Unseen Strength: Thriving with a Disability in a World That Underestimates You

I was born with cerebral palsy. Not the kind you might see in movies, but the kind that’s subtle until it’s not. My speech was slower, my walk uneven, and my right hand never fully obeyed. From as early as I can remember, I was painfully aware of being different.

But here’s what most people get wrong about living with a disability: they think it’s all about limitations.

I’m here to tell you, it’s about adaptation.

Chapter 1: The Playground Lie

When I was eight, I asked my teacher if I could join the others on the monkey bars. She looked at me, smiled kindly, and said, "Why don’t you stick to the slide, sweetheart?"

That was the first time I felt the sting of underestimation. She didn’t mean harm, but in that one sentence, she placed a ceiling above me. And that ceiling stayed there until I started asking myself why it was even there in the first place.

My parents, to their credit, never told me I couldn't do something. My mom, a nurse, was my quiet warrior. My dad, a former mechanic, became my personal trainer. He built adaptive tools for me out of old garage junk so I could paint, write, and build without limits. When I told him I wanted to ride a bike, he didn’t say no. He said, "Let’s figure it out."

Chapter 2: School Days & Sideways Stares

Middle school was the battlefield.

Children, especially in packs, are brutally honest. I became "the twitchy girl" or "robot arm". I’d go home and stare at my reflection, pulling my lips into fake smiles, practicing how to sound "normal" when I spoke. I spent hours trying to hide parts of myself that wouldn't cooperate.

But in seventh grade, something shifted. I met a teacher named Ms. Adler. She had a prosthetic leg from a car accident and didn’t try to hide it. In fact, she wore skirts to show it off. One day after class, she told me:

"Your disability doesn’t define your intelligence. It doesn’t make you less capable—it just makes you more creative in how you get things done."

That was the first time I saw disability as a kind of ingenuity. Not a flaw. A feature.

I began to lean into my strengths. I was excellent at writing, so I started entering essay contests. I couldn’t run laps in gym, but I could coach. I couldn’t climb the stairs easily, but I could lead the debate team.

By the time I graduated high school, I was valedictorian.

Chapter 3: College Hurdles and Breakthroughs

College was a different beast. Independence is a double-edged sword when you’ve lived your life in an able-bodied world. Dorms weren’t designed with people like me in mind. Elevators broke. Classrooms were far apart. I learned very quickly that advocacy wasn't a luxury—it was a necessity.

I founded the campus's first Disability Inclusion Forum in my second year. Not because I was particularly brave, but because I was tired of being invisible.

What I didn’t expect? That sharing my story would inspire others.

A classmate with ADHD thanked me for speaking up. A girl with chronic pain asked to join the forum. Suddenly, I realized that disability isn't just visible. It lives in bodies, in minds, in moments we don’t see.

By the time I graduated, I wasn’t just surviving college. I had built something lasting for students like me—and those who would come after.

Chapter 4: Entering the Workforce

"We’re just not sure you can keep up with the physical demands of this job."

I heard that in interviews more times than I can count.

Even with stellar grades, awards, and recommendations, my limp and slow speech became red flags for potential employers. I was discouraged but not defeated.

So I created my own path.

I started a freelance content agency from my bedroom. I called it Stronger Ink, a nod to both my writing and my resolve. At first, it was just me and a laptop. But within two years, I had a team of six—including two other creatives with disabilities.

What started as a way to pay rent turned into a movement. Our clients appreciated not just our work, but our perspective. We told stories others overlooked. We brought a kind of empathy and depth that only comes from living with real challenge.

Chapter 5: Redefining Thriving

"Thriving" used to sound like climbing mountains or winning medals. But I've learned that thriving with a disability looks different.

It looks like:

Setting boundaries and still pushing limits

Asking for help and not feeling ashamed

Making space for others with invisible struggles

Advocating for yourself—even when your voice trembles

It looks like living fully, even if you move a little slower.

It’s the quiet triumph of independence. The joy of doing something they said you couldn’t.

It’s writing your own story—on your own terms.

Chapter 6: The Ripple Effect

Today, I speak at schools and companies about disability inclusion. I’ve written a book, helped companies design accessible websites, and even trained HR teams on how to better support neurodiverse staff.

But my proudest moment?

Last year, I got an email from a 14-year-old girl named Amina who has cerebral palsy. She saw my TEDx Talk and wrote:

"For the first time, I see someone like me doing big things. I want to be a writer too. I didn’t think I could. Now I know I can."

That email sits framed above my desk.

Because that is what thriving looks like.

Moral of the Story:

Your limitations do not define you—your determination does.

Living with a disability isn’t about overcoming the body. It’s about overcoming the assumptions placed upon it.

The world will try to write your story for you. Don’t let it.

Hold the pen. Tell your truth. And thrive—not despite your challenges, but because you learned how to rise within them.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi