People are often surprised when I call myself "disabled [1]." Over the years, society has shifted towards person-first language (i.e. person with a disability) to describe disability. However, many people within the disabled community prefer identity-first language (i.e. disabled person). Much of this confusion comes from the unconscious but prevalent understanding of disability as inherently negative [2]. Disabled people rail against this narrative, insisting that disability is just another part of the human condition. I too rail against this narrative because my disability is integral to my identity.

As a child with cerebral palsy, I tried to distance myself from my disability. I was the only visibly disabled student at my public elementary school. The administration did everything it could to prevent me from going there. When I was in kindergarten, I was taken to my designated elementary school on one of the short buses and made to walk the entire school — which included multiple floors and heavy doors that I had to open myself — to show them that I could. None of my nondisabled classmates had to complete this tour, but as a disabled kid, I had to prove that I was fit to attend my elementary school. Luckily, in that instance, I passed the test and was permitted to go to the same school as my sister and neighbours.

However, the elementary school tribulations didn't end there. When I was in first grade, a physical therapist and teacher tried to have me removed from school. They argued that I had ADHD, and when I struggled to learn how to read, the teacher said I was "too disabled" to attend mainstream school. I was able to finish elementary school there (thanks to my mom, who fought against the school), but the experience has lasting effects.

For years, I struggled with impostor syndrome over whether I belonged in school or not. And more than that, I wrestled with my disability. All I wanted was to be normal and not have to worry about how others perceived me. It wasn't until college that I felt truly comfortable with my disability. After years of only being immersed in the disabled community for the three weeks I attended summer camp, I discovered the online disabled community. Activists in this community who are more eloquent and knowledgeable than I could ever hope to be make a point to use identity-first language because they see their disability as an integral part of their identity.

When I started calling myself disabled, I received some pushback from nondisabled people, mainly those who work with disabled folks or are studying to work with disabled folks. They told me I was "wrong" for saying I was disabled instead of a person with a disability. When I asked them to elaborate, they explained that their professors in speech pathology or special education classes taught them that person-first language is more correct because it emphasises that the disabled person is a person first and foremost, and that their disability shouldn't define them. But my disability does define me, and acknowledging that helps me feel seen in a world that tries to erase me.

I cannot separate myself from my disability because I've been disabled my entire life. The only lens that I've seen the world through is that of a disabled cisgender white woman. My worldview is shaped by the identities I hold, both privileged and marginalized. Like many people, I'm an enigma. While my disability and womanhood put me at a societal disadvantage, I'm shielded from experiencing racism and transphobia by my skin colour and gender identity. In this way, my perspective and who I am are shaped by all aspects of my identity, including my disability.

This is why I urge others to use identity-first language. Because disability doesn't negate my personhood, there's no reason to emphasise that I am a person before my disability. Of course I'm a person. But I'm also disabled, and I want that part of my identity to be acknowledged, too.