Rethinking Disability Symbols

I’ve been disabled since birth. You’d think that at some point, I would have questioned how my disability is visually represented when it doesn’t involve a wheelchair. But no—it wasn’t until I sat down to design a logo for this very blog that I realized I had no idea how to visually represent cerebral palsy.

The obvious choice? The international symbol for disability: a wheelchair. But that felt… wrong. I don’t use a wheelchair. Slapping that symbol on my blog felt like misrepresentation—almost offensive.

And here’s where it gets interesting: I am permanently, noticeably disabled. No one who sees me walk has ever mistaken me for an able-bodied person. Yet, despite that, I still hesitated to use the most widely recognized disability symbol—not because it doesn’t apply to me, but because I worried people would react as if I was claiming something I wasn’t entitled to. Imagine that. A disabled person, second-guessing their own legitimacy in a space meant for them.

That’s when I realized—this isn’t just a logo problem. It’s an identity problem. And I’m not the only one dealing with it.

The Real Issue: No Official Recognition

Disability symbols default to the wheelchair. And I get it. It’s simple, recognizable, and widely understood. But for those of us with disabilities that don’t require a wheelchair, it’s like showing a picture of a chicken and expecting people to know you’re talking about horses.

The problem goes beyond symbols. There’s no official way to indicate my disability on my identification. I can be labeled as an organ donor, a corrective-lens wearer, or someone who may or may not have been honest about their weight—but not as a person with cerebral palsy. Which means I’ve had to explain my disability in some of the worst possible situations.

The Time My Body Betrayed Me at a Roadblock

Picture this:

It’s my birthday. I’m dressed up, feeling good, heading out to celebrate. I’m also wearing heels. Now, I cannot walk well in heels, but I look fantastic in them when I’m standing still. That’s what matters.

Then, up ahead—flashing lights. A roadblock. No problem, I tell myself. I’m completely sober. This should be quick and easy. Except the moment I see the roadblock, my body has other plans. I tense up instantly, and just like that, I’m 100 times more disabled. My muscles tighten, my coordination nosedives, and I can already feel my nerves making everything worse. I know exactly what’s coming, and my body decides to preemptively sabotage me.

I roll down my window, answer the standard questions, and then—because the universe enjoys a good joke—the officer asks me to get out of the car.

At this point, I’d already spent 15 minutes in my car trying to get my ID out of my wallet because my hands were shaking too much. Stress does that to me. The more pressure I feel, the more my muscles decide they’d rather participate in an earthquake drill than function properly.

And now, in front of an officer, I’m supposed to get out of the car and walk in a straight line. In heels.

Officer: “Have you been drinking tonight?”

Me: “Nope, just have cerebral palsy.”

Officer: “I don’t see that on your license.”

Me: “Yeah, because the government won’t put it there.”

Officer: “I’m going to need you to do a field sobriety test.”

Me: “Oh, this should be good.”

Now, here’s the fun part: If you Google me, my para dressage achievements show up before anything else. I literally compete in a sport that classifies me as disabled. And yet, in that moment, I was just a person failing a sobriety test spectacularly.

And fail I did. It took me 25 minutes to complete the “walk in a straight line” test. Twenty-five. Minutes. My legs were doing whatever they wanted, and the officer was watching like he had just discovered a new species of unstable wildlife.

After this painfully long performance, he finally pulled out the Breathalyzer. A great relief, I thought. Until I realized…

I can’t blow into a Breathalyzer.

I can’t even blow out birthday candles.

Officer: “Just blow steadily into the device.”

Me: “…That’s not happening.”

Officer: “You have to try.”

Me: “I am trying. My lungs don’t work that way.”

At this point, I’m questioning if this officer thinks I’m the world’s most dedicated method actor, fully committing to the role of “person failing a DUI test in the most dramatic way possible.” Eventually—after more awkward explanations and, again, me suggesting he Google me—he finally let me go.

The Time My Body Betrayed Me at an ATM

Picture this:

It’s late. I’m tired. I just want to deposit a cheque and go home. Simple, right? That’s what mobile banking is for. Except… I shake too much to get a clear picture. Every attempt to snap a photo of the cheque just results in a blurry mess. After five failed attempts, I give up and head to the ATM instead.

But the moment I step up to the machine, I can already feel it happening—my muscles tightening, my coordination slipping. I focus hard, trying to steady my hand as I slide the cheque in, but my fingers refuse to cooperate. I fumble. The cheque falls. I try again.

Behind me, I can feel eyes on me. The impatient sighs. The silent judgment.

And then, the not-so-silent judgment.

Stranger: “You good?”

Me: “Yeah, just have cerebral palsy.”

Stranger: Skeptical silence.

I finally manage to get the cheque in, finish the deposit, and turn around—only to find the stranger still watching me like I had just done something suspicious.

The Time I Had to Prove I Deserved Dinner

And then there was the time I was too tired to pass as a sober person.

I was meeting my parents for dinner at a nice restaurant after a long day. Now, when I’m exhausted, my cerebral palsy symptoms get worse. My right leg drags and swings, my balance is worse, and to the untrained eye, I look like I just stumbled out of a bar at last call.

I walked in, gave my parents’ name for the reservation, and was met with immediate resistance.

Hostess: “I don’t think I can let you in.”

Me: “…What?”

Hostess: “Have you been drinking?”

Me: “No. I have cerebral palsy.”

Hostess: [Skeptical silence.]

Me: “My parents are literally inside waiting for me.”

Hostess: [Still skeptical.]

At this point, I’m looking around like I’m on a prank show. Is someone about to jump out and tell me this is all a joke? Nope. Just me, a hostess on a power trip, and a dinner I’m now late for.

It wasn’t until I called my parents and had them physically come get me that I was “allowed” inside—to eat dinner. Because apparently, unless you have a wheelchair or a neon sign that says disabled, not impaired,you’re just expected to explain yourself to random gatekeepers of public spaces.

A New Symbol and a Simple Fix

If the standard wheelchair symbol doesn’t represent everyone, maybe it’s time for an alternative. What should it be? Disabilities like mine—visible but not tied to a wheelchair—deserve representation that is simple, recognizable, and accurate.

And the problem goes beyond symbols. Situations like being stopped at a roadblock, struggling at an ATM, or being unable to deposit a cheque using a mobile app because my hands shake too much could all be avoided with one simple change: a discreet marker on a license, a government-issued card, or even just the option for those who want it.

If I can highlight these moments, add some humor, and push for practical solutions, maybe—just maybe—others will share their own experiences. And maybe, instead of just accepting these challenges, we can actually fix them.

#HandicapableAF