I started being picked last at school and learned an important lesson

I was nine years old when my life changed forever. 

It was November 29, 1997 and we – my dad, brothers, sister and I – were driving home after dropping my mum at the airport when my dad suddenly lost control of the car. The last thing I remember is crashing into the side of the highway.

While my siblings and I survived, that tragic car accident took my father’s life. I had broken bones in my leg that left me in a wheelchair for months. I also had acquired physical and neurodivergent disabilities including: a permanently paralysed arm due to a brachial plexus injury; and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

In the aftermath, I found myself navigating not just grief, but a four-month rehabilitation period. My physical recovery involved hours of occupational and physical therapy – relearning how to walk and perform everyday tasks with my non-dominant hand. 

Emotionally, I struggled to process everything. I felt isolated, unable to articulate the weight of this traumatic event at such a young age. 

Then, of course, there was the realisation that I was now living in a world that suddenly felt less welcoming, less accommodating – one that saw me as different in a way I hadn’t experienced before. 

One of the first moments I truly understood how deeply ingrained ableism is in our society, even though I may not have had the language for it at the time, was when I returned to elementary school after those four months away.

Before the accident I was an active kid taking ballet classes, diving lessons, and rock climbing at friends’ birthday parties. After my return though, my classmates would often pick me last for teams.

I internalised the message that I was less capable, less worthy – a belief that would take years to unlearn. 

What I desperately needed was a support system, role models who looked like me, access to mental health resources, a school environment willing to adapt to my needs, and a community that saw me as whole rather than broken. But I had no-one.

Mental health was never discussed in my family or at school so I didn’t have someone to guide me through my new reality. Without that support, I spent years trying to suppress my disability, rather than embrace it.   

This feeling of exclusion followed me into adulthood. As I pursued my career in investment banking, I recall networking events where I’d extend my left hand for a handshake, only to have the other person awkwardly hesitate before withdrawing. 

It was a subtle moment, but one that spoke volumes. People didn’t know how to interact with me. 

In that instant, I wasn’t just a professional trying to make a connection, I was a disabled person being reminded, yet again, that the world wasn’t built with me in mind. 

There’s a particular pain in feeling like you don’t belong anywhere – not because of who you are, but because of how society perceives you – and ableism continued to show up in everyday interactions.

Strangers would ask, ‘What’s wrong with your hand?’ when I wore my wrist splint. In dating, people admitted they weren’t comfortable being with someone disabled. 

Even seemingly simple tasks like carrying groceries, using a can opener or throwing trash in a covered dumpster came with barriers I had to navigate. 

The exclusion wasn’t always blatant though. Sometimes, it was the lack of accessible spaces – like when my friends invited me to a pottery class, but the studio wasn’t sure they could accommodate me, so I opted not to go rather than make it uncomfortable – other times, it was the absence of representation in the media.

Growing up, I rarely saw disabled people on TV or in magazines unless they were portrayed as objects of pity, villains, or sources of inspiration.

And then there were the well-meaning but condescending comments from strangers: ‘You’re so brave’ some people would say, as if simply existing with a disability required extraordinary strength.

I realised gradually that, if I wanted to thrive in a world that wasn’t built for people like me, I had two choices: Shrink myself to fit in, or advocate for a world that included me. 

It would take me over a decade after I became disabled to get there, but I finally chose the latter. That’s why I founded Diversability, a movement dedicated to amplifying disabled voices and changing the way the world views disability. 

While it wasn’t easy (I was told early on that the idea of a disability community was ‘too radical’) what began in 2009 as Georgetown University’s first-ever student club has since grown into a global community focused on disability power and storytelling. 

Last year we celebrated our 15 year anniversary and all we have achieved in that time. We’ve shared our work in Davos at the World Economic Forum, on TED stages, and have been recognised as one of Meta’s most impactful communities. 

Through community-building, leadership development, and education, we celebrate and elevate disability pride, joy, and culture and I’m so proud to have created the kind of support system I wish I had growing up – a space where disability isn’t seen as a tragedy, but as a valid and valuable way of existing in the world.

And now, my book builds on this work.

It explores the deep-rooted biases that fuel ableism, but more importantly, offers tangible steps for dismantling these biases. One chapter, for example, addresses how hiring practices often exclude disabled candidates yet offers strategies for inclusive recruitment. 

At its heart, the book is a call to action for a world where disabled people are valued, respected, and included. 

It is a guide for non-disabled allies who want to do better, and for disabled people who deserve better and I hope it will leave readers feeling optimistic that creating a disability-inclusive society is possible.

This year marks the 35th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act in the US – a landmark civil rights law that prohibits discrimination against disabled people in employment, public spaces, and other areas – and the 15th anniversary of the Equality Act (2010) in the UK. But despite this progress, there is still so much work to be done. 

Accessibility isn’t just about ramps and elevators – it’s about attitudes, policies, and systemic change. We need better representation in leadership, more inclusive workplaces, and a media landscape that reflects the full spectrum of human experience. 

Looking back at my childhood, I wonder how different my journey would have been if I had seen disability-positive representation, had access to inclusive spaces, or been part of a supportive community sooner. So let’s make it possible for the generations yet to come.

Disability is not a flaw to be fixed, it’s a part of human diversity and it makes our world richer. And true inclusion isn’t about making space at the table – it’s about recognising that disabled people have always belonged there.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing [email protected]. 

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