Dusty Wentworth

  When Disability Becomes Content: Who Gets to Tell the Truth? I am not a disability creator. I am a writer who happens to be disabled, lives with chronic illness and pain, and uses a wheelchair. That distinction matters to me. Disability informs much of my writing because it affects almost every area of my life. It influences how I travel, work, spend money, access public spaces and plan even the most ordinary day. But it is not the entirety of who I am, nor do I want everything I produce to be reduced to symptoms, seizures and suffering. My blog allows me to explore the complexity that social media often strips away. It is now read in 47 countries across six continents. My articles have also been published elsewhere, including in The Male Psychology Magazine . That is where I do the heavy lifting. Social media is primarily how I publicise that writing. It also gives me a way to share shorter pieces of honest lived experience, particularly for people trying to understand a new dia...

  The Public Loves Resilience Because It Costs Them Nothing Resilience is one of those words people like to use about disabled people. They say it with admiration. They say it with warmth. They say it as though it is always a compliment. But I have become wary of the word. Not because resilience is false. Disabled people are often resilient. Chronically ill people are often resilient. People living with pain, trauma, neurological conditions, fatigue, mobility loss, and bodies that no longer obey instruction often have to adapt in ways most people never see. The problem is not resilience itself. The problem is how easily society praises it while refusing to ask why so much of it is necessary in the first place. Resilience is praised most loudly by people who do not have to pay the cost of it. That is the uncomfortable truth. When a disabled person manages to leave the house, people see determination. They do not see the planning behind it. They do not see the medication, the pacing,...

  Why Disability Pride Month Isn't for Me July marks Disability Pride Month. For many disabled people, it is a time to celebrate identity, community and acceptance. I genuinely respect that. Everyone has the right to decide what disability means to them. Personally, however, it is not something I identify with. If I could wake up tomorrow free from Functional Neurological Disorder, Fibromyalgia, PTSD, the lasting effects of a ruptured brain aneurysm, and the limitations that made me a full-time wheelchair user, I would do so without hesitation. I do not feel pride in becoming disabled. I feel pride in adapting to it. There is an important difference. My disability has changed how I live my life, but it has never changed who I am. I am a husband, a father, a writer, a veteran and a friend. I happen to be disabled. It is part of my life, not the definition of my identity. That is why Disability Pride Month has never resonated with me. None of this is a criticism of those who find mea...

  The Silence of Assumption We are taught that a man's strength is measured by the space he commands and the weight he can lift. But what happens when the body stops cooperating? There is a particular kind of silence that follows disability. It is not the silence of sympathy, but the silence of assumption: the immediate belief that because a man can no longer run, fight, climb, or carry, he has somehow become less of a man. This idea is deeply rooted in our culture. Historically, strength has been measured in purely physical terms: broad shoulders, hard manual labour, endurance, and fierce self-reliance. From childhood, many boys are taught that their worth is directly tethered to what their bodies can achieve. Then one day, for some of us, the body changes. Whether through a spinal injury, a neurological condition, chronic illness, an accident, a stroke, or an aneurysm, the measures we once used suddenly no longer apply. The world notices. People speak more slowly. They offer pity...

  Why Disabled People Are Either Pitied or Pedestalised If you spend enough time as a disabled person, you begin to notice a pattern. People rarely see you as simply another human being. Instead, they tend to place you into one of two categories. You are either a tragedy to be pitied or an inspiration to be admired. There seems to be very little room in between. I have experienced both. I've seen people look at me with genuine sadness, as though my life ended the day I became disabled. I've also had complete strangers tell me how "inspirational" I am for doing things that most people wouldn't think twice about. Going to the shops. Taking photographs. Going for a ride on my mobility scooter. Getting out of the house. Apparently, existing while disabled is enough to qualify for hero status. The reality is rather different. I am not a tragedy. I am not a hero. I am simply a man living his life. Yet society often struggles with that idea. The Comfort of Simple Stories...