Every year, International Day of People with Disability lands with a small thud on the LGBTQIA+ calendar 鈥� a day we absolutely should be shouting about, but often don鈥檛. We turn out in force for other days of visibility and awareness, and we demand justice, inclusion, solemn memorials, acknowledgement, joy. But when it comes to disability 鈥� one of the largest, most diverse, most creative communities in the world 鈥� our queer spaces have been鈥� slower. Not absent, but heartbreakingly slow.
I know, because for years, I was part of that slowness.
I became chronically ill with something that affects my energy and mobility, and causes me to experience severe chronic pain every day of my life. And for many years after developing this chronic condition, I spent a long time wrestling with internalised ableism, the kind that sits in your chest like a stone and whispered to me that disabled was a word meant for someone else. Someone 鈥渕ore disabled,鈥� someone 鈥渙bvious,鈥� someone 鈥渘ot me.鈥�
My disability is chronic, dynamic (meaning it changes from day to day; somedays I’m bedridden, others the pain is tolerable) and invisible. And being invisible, this means my disability isn’t immediately plastered on my body in a way strangers can categorise at a glance. So I was able to work through my internalised ableism in my own time, and choose when I was ready to use the ‘d’ word 鈥� which I’m full aware a privileged circumstance, a huge one. And I sit with that every day.
But I also sit with the years I lost to shame. Years spent thinking that 鈥渄isabled鈥� was somehow “less”, something I did not want to be, rather than what it actually was: something powerful, political, and exceptional.
It wasn鈥檛 until I met other disabled queer people 鈥� loudly, defiantly disabled queer people 鈥� that something in me clicked. The more I listened, the more I learned, the more I realised that disability has always been part of my identity, my art, my work, my community. That it shaped my queer life just as much as everything else. It was a part of who I was anyway, so why would I be afraid of using this powerful word for myself?
Now? I鈥檓 extremely, unapologetically fucking proud to be disabled. And even prouder to be a disabled queer.
Which is why watching LGBTQIA+ spaces finally making room for disabled people means everything. And I don鈥檛 mean room metaphorically. I mean literal, physical, programmatic room. Ramps that are useful, and aren’t an afterthought. Auslan interpreters at Pride. Quiet rooms that aren’t just storage cupboards. Programming led by disabled artists, writers, drag performers, thinkers, creatives.
And yes, events that are built for us, not tacked on as an afterthought.
This is why I got quite emotional when I saw the 2026 Midsumma Festival lineup and spotted not one but multiple disabled-led or disability-centred events. A . Neurodivergent-friendly events.聽 . Performances created by disabled queer artists, comedians, drag performers, who are shaping the culture rather than fighting for scraps of it. And t.
It feels like a shift 鈥� a genuine one 鈥� has happened in the last handful of years, and it鈥檚 long overdue. Midsumma is proving what happens when a major queer festival takes disability inclusion seriously: you get art that is electric, spaces that are safer, and a community that actually looks like鈥� our community.
We need d/Deaf events, accessible and chronic illness-friendly parties, and cabaret, and neurodivergent gatherings at every Pride. We need stages programmed by disabled talent, budgets allocated for real accessibility, and leadership teams who don鈥檛 treat disability like a tick-box exercise.
Disabled LGBTQIA+ people deserve to be there from the very start, shaping the brief, the lineup, the venue choice, the culture. Included from the beginning rather than treated as an afterthought.
Because there鈥檚 no equality unless there鈥檚 equality for all of us. And for years, I have watched too few LGBTQIA+ people stand up for disabled queer folks 鈥� or disabled people in general. We were often left to advocate for ourselves, which is exhausting when you鈥檙e, y’know鈥� disabled.
But I鈥檓 seeing more now. More allies showing up. More people asking 鈥淚s this accessible?鈥� before buying tickets. More events including Auslan, captioning, access riders, and sensory maps.
More queer people publicly and proudly identifying as disabled 鈥� and just like when you come out as a member of the LGBTQIA+ community; when someone stands up and proudly says who they are, it is revolutionary.
My hope is that everyone reading this today on IDPWD 鈥� and any other day 鈥� chooses to stand up a little taller and speak a little louder as allies. That disabled LGBTQIA+ people see, hear, and feel genuine support from the community 鈥� online and in real life.
Disability inclusion isn鈥檛 decoration. It鈥檚 liberation.
And this Pride season, we have the chance to prove it.
