This is a question I have struggled with for years.
By definition, yes.
The United Nations Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (UNCRPD) defines persons with disabilities as:
“…those who have long-term physical, mental, intellectual or sensory impairments which in interaction with various barriers may hinder their full and effective participation in society on an equal basis with others.”¹
At six, a teacher picked up coordination issues. No diagnosis at the time, but likely signs of dyspraxia.
The result: I knew I was different. That knowledge of difference led to shame. Something I had to compensate for in other ways. It doesn’t matter if you are bad at sports if you are smart.
At 22, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. A diagnosis that came right at the time I finished university. I had just started applying for graduate roles when I got sick. At the time, my illness was so debilitating I thought I would never be able to work full-time, let alone be competitive enough for the type of graduate programmes I had expected to move into.
Especially when I read marketing that said things like, “We work hard and play hard.”
Sorry, I didn’t have the energy for either of those things, and definitely not both.
So I retrained, focusing on a career where my difficulties would be an advantage. A career where empathy and understanding were key attributes.
So I became a counsellor.
Over time, I got better at “managing” my health issues, was able to work full-time, and moved into a series of leadership roles.
I was honest. I talked about my illness as a strength, an early warning system that reminded me about self-care. On job applications, I was always honest, declared my illness upfront, but always with the comment, “Very well managed, unlikely to impact work.”
Translation:
“Nothing to see here.”
Or,
“Don’t worry. You don’t have to do anything. I won’t make things difficult.”
I couldn’t lie, but I also couldn’t ask for support.
I wore my illness like a badge of honour, trying to prove I didn’t need anyone to do anything. That I wouldn’t inconvenience anyone or be a burden.
People saw me as competent, reliable, helpful, and aware of everything.
What people didn’t see was the exhaustion once I got home.
Would I have expected the same from anyone else?
Absolutely not.
Then the most recent diagnosis. The one I had been wondering about for about a decade. The one I got at 44.
ADHD.
This one marks a turning point. This one is the evidence I can no longer ignore, that the struggles I have been desperately trying to hide have been with me my entire life.
So maybe the real question is:
Why was I so willing to make life harder for myself rather than risk making it harder for someone else?
¹ United Nations. (2006). Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities, Article 1. https://www.un.org/disabilities/documents/convention/convoptprot-e.pdf
