Not your ‘inspiration': A disabled writer's practical guide to meaningful conversations

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28-06-2025

At twenty-three, I had just left my job at Morgan Stanley in New York City, trading spreadsheets and skyscrapers for purpose and possibility. I took a steep pay cut and moved to Kampala, Uganda to work on improving livelihoods for smallholder farmers. Every nerve ending sparked to life, raw and electric, at the thrill of doing something that mattered. I couldn't have known what lay ahead: a motorcycle taxi accident, a traumatic brain injury, three months in a coma, and the beginning of life with permanent disabilities. I am now a wheelchair user. In a rush to reclaim a version of the life I'd lost, I returned to something I was planning just before the accident took place – I applied to Yale School of Management in the US. I graduated with an MBA in 2020, have held three jobs since, and now, I've written a book about this journey.
You can probably guess that I get called 'inspiring' a lot. But here's the funny thing – it's most often by people I've just met. It usually comes wrapped in good intentions. But ‌it makes me uncomfortable. Especially when it's used as a placeholder for a real interaction. When that word lands, it often feels like my entire identity has been flattened into a wheelchair and a struggle, my story reduced to a motivational moment for someone else's day.
So here's what I'd really like instead. If you're unsure how to act around someone with a visible disability, this is my request: don't overthink it. Skip the performance, choose a more genuine connection. It's not complicated, but it does take a little thought. Here are a few things that can help:
Rule 1: Talk to us like adults
After my accident led to my becoming a wheelchair user, I encountered a strange shift – acquaintances started speaking to me as if I were a child. Their heads tilted, their sentences simplified, their eyes flitted toward whoever I was with, as if I'd stopped being the primary person in the conversation. It's disorienting and frankly, demeaning.
I might have a speech disability, really just a difference, use a wheelchair, and need a bit more time than most, but I'm still the same person I was before the accident: a grown woman who enjoys crappy rom-coms, Money Heist, strategic debates, and MAC eyeliner. I've written a book. I've also planned a professional workshop from scratch. I enjoy literary fiction and am a massive overthinker. Treat me as you would any adult – with respect, curiosity, and most importantly, a little humour.
What you can ask instead:
'Which book do you really love?'
'What are you writing these days?'
'Seen anything good lately?'
'You mentioned you work in higher ed – what do you like most about your job?'
These questions open doors. 'How are you feeling?' followed by quickening your pace or 'you're so inspiring' doesn't always.
Rule 2: You don't have to praise our courage
Disability isn't a heroic story. It's life. Some days are hard. Some are ordinary. Sometimes we're tired or cranky or excited or funny – just like anyone else. When someone tells me I'm 'inspiring' or 'brave' just for showing up to my life, I know they're trying to be kind. But honestly, it creates distance. It suggests that my existence is exceptional simply because I have disabilities.
The truth? Yes, my story includes struggle – but also ambition, joy, and deep relationships. Much like everyone. What makes me feel seen is when people recognise the full picture.
Rule 3: Don't be afraid to ask. And please, do ask. Just be respectful
Many people freeze up around physical or speech-related differences. I can tell when someone is avoiding eye contact because they're unsure how to respond to my speech or are waiting for someone else to speak on my behalf. That silence? It can feel louder than words.
Here's what I wish more people understood:
Yes, I speak slower than you. That's okay, many do. You don't need to shift your eyes toward my companion. Just give me a moment. I'll get there. If I'm unclear, you can always ask me to repeat myself to make myself understood. Repetition is a small price to pay for being heard.
And if I'm manoeuvring in a tight corner or need help opening a door, either I'll ask for your help, or it's alright for you to ask: 'Would you like a hand?' – not assume, not rush in, just ask. I'll say yes or no. That's it.
Real moments:
A woman once grabbed the back of my power wheelchair without asking and started steering. That's a no.
A friend once crouched beside me to talk eye-to-eye, instead of standing and towering. That's a yes – much appreciated.
A chemist waited patiently as I stuttered and stumbled over words while ordering my medicines, never interrupting. That's a yes.
Final thought: See us, fully
Empathy doesn't mean pity. It means curiosity, listening, and showing up. It's friends who ask if a venue has a ramp before making plans. It's someone helping me get settled at a restaurant without making it awkward. It's talking to me, not about me – even when I'm accompanied.
My disability is part of my life, but it isn't my entire identity. I'm a daughter, a sister, a friend, a writer, a strategist, a higher education professional, a disability rights advocate, and a rom-com enthusiast. Ab​​ove all, a silly human. I still dream big, worry lots, and laugh easily. And like you, I want to be seen – not as a symbol, but as a person.
And if, after all this, the word you still choose is 'inspiring,' I promise to let it land with a polite smile and a blush creeping up my cheeks. But what I'd appreciate most is if you refrain from dropping that word entirely or tell me what you actually mean – 'I'm inspired by you because…' Just remember: I'm not a headline or a hashtag. I'm a whole person – silly, stubborn, and maybe a little inspiring…depending on the day.
Tarini Mohan is the author of Lifequake: A Story of Hope and Humanity, published by Juggernaut Books. You can also follow Tarini on Instagram here.