Redefining Romance Through Disability
I didn’t want to write this.
Not because love isn’t important to me — but because talking about romance as someone with a disability often means defending my right to it in the first place.
There’s an unspoken assumption that follows many disabled people: that romance is either out of reach, unrealistic, or only possible under very specific conditions.
That if we do find love, it should probably be with someone who also has a disability. Someone who “gets it.” Someone whose life looks like ours so the relationship makes sense to everyone else.
And to be clear — for some people, that kind of love works beautifully.
Sharing lived experience can create deep understanding. There can be comfort in not having to explain your body, your energy limits, or your access needs. Many disabled couples thrive because they meet each other with compassion rooted in shared reality.
But inclusion means that is not the only acceptable love story.
The Problem With “Acceptable” Love
When people assume I can’t — or shouldn’t — be in a romantic relationship with an able-bodied partner, what they’re really saying is that my disability defines the limits of my desirability.
That my body is something to work around rather than something worthy of love.
That romance with me would be a sacrifice.
That the only way love could be “fair” is if both people are equally constrained.
Those assumptions aren’t about compatibility.
They’re about discomfort.
They come from a world that hasn’t made room for disabled bodies in its idea of romance.
Love Is Not a Matching System
Romantic relationships are rarely built on sameness.
People fall in love across cultures, industries, temperaments, faiths, personalities, neurotypes, and life experiences. We don’t expect partners to have identical bodies, careers, health histories, or strengths.
So why does disability suddenly become the line where difference is no longer allowed?
Inclusion means I am allowed to love someone with a different body than mine.
It means I am allowed to be loved by someone who does not share my diagnosis, limitations, or lived experience.
Not because they “save” me.
Not because they tolerate me.
But because relationships are built on mutual respect, communication, care, and love — not identical mobility or energy levels.
What Disabled Romance Actually Requires
Loving someone with a disability doesn’t require perfection.
It requires intention.
It requires:
Willingness to learn without assuming
Flexibility without resentment
Communication without pity
Support without control
And honestly? Those are traits every healthy relationship needs.
Disability doesn’t make romance impossible — it simply makes the unspoken rules visible.
The Quiet Impact of These Assumptions
When society treats disabled romance as unlikely — or as something that only exists in “special cases” — it causes real harm.
It quietly reshapes what we believe is possible.
It narrows our sense of future before we’ve even had a chance to imagine it. It teaches us to lower our expectations pre‑emptively. It gives others permission to decide what kind of love we are allowed to want — or whether we should want it at all.
Over time, those messages don’t just stay external. They settle in.
You start to question yourself:
Am I asking for too much?
Am I unrealistic for wanting partnership?
Should I be grateful for any attention, instead of hoping for mutual love and choice?
That isn’t humility. It’s conditioning.
I know this because I’ve lived it.
I was 31 before I dated anyone. Not because I didn’t want love, but because these assumptions shaped how I saw myself and what I believed was available to me. They limited my sense of possibility long before another person ever did.
Even now — after more than ten years in a relationship with an able‑bodied partner — those beliefs don’t simply disappear. They linger. They resurface. They remind me how deeply these narratives can root themselves in us, even when our lived reality contradicts them.
That’s the quiet damage of being told, over and over, that love for people like us is rare, conditional, or unexpected.
And that’s why it matters to challenge these stories — not just publicly, but internally. Because everyone deserves to imagine a future that includes love, partnership, and belonging — without having to justify wanting it.
Inclusion Means Choice
True inclusion doesn’t prescribe who we should love.
It means:
I can love someone with a disability.
I can love someone without a disability.
I can love in ways that don’t resemble movies, holidays, or hashtags.
I can opt in, opt out, or redefine romance entirely.
My disability shapes my life — but it does not limit my right to desire, connection, or partnership.
Not because love ignores disability — but because love can make space for it.
Why This Conversation Matters
Valentine’s Day often centers one narrow version of romance — able-bodied, effortless, energetic, and uncomplicated.
But love is not one-size-fits-all.
And neither are the people who give and receive it.
If we truly believe in access and inclusion, then we must believe in access to love too.
Not as inspiration.
Not as exception.
But as expectation.
Love doesn’t become inclusive by narrowing who is allowed to give or receive it.
It becomes inclusive when we recognize that everyone deserves love — in whatever form it takes.
Disclaimer - The Ability Company
The opinions shared in our blogs reflect personal experiences and viewpoints. They’re not meant to represent every journey or replace professional advice.
This content is for informational purposes only and does not replace professional advice. The Ability Company makes no guarantees about accuracy or completeness and is not liable for decisions made based on this content. Use at your own discretion.
