Yeah. I had a stranger tell me to get out of my wheelchair because I was too young to need it. That stings.
And here’s the thing—it doesn’t say what they think it says about you. It says a whole lot about them. Especially in terms of their personal growth.
When people puke the word excuse at disability, it’s usually because they don’t get it—or they don’t want to. Most of the time, it comes from one of four places:
They don’t understand what disability really looks like
They’re uncomfortable being reminded that bodies and brains have limits, including theirs
They’ve been trained to worship the grind
Or they’re projecting their own guilt and frustration onto you
But let’s be clear: disability isn’t an excuse. An excuse is what someone gives to avoid responsibility. Disability is the reality that shapes how responsibility can actually happen. It’s not weakness—it’s context. It’s the truth of how someone has to move through the world.
Remember the four places I just mentioned? Great, your memory is likely better than mine, regardless. Let’s dive into those to better understand what’s goin’ on under the hood. Shall we?
1. Ignorance
A lot of folks simply don’t understand what disability is. If they can’t see it—like a wheelchair or crutches—they assume it’s fake or exaggerated. Heaven forbid there are people in this world whose disabilities can’t be magically cured by willpower.
They may even invent a reason why your disability is your fault. Then all they have to do is avoid doing that to avoid being you.
By those standards, invisible disabilities like pain, fatigue, autism, ADHD, or mental health don’t fit their picture of disability, so they dismiss them altogether and tell you to “try harder.”
If it’s not an excuse, then what is it?
It’s information. A way of saying, “Here’s what I’m working with.”
Think of it like opening the instruction manual to your body and mind. You’re not saying, “I won’t.” You’re saying, “Here are the conditions I’m operating under. Here’s what helps me function, and here’s what shuts me down.”
That’s not weakness. That’s clarity. It’s the same as telling someone you’re allergic to peanuts or that you don’t see well at night. Nobody calls those excuses—they’re facts. And facts help people make better decisions.
When you share your limits, you’re giving the world the data it needs to interact with you respectfully.
Excuses close doors. Information opens them.
2. Discomfort With Vulnerability
Your limits remind people of their own. And for some, that’s terrifying—because limits mean weak. It’s easier to brush you off than to face the thought that your body or mind could one day betray them, too.
If it’s not an excuse, then what is it?
It’s honesty. Naming what’s hard takes guts, not cowardice.
Anyone can slap on a smile and pretend they’re fine while falling apart inside. That’s not bravery—that’s theater.
Honesty is looking at yourself, flaws and all, and saying out loud, “This is my reality.” That’s vulnerable. That’s courageous. And for people who’d rather keep everything polished and hidden, your honesty feels dangerous.
It pulls the curtain back on a truth they don’t want to face: that we all have limits, and pretending otherwise doesn’t make us strong. It just makes us liars.
When you name what’s hard, you’re not making excuses—you’re refusing to disappear inside someone else’s comfort zone. You’re choosing real over fake, sustainable over performative. That’s not weakness. That’s integrity.
3. Cultural Conditioning
We’ve been spoon-fed (alright, more like a ladle) the idea that rest equals laziness and pushing through equals strength. In that world, saying “I can’t” or “I need help” looks like weakness instead of wisdom.
If it’s not an excuse, then what is it?
It’s a boundary.
A boundary isn’t about getting out of life—it’s about staying in it. Most of us can push past our limits for a while, but there’s always a cost. For disabled folks, that cost can mean pain, exhaustion, flare-ups, etc.
It’s choosing sustainability over self-destruction.
That means pacing yourself, resting when needed, and creating conditions where you can keep showing up tomorrow instead of crashing today.
So really, this is a reminder: saying no or not right now isn’t weakness. It’s strength. It’s you building a life that lasts instead of burning yourself out trying to meet other people’s standards.
4. Projection
Sometimes, when people accuse you of making excuses, what they’re really doing is talking to themselves. They feel guilty or insecure about what they can’t do, so they fling the blame outward like spaghetti to a wall.
If it’s not an excuse, then what is it?
It’s a mirror they don’t want to look into. Your reality just hit a nerve.
When someone calls your limits an “excuse,” what they’re really saying is, “Don’t remind me of my own.”
They wish they had the courage to do the same—to finally set it down and stop carrying a burden that was never theirs, to prove that they belong.
Excuses deflect responsibility. Boundaries reflect truth. That truth forces people to reckon with their own choices—their burnout, their denial, their fear of slowing down.
So they call you weak, because it’s easier than admitting they’ve been running on empty for years.
So What’s the Truth?
Disability isn’t about excuses. It’s about navigating life when the map everyone else is using doesn’t fit your terrain.
For me, that’s meant standing at blocked paths and realizing I had to carve new ones. Sometimes that felt isolating, like I’d been left behind. But those detours? They also revealed places and perspectives most people never even see.
It’s meant noticing the small fractures in the world that others miss—the cracks in systems, the weight of noise, the strain in silence—because I live where those cracks split open.
It’s built a resilience in me that doesn’t look like pushing harder or faster. It’s the resilience of showing up with shaky hands, of resting before I break, of continuing anyway—but differently.
It’s forced me to tell the truth about limits, even when my pride screamed at me to hide them. Saying, “I can’t do it that way” felt like failure at first. Now I know it’s survival. And survival, in its quiet way, is strength.
Disability has rewritten what strength means to me. Not the kind that burns hot and fast until it collapses, but the kind that endures—the kind that bends without breaking, the kind that knows gentleness can be braver than grit.