Not All Disabled Leaders Are Allies, And That’s the Conversation We Need to Have

A man in a wheelchair sits in a doorway high on a dark glass skyscraper, kicking away a golden ladder as pieces fall toward a crowd of people reaching upward beneath stormy skies.

As October wraps up, I keep circling back to something we rarely say out loud: not all disabled people are allies.

John Oliver once joked on HBO Last Week Tonight about former Rep. Madison Cawthorn that “being an asshole is truly accessible to everyone.” He wasn’t wrong. We like to assume disabled leaders automatically champion the disability community, that lived experience guarantees empathy.

But it doesn’t.

Governor Greg Abbott, a wheelchair user, has consistently pushed policies that harm disabled Texans. Senator John Fetterman, once celebrated for normalizing assistive technology and comfortable clothing on the Senate floor, now carries the label “Trump’s favorite Democrat.” Representation does not always translate to advocacy. Sometimes it just makes the betrayal sting more.

And I have seen that same pattern play out closer to home. Early in my federal career, when I first needed a telework accommodation, I turned to a senior colleague who was a respected disability advocate. I expected empathy. Instead, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “Keep your head down. Don’t fight this.”

That moment never left me. It might have been practical advice, but it was not allyship.

It taught me that proximity to power is not the same as solidarity, and that some of the hardest lessons come from people who should have known better.

We love to talk about inclusion in the workplace. The posters. The hashtags. The polished commitments to mental health and belonging. But the moment someone actually uses those systems, asks for flexibility, PTO, or an accommodation, the tone shifts. Suddenly inclusion has an asterisk. Suddenly the same people preaching wellness start whispering about fairness and team morale.

Genuine allyship is not about the company newsletter or the press release in October or the panel during Disability Pride Month. It is about the quiet, consistent work of believing people when they tell you what they need, without making them prove it. It is about creating systems where asking for help does not feel like a liability.

There is a hierarchy in disability culture we do not talk about enough. The visible versus the invisible. The acceptable versus the difficult. The wheelchair user makes a great photo op. The employee with PTSD, chronic pain, or neurodivergence gets side-eyed for needing too much. Passing privilege is real, and too many use it to climb the ladder only to kick it down behind them.

Having a disability does not make someone an ally. It does not even make them kind. Sometimes it just makes them powerful enough to prove they are not.

If allyship means anything, it is how we act when no one is watching, especially toward each other.

Why Disability Representation in Media Is More Than Just a Moral Imperative

Marissa Bode as Nessarose in Wicked.

As we close out 2024, I can’t stop thinking about Wicked. Not just the dazzling sets, the soaring music, or the star-studded cast. No, what lingers most is Marissa Bode—her powerful, unapologetic portrayal of Nessarose. Here was a wheelchair user, playing a wheelchair user, in one of the year’s most anticipated films. Groundbreaking, yes. But it wasn’t without its challenges.

Marissa Bode didn’t just act; she fought. When trolls flooded social media with ableist remarks, mocking her disability, she spoke out. “Disability is not fictional,” she said. Simple words. Monumental truth. And yet, the backlash she faced underscores a harsh reality: representation is still fragile, progress still precarious .

Why does this matter? Consider the numbers. In the U.S., disabled people make up 28.7% of the viewing audience. Globally, we’re talking about over 1 billion people. Yet, only 1.9% of speaking characters in the top 100 films have disabilities. That statistic hasn’t budged since 2015. Hollywood isn’t just lagging—it’s stuck .

But when representation is done right, it’s transformative. Take CODA. Its portrayal of the deaf community swept awards season, proving that diverse stories resonate deeply. Writer Siân Heder told Variety's Randee Dawn: “People can smell authenticity… Tell these stories because they’re fun, they’re entertaining—and they’re sexy.” Inclusion isn’t a risk; it’s an opportunity .

So what’s next? What do we want for 2025? I dream of a year when Marissa Bode’s story isn’t exceptional but ordinary. When disability representation doesn’t make headlines because it’s normal. When studios stop seeing accessibility as a logistical headache and start seeing it as a creative necessity.

Representation matters because it changes how society views us—disabled people. It normalizes our existence, shatters stereotypes, and inspires a generation to see themselves not as “other” but as integral to the human experience. It also matters because it’s good business. Let’s not ignore the power of a billion-person market.

But let’s be clear: representation alone won’t solve ableism. True inclusion requires more. It requires disabled voices at every level—writers, directors, crew members. It demands accessible sets, thoughtful storytelling, and a willingness to challenge the status quo. Hollywood can’t just open the door; it has to invite us in and let us stay.

As I look toward 2025, I’m optimistic but not complacent. The progress we’ve seen in 2024 with films like Wicked is encouraging, but it’s not the finish line. It’s a starting point. Let’s amplify these stories, hold gatekeepers accountable, and create a world where the next Marissa Bode doesn’t have to fight just to be seen.

Representation isn’t just about who gets to tell the story—it’s about who gets to be part of the story. Let’s make 2025 the year we get this right.

The Goldilocks Dilemma: Navigating Disability Representation in the Workplace

A photo of confident businesswoman sitting on wheelchair. Portrait of confident female professional is in board room. She is in smart casuals at creative office.

In the realm of business, the dialogue around disability inclusion often mirrors a well-rehearsed play: grand declarations of commitment to diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) are made, yet the curtain falls before any meaningful action takes place. This dissonance between words and actions reveals a profound misunderstanding of what authentic disability representation entails. It's not just about filling quotas or showcasing diversity for marketing purposes; it's about fostering an environment where every individual, regardless of their abilities, can thrive.

The concept of the "Goldilocks nature of disability" in the workplace is a testament to this misunderstanding. On one hand, individuals perceived as "too disabled" are often overlooked, based on the erroneous belief that they will require excessive accommodations or will not be as productive. On the other hand, those who excel, thanks to necessary accommodations, face skepticism and accusations of exploiting their disability for benefits like telework. This paradox highlights a glaring issue: many companies want disabled employees to be just disabled "enough" to benefit the company's image but not so much that understanding and meeting their needs becomes a priority.

Caroline Casey, in her Forbes article, underscores the imperative of authentic disability representation noting, "Piecemeal efforts like basic accessibility compliance or tokenistic representation fail to shift norms: what’s needed is a seismic culture change in how disability representation is understood and embedded across organizations from media and marketing to product design and accessible retail spaces." This sentiment is echoed in the recent initiative by Starbucks, as reported by Axios, where the opening of their accessible store in Union Market is not just a nod to accessibility but a step toward setting new standards in how businesses can and should integrate accessibility into their core operations.

However, as someone who has advocated for accessible entrances at my local Starbucks for nearly a decade, with success only coming in January 2024, I can't help but view this development with a mix of appreciation and irony.

True inclusion requires a shift in mindset—from viewing accommodations as a burden to seeing them as an investment in a diverse workforce reflecting the world we live in. It's about recognizing that every employee brings a unique set of skills and perspectives that, when harnessed, lead to innovation and growth.

As we navigate the complexities of disability inclusion, let us challenge ourselves and our organizations to move beyond performative actions. Let's commit to listening, learning, and adapting. Let's strive for a workplace where everyone is not just accommodated but truly included and valued.

Authentic Disability Representation Is A Business Imperative

Our Stories, Our Images: The Quest for Authentic Disability Representation

The CPSC commissioned new stock photos showing Americans with disabilities using a variety of home safety devices, including portable generators.

As a disabled person, I’m often searching for my reflection in brand messaging. Companies like SKIMS, Gap, Mattel, Inc. and Apple have set benchmarks. Now, the U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission joins this move toward inclusivity—a cue for all brands to follow.

As The American Association of People with Disabilities President and CEO Maria Town told NPR, the move “brings us closer to embracing that disabled people are everywhere."

"There was a real sense of helping right a wrong and delivering something important for a community that's too often left out of many important conversations." added CPSC Social Media Specialist Joseph Galbo.

And we are.

In our visual-centric world, images mold our perceptions and beliefs. With AI-generated photography, we can portray even more diversity. However, we must avoid compromising authenticity, especially when representing diverse groups, including disabled people. Authentic representation also leads to brand connection and creates job opportunities for disabled models.

Tokenism isn’t the answer. It's not about sporadically featuring a disabled person but about consistently recognizing our existence and contributions. Our lives are a tapestry of unique experiences deserving visibility.

Brands, when you incorporate authentic representation, you're not merely acknowledging us—you're validating us. You're sending a strong message—we matter, we’re a part of society, and our experiences and perspectives are valuable.

This inclusivity encourages other businesses to follow suit. It might inspire a young disabled individual to dream bigger and see limitless possibilities. It could spark conversations about accessibility and inclusivity, nudging society toward equal representation.

So, let's challenge the status quo. Brands, mirror CPSC’s initiative. Show us in your advertisements, not as charity, but as an acknowledgement of our existence and value. Use AI responsibly to assist and amplify authentic representation, not to replace it.

Ultimately, we don’t want special treatment; we want equal treatment. We crave representation that mirrors our diverse experiences authentically. We are more than a checkbox on the diversity and inclusion agenda—we are threads in the intricate fabric of humanity, and it's time our representation reflected that.

It's not just about seeing disabled people in advertising. It's about seeing us as we are. This is our call to action for brands everywhere. Are you listening?

People with disabilities aren't often seen in stock photos. The CPSC is changing that