Earlier this month, The Telegraph published an article titled How having a disability became cool.
I am a chronically ill disabled man, so I suppose I should be pleased to learn that this is cool now. I must have missed the memo. Nobody sent me the membership card. There was no welcome pack after the cerebral palsy, no fashionable little badge for the hydrocephalus, no brand partnership when somebody put a tube into my brain and ran it down into my abdomen. I have never once been stopped in the street by somebody desperate to know how they too can acquire scoliosis.
Maybe I have simply been doing disability wrong.
The more I have sat with the article, and the more I have read the response to it, the less interested I am in describing it as merely “tone-deaf”. I think it is overtly ableist. I think its fixation on young women is misogynistic. I think dragging trans people into an article about supposedly contagious identities is transparently transphobic. I think the repeated suspicion directed at young disabled people is ageist. Taken together, I find the entire thing hateful in the most boring, familiar way: it takes people who already have to justify their existence to doctors, employers, assessors and strangers, and supplies one more reason not to believe them.
The article takes a collection of things that are individually perfectly reasonable subjects to discuss — self-diagnosis, bad health information online, overdiagnosis, influencer culture and welfare policy — and wraps them around an extraordinarily ugly central premise: disability has become desirable. People identify too much with being ill. Young people display it. They buy nice-looking mobility aids. They talk to each other about symptoms. Some of them don’t even look especially sick.
And apparently this is suspicious.
A lot of the framing concentrates on young women. Trans people are dragged into it through the language of social contagion. Young people in general are treated as especially impressionable, especially online and apparently especially vulnerable to acquiring identities from one another. Those choices are not incidental; they are useful.
If you want to sell readers the idea that disability is being socially acquired, young women give you centuries of medical misogyny to work with. Trans people give you an already familiar culture-war vocabulary about identity and contagion. Young people give you the old assumption that anyone under about thirty is gullible, dramatic, terminally online and incapable of knowing what is happening in their own body.
Once the reader has accepted the premise that these particular people might be exaggerating, misinterpreting or embracing disability for social reasons, the article quietly broadens the argument. Now we are talking about whether disabled people identify too strongly with illness, whether mobility aids are becoming accessories, whether accepting disability discourages recovery, whether disabled communities reinforce sickness, whether welfare encourages people not to work and whether someone who seems healthy deserves to be understood as disabled at all.
That is not an argument about a few women on TikTok. It is an argument about disabled people.
Women, trans people and young people are being used as cover for a much wider suspicion, and I am not outside that suspicion simply because I am a cis man. I am disabled. The argument reaches me too.
Reading it as somebody whose body has been medically complicated since infancy is infuriating because the whole thing feels like it has been written from several miles outside the actual experience of disability. It watches us from a distance, notices that some of us are visible, talking to one another and occasionally not looking completely fucking miserable, and starts asking whether that visibility itself is evidence that something has gone wrong.
Since it was published, I am clearly not the only disabled or chronically ill person who read it that way. Soph Jackson, writing for The DList, described the piece as an ableist attack on chronically ill and neurodivergent people and pointed out what is missing when journalists treat increasing disability as some mysterious cultural phenomenon: we have just lived through a pandemic which left large numbers of people chronically ill. Jackson also describes disability content online as something that helped them become less ashamed of using accessibility tools.
That last bit matters. If seeing another disabled person use a cane gives someone permission to finally use the cane they already need, that is not social contagion. That is somebody being able to leave the fucking house.
And this is not even an isolated fascination. Only weeks earlier, The Times had published Kathleen Stock asking why young women were using walking sticks, again floating the idea of “social contagion”. Amy Thompson pointed out the obvious pattern: within weeks, two national newspapers had apparently become deeply interested in young people using mobility aids.
At some point the question stops being “why are there more walking sticks?” and becomes “why are British columnists so uncomfortable with seeing disabled people?”
Apparently the Walking Stick Needs to Look Miserable Too
One of the more revealing parts of the article is its fascination with aesthetic mobility aids. There are patterned walking sticks, pink wheelchairs and nice compression socks. People put photographs of them online. Some disabled people even coordinate their mobility aids with what they are wearing.
Terrifying stuff.
The article refers to the “accessories of their disease”, which is such an unpleasant little phrase that I have been thinking about it ever since I read it. Accessories, as though somebody looked at their chronic illness and thought it needed a matching handbag.
What exactly is a disabled person supposed to do here? If you need a walking stick every day, are you morally obligated to buy the ugliest one available so everybody around you knows you are taking your suffering seriously? Does it need to be NHS grey? Should wheelchairs come exclusively in shades of institutional beige? Am I allowed to put a sticker on medical equipment, or does that indicate an unhealthy emotional attachment to pathology?
This becomes obviously ridiculous when applied to almost anything else. People wear glasses in thousands of different styles. Nobody sees somebody in nice frames and starts worrying that short-sightedness has become an aspirational identity. Prosthetics can be designed to look good. Hearing aids come in different colours. People decorate casts. Children get patterned plasters after blood tests. Human beings have this strange habit of wanting the things around them to look nice.
Apparently that becomes sinister when the object is a walking stick.
Amy Thompson, who was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis at 21, wrote an excellent response for sounddelivery media. She points out that she can work, travel, go to the gym and run marathons while still being disabled. She also makes the point that somebody decorating a mobility aid and making it feel like their own does not mean they enjoy needing it.
This should be embarrassingly obvious. If I had to look at the same mobility aid every day, I would rather like it. I would rather it felt like an object belonging to me than something issued by a hospital whose design department consisted of somebody asking how depressing they could make grey plastic. That does not mean I wanted to need it. It means I have eyes.
What makes this rhetoric particularly nasty is that disabled people already hesitate before using aids because we wonder whether we are “disabled enough”. People will put themselves through additional pain and exhaustion because they are frightened that standing up from a wheelchair or leaving a cane at home on a good day will cause somebody to decide they have been exposed as a fraud. Articles like this do not exist separately from that fear. They feed it.
Thompson makes exactly that point: suspicion does not stay on the newspaper page. It follows the person who doesn’t “look disabled” getting out of a car in an accessible space. It follows somebody requesting an adjustment at work. It follows the young person who could benefit from a mobility aid but is frightened of what strangers will think.
So when somebody finally gets over all of that, buys a cane which makes their life easier and decides the cane might as well look good, apparently the appropriate response is to take a photograph of it and write an article about how disability became cool.
Fuck off.
I Looked Fine on 16 April
The article repeatedly talks about people who seem healthy, which is another phrase that sounds much cleverer until you have actually lived in a body that can look completely ordinary while something inside it is going badly wrong.
On 16 April this year, I was fine. I was online. I was writing code. I was going about my life. If you had seen me that day, there was nothing about my appearance that would have told you what was about to happen.
On 17 April, I was in hospital being prepared for emergency brain surgery because my ventriculoperitoneal shunt had failed. My shunt treats my hydrocephalus. It is implanted medical hardware which drains excess cerebrospinal fluid away from my brain, and when it fails badly enough this is not a lifestyle inconvenience. It is a neurological emergency.
Mine failed.
Roughly seven hours after the surgery finished, I posted this on Bluesky:
I am keeping the spelling exactly as it was because I think it does a better job of describing my condition at the time than anything polished I could write now.
Seven hours earlier somebody had finished operating on my brain. I was lying there with blurry vision, sufficiently conscious to find my phone and apparently extremely determined to tell the internet about it, but not quite in possession of the fine motor control necessary to type “I had”.
The day before, I looked fine.
That fact has become impossible for me to separate from the way this article talks about people who seem healthy. It treats seeming healthy as though it is meaningful evidence when sometimes all it means is that human skin is inconveniently opaque. You cannot see hydrocephalus by looking at my face. You cannot determine whether a shunt is functioning by watching me walk into a room. You cannot look at a photograph of me smiling and work out the pressure inside my skull.
On 16 April, somebody could have looked at me and decided there was nothing wrong. On 17 April, somebody opened my head. A few weeks later, I was back writing code, maintaining projects and trying to work out what came next.
I am the same person in all three of those situations.
I did not become disabled somewhere between the 16th and the operating theatre, and I did not stop being disabled when I opened my laptop again afterwards. Emergency neurosurgery was simply the brief period when something normally invisible became impossible for anybody else to ignore. Most of the time, disability does not look like an operating theatre. Most of the time I just look like me.
That is why I get so angry when people talk about somebody “looking healthy” as though they have made an observation about that person’s health rather than their appearance. You haven’t examined them. You don’t have their notes. You don’t know what medication they take, what hurts, what they had to do to get out of bed that morning or whether they will be in an operating theatre tomorrow.
You looked at them. That is all.
None of this relies on me being a woman, trans, a TikTok creator or part of whichever demographic happens to be fashionable to distrust this week. I am a 21-year-old disabled man with lifelong neurological conditions, implanted medical hardware and a public life which usually looks completely ordinary. The logic still lands on me.
If looking healthy counts against somebody’s disability, it counts against mine. If openly identifying as disabled means somebody might be too attached to sickness, apparently that includes me. If working, studying or writing software makes a disabled person suspiciously capable, my GitHub history can be turned into evidence against my own body.
That is why I refuse to treat the groups used to introduce the argument as its limits. They are not.
I have hydrocephalus, cerebral palsy and scoliosis. I have lived with neurological disability since infancy. I was disabled while I was coding on 16 April. I was disabled while somebody operated on my brain on 17 April. I was disabled when I went back to writing software afterwards.
My body got there before social media did.
Sometimes Even I Cannot Tell What “Fine” Means
The surgery also taught me something I had not properly understood beforehand. A few months afterwards, I wrote that I had not realised how much of my baseline was illness until parts of it disappeared.
That sounds strange until you have been chronically ill for long enough. You adapt to whatever your normal happens to be. If something hurts most of the time, eventually “hurts” stops being an event and becomes background information. If you are constantly tired, you structure life around being tired. If your body keeps doing strange things, eventually those strange things become the reference point you compare everything else against.
Then something changes and you suddenly realise that what you had been calling normal was not especially normal at all. I find that quite frightening in hindsight, and it also makes the confidence with which strangers assess whether another person is genuinely ill almost funny.
I can inhabit this body twenty-four hours a day and still fail to notice how much illness has crept into my definition of ordinary. Somebody watching a fifteen-second video apparently thinks they can do better.
“You don’t look disabled” has always been a stupid thing to say. Dressing the same idea up as concern about an online culture of people who “seem healthy” does not make it less stupid. It just gives the judgement a broadsheet masthead.
No, TikTok Did Not Invent Disabled People
The article points to the growing number of people identified as disabled in Britain. According to the Department for Work and Pensions’ 2024–25 Family Resources Survey, around a quarter of people now meet its definition of disability.
That is a large number. The article then tells us this is apparently a higher rate of disability than Britain experienced immediately after the Second World War, which sounds dramatic and deserves considerably more scrutiny than it gets.
The modern statistic comes from the Family Resources Survey. The survey did not exist in the immediate aftermath of the Second World War. It began decades later, and the DWP itself explains in its methodology notes that the way disability has been defined and measured has changed over time. When the current Equality Act-aligned measure was introduced, the change was significant enough that the DWP warned against straightforward comparison with earlier survey years.
So what exactly are we comparing with 1945?
Because if you are going to drop “there are proportionally more disabled people now than after a world war” into an article about disability becoming fashionable, I would quite like to know that the numbers on either side of that comparison are measuring the same fucking thing. The existence of a bigger number does not prove the existence of a new cultural pathology.
There are considerably more boring explanations available, which I appreciate is unfortunate if you are trying to write a culture-war article. People live longer with conditions which might once have killed them. Diagnostic practices change. Awareness changes. Some conditions historically missed are recognised more often. People who would once have spent decades being dismissed sometimes get diagnoses earlier. Mental health conditions are discussed more openly. Neurodevelopmental conditions are understood differently than they were twenty years ago.
And then, quite recently, we had a global pandemic. Covid left people chronically ill. This really should not be a controversial observation in 2026.
That omission was one of the things repeatedly raised in the response to the article. Jackson’s piece for The DList* directly calls out the absurdity of treating the growth in chronic illness as inexplicable while skirting around a mass-disabling pandemic. Complaints sent to The Telegraph reportedly raised the same problem.
POTS is particularly odd territory on which to build this argument, not least because the article itself quotes Dr Lesley Kavi of PoTS UK explaining that cases have increased significantly since the pandemic and that around half of patients are initially told their symptoms are psychological.
Around half.
The article is handed evidence inside its own reporting that people with this condition already have an enormous credibility problem in medicine, and somehow the lesson it takes from that is that perhaps what Britain really needs is several thousand more words wondering whether seemingly healthy young women are too invested in being ill.
You could not design the irony better.
There are legitimate medical debates around POTS diagnosis, mechanisms and treatment. That is not the same thing as saying a condition exists because young women have watched too much TikTok.
A physician writing about the wider “young women with walking sticks” discourse made a point I think should be obvious: if you are going to be sceptical about a diagnosis, your scepticism also requires evidence. Observing more mobility aids and constructing a story about social contagion is still constructing a causal theory. You don’t get to call yourself the sceptic and then exempt your preferred explanation from the evidentiary standard you demand from everyone else.
Some people self-diagnose incorrectly. Some doctors diagnose incorrectly. Some doctors fail to diagnose people who actually are sick. Some patients become convinced of one explanation which turns out to be wrong. Other patients spend years being told nothing is wrong before somebody finally works out what is happening.
None of that gets us cleanly from “medicine is complicated” to “disability became cool”.
Misogyny Is the Wedge, Not the Boundary
I am writing this as a disabled man, and that matters because so much of this particular rhetoric begins with women: young women with walking sticks, young women talking about POTS, young women identifying as chronically ill, young women posting about symptoms online.
There is nothing neutral about that fixation.
Women presenting medicine with difficult, fluctuating or poorly understood symptoms do not exactly enter a system with a spotless historical record of taking them seriously. Medicine spent centuries diagnosing women with “hysteria”, turning pain, distress and unexplained symptoms into evidence that the problem was fundamentally the woman herself.
We have apparently progressed from wandering wombs to wondering whether Instagram made them sick.
“Social contagion.” “Sickness identity.” “Hyper-awareness of bodily sensations.” “Sickfluencers.” The vocabulary changed. The contempt is recognisable.
But misogyny is the wedge here, not the boundary. Once you establish the idea that disabled people can be too suggestible, too comfortable with their diagnosis, too socially rewarded by illness or too healthy-looking to trust, you no longer need the disabled person in front of you to be a woman.
The suspicion works just fine on everybody else.
Transphobia Is Doing the Same Job
The use of trans people in the article works similarly. Dragging transgender-rights marches into a story about disability becoming fashionable is not some random observational flourish. The language of “social contagion” arrives with years of existing cultural baggage attached to it.
A section of the public has already been taught to hear a cluster of words — young people, social media, identity, communities, sudden increases, contagion — and understand what it is supposed to imply. Maybe these people did not discover something about themselves. Maybe other people put the idea there.
That rhetorical framework is then applied to disability.
It is overtly transphobic in its own right, because trans people are being used as the ready-made example of an identity supposedly spreading socially. It is also useful camouflage for the ableism. The reader can be invited to think this is about fashionable identity politics, odd online communities, young women and trans protesters rather than confronting what the article is actually asking them to consider:
Can disabled people be trusted when they describe themselves as disabled?
Everything else flows from that.
And the Ageism Is Hardly Subtle Either
There is another group doing useful rhetorical work throughout all of this: young people.
Young people are especially convenient targets because dismissing them rarely even requires much explanation. They are terminally online. They copy their friends. They want labels for everything. They are too sensitive. They turn ordinary discomfort into pathology. They do not know what real hardship looks like. They do not want to work.
You can feel those assumptions hovering around this entire genre of commentary, and that matters because young disabled people are already in the particularly stupid position of being told they are too young to be this ill.
A twenty-year-old using a walking stick looks unusual to some people because their mental image of disability is still an elderly person. The conclusion should be that the mental image is inadequate. Instead, apparently, the walking stick itself becomes suspicious.
I am 21. I have cerebral palsy, hydrocephalus and scoliosis. I have already had emergency brain surgery this year. Exactly how old would I need to become before my body is allowed to have something wrong with it without somebody wondering whether my generation learnt disability from the internet?
The Complaints Were Not Just “You Hurt My Feelings”
Something else happened after the article was published which I think is worth dwelling on. A complainant later published what they said was a response from The Telegraph’s Editorial Legal & Compliance team. The response says the paper had received enough detailed correspondence that it had prepared one reply addressing the main complaints.
That is quite a lot of people apparently failing to understand how cool their disabilities are.
More importantly, the objections were not merely “this article is mean and I dislike it”. They included claims that the column misrepresented the diagnostic criteria for POTS, ignored evidence around genuine comorbidity between conditions such as POTS, ME/CFS, Long Covid and Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, blurred self-diagnosis together with formal diagnosis, made causal leaps between social media, disability statistics and welfare spending without establishing those links, ignored Long Covid when discussing increasing disability, and used terms like “sickfluencers” alongside descriptions of medical aids as accessories or props.
Those are substantive criticisms.
The defence, broadly, is that this is an opinion column. Commentators are allowed wide latitude. The column is not a medical journal. Its discussion of sociological or psychological explanations is opinion. Its focus was cultural rather than clinical.
Right. Nobody asked for a medical journal.
If you write a column about whether Dune: Part Seven is any good, I am not going to complain that it lacks a methods section. If you invoke medical diagnostic criteria to imply that large numbers of patients may have turned ordinary bodily sensations into chronic illness, however, the accuracy of what you say about those criteria rather fucking matters.
If you take disability prevalence, social-media culture, welfare spending and economic inactivity and arrange them into a story about cause and effect, it is reasonable for somebody to ask where the evidence for the causal bit is. “Opinion” is not a magical word which means facts cease to matter.
The complaint response is particularly bizarre on Long Covid. The paper’s reported position is effectively that a column focusing on sociological factors does not have to discuss post-viral illness because it is not a medical journal.
But that is the fucking issue.
You cannot ask why chronic illness appears to be increasing, decide to focus on social contagion, and then treat one of the largest obvious competing explanations as an irrelevant detail because your chosen framing is sociological.
If the piece were simply somebody saying, “I think some health content on TikTok is bollocks”, I would probably agree with them. It isn’t. It takes real disabled people, real medical conditions, real disability statistics, real welfare spending and real arguments about employment, assembles them around the theory that illness has acquired social status, and then retreats to “it’s opinion” when disabled people ask whether the structure holding that theory together is actually sound.
That excuse has the same effect as “it’s just banter” did when I was bullied as a teenager for simply being myself. The words are presented as though they cancel out the harm. They do not. Calling something an opinion does not make its consequences disappear, just as calling cruelty banter did not make being targeted any less painful. I was bullied for being myself, and I was even stalked online for years. I know what it feels like when people hide behind a supposedly harmless label while continuing to make you the target.
That is not brave contrarianism. It is having it both ways.
I Am Disabled and I Still Do Things
Another implication running through this discussion is that identifying yourself as disabled represents some kind of withdrawal from ordinary life.
I write software. My GitHub profile is public. So is my project documentation. There are dozens upon dozens of projects in there because apparently I do not know how to have one hobby at a time. I work on AT Protocol infrastructure, C and C++, mobile clients, games, websites, importers, self-hosted services and various other things I became interested in and then accidentally spent several months building.
Most of it is free and open source. My Ko-fi has described this work as happening in the margins of bad health days and whatever free time I can find.
That is not branding. That is literally how I work.
Some days I can spend hours programming. Some days I have enough energy to do considerably less. Sometimes I can disappear into a complicated systems problem and emerge hours later wondering why it is dark outside. Sometimes I need to lie down.
I am not one person on the productive days and another on the bad ones. I am disabled on both.
That is what irritates me about the language of “sickness identity”. I am not sitting here nurturing my disability because it gives me a sense of belonging. I am acknowledging something which materially affects how much I can do and when I can do it. Pretending otherwise would not make me healthier. It would make me worse at planning.
I finished college this summer after having emergency brain surgery in April. I am trying to start my career. I maintain software. I write. I run my own infrastructure because apparently normal people have hobbies and I have servers. I am also chronically ill.
I am tired of these being treated as opposing statements.
Apparently we still need to explain in 2026 that “disabled” is not a synonym for “incapable of ever doing anything”.
The “Recovery Identity” Stuff Makes Me Angry
One of the ideas floated in the article is that a “recovery identity” is healthier than a sickness identity. That phrase makes me want to put my head through a wall, although given the recent neurosurgery I will refrain.
Recovery from what?
I have cerebral palsy. What stage of the recovery journey am I supposed to be on? I have hydrocephalus requiring a shunt. Am I insufficiently recovery-minded because I have accepted that this piece of implanted hardware is probably going to remain relevant to my life?
There are illnesses people recover from. There are injuries people recover from. There are conditions which improve. There are conditions which fluctuate. There are disabilities which somebody will have for the rest of their life. Treating “recovery” as the morally healthier way of understanding all of them is not optimism. It is denial dressed up as psychology.
I am allowed to say “I am disabled” without immediately following it with a pledge that I am working very hard to stop being disabled. I am allowed to build a life around the body I actually have. I am allowed to make jokes about my brain surgery, be angry when something is inaccessible and want support.
And if I owned a walking stick, I would be allowed to buy one that looked fucking nice.
I do not need to hate myself to prove that I would rather not be ill.
And of Course We Eventually Get to Benefits
Because this is Britain and we apparently cannot talk about disabled people for very long without somebody asking what we’re costing.
The article eventually connects all of this to economic inactivity and welfare. That is where the misogyny, transphobia and ageism stop functioning merely as ugly framing and reveal what they are shielding: ableism.
Disabled people in Britain are already discussed incessantly as a fiscal problem. We are numbers attached to benefit expenditure, employment statistics and government targets. Politicians talk about getting us back into work. Newspapers talk about the benefits bill. There is always another suggestion that too many people have been signed off, too many claims are being accepted, too many people have somehow settled into sickness.
Then along comes an article explaining that disability itself might now carry social status.
Once you tell people that disability can be desirable, every disabled person acquires an implied question mark. Does he really need that? Is she actually that ill? Could they work if they tried harder? Why does he call himself disabled so readily? Why does her cane look like that? Why is he smiling if he is chronically ill?
That is the destination of this argument.
The woman with POTS and the trans protester might be the people you put in the shop window, but the suspicion is for sale to everyone. It reaches the stranger with a Blue Badge, the colleague asking for flexible hours, the person whose wheelchair does not get used every day, the student missing classes, the person receiving PIP, the person whose symptoms fluctuate.
Me.
The DWP’s own employment statistics show millions of disabled people already working. They also show disabled people facing worse employment outcomes than non-disabled people, while plenty of economically inactive disabled people say they want a job.
I want work. I am looking for work. I also know perfectly well there will be days when my health affects what I can do.
I have spent enough of my life being reduced to attendance percentages, medical categories, benefit criteria and other people’s assessments of what I ought to be capable of. I am not interested in becoming another datapoint in somebody’s theory about why disabled people are suddenly too visible.
Sometimes a person isn’t working because they are ill. Sometimes somebody needs help. Sometimes the fucking answer really is that simple.
Yes, People Online Can Be Wrong
People online say stupid things about medicine every day. There are influencers selling rubbish. There are communities which reinforce bad ideas. There are people who decide they have a particular condition before seeing a doctor and become unwilling to consider alternatives. There are people who lie about being sick.
Of course there are.
There are also doctors who dismiss patients, doctors who miss things, waiting lists which leave people without specialist help for months or years, conditions with complicated diagnostic criteria and illnesses without a single convenient test that produces a green tick saying YES, DEFINITELY SICK.
I do not need to pretend social-media health misinformation is harmless in order to object when a national newspaper turns disabled people into a suspect cultural category. Bad medical information does not become less bad because I am disabled, and ableism does not become less ableist because somebody found a few examples of bad medical information.
These are separate concepts.
Out of Sight; Out of Mind
For a long time, disability was easier for everyone else when it stayed private: medical, sad and preferably quiet. The disabled person was inspirational if they overcame it, sympathetic if they suffered without demanding much and inconvenient if they started asking why the building did not have a ramp.
Out of sight; out of mind.
That arrangement worked extremely well for everybody except disabled people.
Now we talk to each other. We appear on timelines. We use mobility aids in public. We ask for accommodations. We work. We receive benefits. We go to protests. We complain about inaccessible things. Young disabled people find other young disabled people and realise they are not uniquely defective. Women compare symptoms and occasionally discover that the thing they were repeatedly told was anxiety has a name. Trans disabled people exist in public without separating those parts of themselves for the comfort of a columnist.
And sometimes a walking stick has flowers on it.
None of this created disability. It created visibility.
That is why I find the article hateful. It takes prejudice aimed at women, trans people and young people and uses it to make suspicion of disabled people feel reasonable.
For a long time, you could ignore us. Out of sight; out of mind.
We are not out of sight anymore.
Disability did not become cool.
You just started seeing us.