to rebel against society’s perceptions and what others thought I could and couldn’t do based on the way my body looked. 

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I was fed up with strangers telling me who or what they thought I was. So I started asking old, white ladies in the grocery store why they thought I was inspiring. And sometimes, after a long pause, they’d realize what they had actually said. Not always. But sometimes.

Over time, I realized something else too. The problem was never that people found meaning or hope in someone else’s life and story. The problem was that disabled people were expected to exist for that meaning. I spent most of my life believing my self worth was tied to how inspirational I could be to someone else. If I wasn’t overcoming something, smiling through pain, or proving a point, then what was I doing? Unlearning that idea took time. 

These days, when someone tells me I’m inspiring, I don’t always challenge it. Sometimes it’s easier to smile, nod, and get on with my day. But inside, I remind myself of something important: my life isn’t a motivational poster. Sometimes I’m inspiring, sometimes I’m tired, and sometimes I’m just trying to get through the grocery store. And all of those things are allowed to exist at the same time.

But I’m not here to be anyone’s inspiration. I’m here for the same reasons you are.

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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.

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