I Was Afraid My Disability Would Be a Dating Dealbreaker; I Was Wrong

July marks Disability Pride Month, a time to commemorate the passage of the Americans With Disabilities Act and to celebrate the diversity, resilience, and visibility of the disabled community. This Disability Pride Month, we asked writers to share aspects of their identities and lives that they feel might be "invisible" to others. Check out our latest coverage here.

There are plenty of misconceptions about disability and intimacy that persist today, but I didn't know much about them when I was 16 and a newly minted wheelchair user. I had sustained a spinal cord injury (SCI), which prevents me from walking and also causes bladder issues, leg spasms, and other complications. I could manage my life with an SCI, but I grew concerned later in my teenage years that its mere presence could deter a romantic partner.

I didn't know what ableism was when I returned for my senior year of high school in a wheelchair. And I didn't know that others' ableism could affect how I saw myself. The main difference between how I appeared pre- and post-SCI was that I was sitting on wheels, but some clearly found that off-putting. A classmate who wanted to ask me to junior prom before my injury now said that I was "like a twin sister" to him (we looked nothing alike). One boy, a pre-injury "will they, won't they" situation, commented that he would kill himself if he were me. Another boy asked, "Can you have sex?"

I wasn't trying to date then, but based on those interactions, I imagined any future attempts would end in humiliating failure.

At college, my best friend wanted me to meet people — including encouraging me to spend time with a boy from a neighboring dorm who often bear-hugged me — but I refused. It might have been self-sabotage, but I insisted that he was just being friendly and probably wanted to be with someone able-bodied. Even if my friends thought I was a catch, I didn't think anyone else would agree.

And yet, I wanted to date. I wanted the intimacy that came with a healthy partnership. I wanted to know what it felt like when someone planned their future with me in it and fantasized about being part of an old married couple.

But then my internalized ableism would kick in yet again, and I didn't want to try.

I spent the next few years on graduate-school campuses and eventually began to date in earnest. Two things had happened to change my mind: I met a wheelchair user who was married and who acted like it was no big deal, and I was tired of being single.

Cue the apps. I went on very few dates, but that was my own doing. I swiped with incredible pickiness. Dating with a disability can be dangerous: people with disabilities are three times as likely to be sexually assaulted as their able-bodied peers. I also still possessed a heightened fear of rejection, so I rationalized swiping left on most profiles. Shirtless photo? He is shallow and will hate my wheelchair. Left. He wants someone who's "open-minded"? That means he isn't and doesn't think I belong on this app. Left. Loves spontaneous travel? Have you ever tried flying with a wheelchair? Left.

I eventually swiped right after seeing a picture of a guy enjoying a baseball game (with his shirt on). And we matched! I was out with a friend and showed her his profile. I was sure he would ignore my message, but my friend told me to send one anyway.

We met up the following week and talked over drinks for four hours. We later tried to kiss outside my apartment, but he didn't lean in far enough, and I tried to make up for the height difference by pushing myself up higher with my armrests. My legs spasmed and pulled me back down to the chair after the briefest of pecks. There was an awkward chuckle or two, and neither one of us wanted to try again.

The swiping continued.

After two years of many conversations that went nowhere, a date that felt like a job interview, and a pandemic, I swiped right on my boyfriend. He held a dusting brush in his main profile picture and bragged that he could make dinner out of shampoo and lentils. I was intrigued.

We couldn't meet in person for two months because I had undergone a medical procedure and there were complications. But we FaceTimed every night and got to know each other, bonding over my love of sports and his love of sports parody movies. We often made each other laugh by quoting lines from "Dodgeball" and "Talladega Nights." He knew next to nothing about SCIs, so I educated him, with some trepidation.

He was unfazed.

That would change, I believed, after we met in person.

It didn't. Our first kiss felt like it was pulled from a scene in "Outlander."

Nowadays, we meander around NYC with his hand placed on my chair's backrest as he leans in my direction, which makes it easier both for me to push my chair forward and for us to be physically closer. Earlier in the relationship, I felt guilty that he was helping to push my chair at all. As cute as it was to have someone next to me with a hand on my back(rest), I wondered if he thought I was being too dependent on him. After all, I wanted a boyfriend, not a personal care attendant.

Turns out I was overthinking it. "Everybody's got something," he said. "It's no big deal."

Had I internalized that sentiment, instead of my disability-driven fear of failure, I would've started dating sooner. My boyfriend sees my SCI for what it is and as part of who I am. It can be annoying for me to manage symptoms on some days, but my boyfriend and I always find time to go for strolls outside, host movie nights with friends, and make each other laugh. A year and a half later, we still FaceTime on days when we don't see each other, just to ask how each other's days went. And when one of us has a rough day (after all, everybody's got something), the other listens attentively and picks them back up. I wish I could go back and tell my 16-year-old self that once she decided to put herself out there, it would be worth it.