I recently saw a post on social media from a mother of an autistic 22‑year‑old woman, and it struck a chord with me. She was talking about someone referring to disabled adults as “kids”. She said that while her daughter enjoys things like Blue’s Clues and Nickelodeon she is still very much an adult.
As a 26‑year‑old with cerebral palsy, this is a feeling that is all too familiar. The world has a way of looking at disabled adults and unintentionally making us into someone younger than we actually are.
There’s also a frustrating double standard in how the world treats joy itself. Nondisabled adults can enjoy “childish” things; cartoons, stuffed animals, video games; and it’s seen as quirky, nostalgic, or even trendy. But as disabled adults, if we enjoy these same things, it is assumed that we’re somehow less grown-up, less mature, or less able to be adults. It is not the activities in question that are problematic but the assumptions people make about us based on our disabilities.
For instance, a nondisabled person might spend hundreds of dollars on Comic-Con tickets, dress up as their favorite character, and be praised for their interest and creativity. A nondisabled person can proudly go to Disney World, collect toys, and fill their home with merchandise.
But when a disabled person likes stuffed animals, superheroes, and cartoons, people will quickly adjust their tone, talking slowly and using childlike language, and asking questions to other people around them. This behavior points to an existing bias that in no way relates to our interests but to how our disability has been perceived.
In my own experience, people often do not speak directly to me. Instead, they address my non‑disabled friend, family member, or personal care assistant. This happens everywhere from doctors’ offices to restaurants, and each time it leaves me with the same hollow feeling. I often feel invisible. It is a subtle kind of dismissal that adds up and, thus, reinforces the notion that my disability makes me less of an adult, less capable, or less worthy of being spoken to.
Sometimes, the hardest thing is not the words people use but the assumptions behind the words. There is a quiet sorrow that comes from understanding that many people have already decided who I am before they even let me speak.
They look at the equipment or the diagnosis, and a whole narrative develops based on that. It’s often a narrative in which I am weak, powerless, or childlike. It’s exhausting to constantly push back against a narrative I never agreed to and to prove again and again that I am a whole person.
Even in high school, long before adulthood, the scrutiny had already begun. As a junior, I remember having a Capri Sun in my lunchbox, something harmless that I simply liked. One day, I was questioned by a paraprofessional about why I drank them as if it meant I was immature.
Meanwhile, my nondisabled classmates walked in every morning with iced coffees, energy drinks, and bags from Dunkin’, and no one ever questioned them. Their choices were seen as normal teenage habits, while mine were treated as childish. This was one of the first times I realized that my disability made people judge my preferences in a way they never judged anyone else’s.
I want the people around me to recognize that I am an adult, and I want to be treated like one. This means that my independence, my boundaries, my preferences, and my voice are all respected. It also means acknowledging that I have thoughts, opinions, and responsibilities.
Disabled adults can embrace comfort, happiness, and fun. We can be who we are without being limited by stereotypes. We should not feel ashamed of our hobbies, passions, or interests.
What I want most is not special treatment—it’s fairness. I want to be met where I am, not where someone assumes I am. I want people to pause before they default to assumptions about disability, to question the reflex to speak around me instead of to me, and to remember that adulthood isn’t defined by someone else’s checklist.
I’m 26. I’m disabled. I’m an adult. Those realities coexist. I am a human being. Please treat me like it.