A close-up photo of a white wall with bold black graffiti-style text reading "BROKEN KID" overlaid by a red circle and diagonal line, resembling a "no" or prohibition sign. The red paint is slightly uneven, giving it a raw, street-art look.
Someone once told me I shouldn’t call myself a “Broken Kid.”
They meant well. They always do.
They said it sounded demeaning. That I should be kinder to myself. That it made them uncomfortable.
Here’s the thing: I wasn’t talking to them.
I don’t remember exactly when I started calling myself that. Probably just trying to make someone laugh. That’s always been my default: if I can make you laugh about the thing everyone’s afraid to say, I’ve already won.
I’ve been called worse. I’ve been called the R-word, stupid, slow. You want to call me broken? Cool. You’re not wrong. You just lack originality.
The phrase stuck because it worked. It made people laugh—and more importantly, it made me feel powerful. Not in spite of my disability, but through it.
That’s what reclaiming is. It’s not self-hatred. It’s a litmus test. Can you laugh with me, or do you need me to make you comfortable first?
People miss that part. They hear “Broken Kid” and want to fix the language, not the systems. They try to tone-police my own experience while I’m just out here trying to live it.
But I’ve made peace with my body. And yes, it’s a piece of work. It’s twisted. It stumbles. It drops me sometimes—literally. And yeah, it’s funny. My partner and I will both call it out mid-conversation: “Yep, that’s the broken kid move.”
And strangers? They don’t know what to do with that. It short-circuits their assumptions.
That’s the point.
Because if I can joke about it first, I’m not waiting for the world to decide how I should feel. And if the world’s going to leave me out of the serious stuff—access, policy, participation—then at least give me the dignity of choosing my own damn words.
I don’t need euphemisms. I need honesty.
I don’t need a rebrand. I need a ramp.
And if you’re still hung up on the phrase “Broken Kid”? That says more about your fear of disability than it does about mine.
Humor is how I survive. Always has been. It’s helped me find my people, cut through red tape, and make meaning out of moments that should’ve broken me.
It’s not about pity. It’s about power. Self-given. Self-named. Self-honored.
You don’t have to like the words. But you can’t take them from me.
Let’s talk about that.