Language is powerful, it shapes how we see ourselves, how others see us, and how included or excluded we feel in everyday life. This week, I found myself reflecting on something that might seem small at first glance, but is actually quite important, the phrase “able bodied”.
Until recently, I used that term myself, it felt like the commonly accepted way to describe people who do not have disabilities. But about a year ago, someone gently challenged me on it, and it gave me pause.
More recently, I had a respectful debate with someone close to me about their use of the words “able-bodied”. They found it hard to see my point of view. It was not a hostile conversation, but it was honest and sometimes uncomfortable. It reminded me how deeply language connects our beliefs, assumptions, and lived experiences. These kinds of conversations are not always easy, but they are important.
The term “able-bodied” suggests that being able-bodied is the default, the ideal, the norm. It places value on a specific kind of physical ability and makes assumptions about what it means to be healthy, whole or capable. That no longer sits right with me.
As occupational therapists, our profession is rooted in enabling participation, breaking down barriers and seeing the whole person. The words we use must reflect that. That is why I now choose to say “non-disabled people”. This language aligns with the social model of disability, which says people are disabled by barriers in society, not by their bodies or minds. It is language that shifts the focus from the individual to the systems and structures that can exclude them.
For years now, I have also been conscious of how I talk about accessible spaces. I use phrases like accessible toilet and accessible parking, not disabled toilet or disabled parking, because the spaces themselves are not disabled, they are designed to be accessible, to remove barriers. In the same way, when I say non-disabled people, I am focusing on who does or does not face disabling barriers in daily life.
I also try, when I can, to politely correct others if they use the word disabled instead of accessible when referring to facilities. It can be awkward, and sometimes difficult, but change only happens when we challenge the language we use, just as I was challenged in my own use of the term able-bodied.
Let us talk for a moment about the word “disabled”. It has a long and complicated history. For much of the past, society used words like “crippled”, “handicapped”, or even “retarded”, terms that now rightly feel outdated, offensive, and rooted in pity. The word “disabled” began appearing in UK policy and legal frameworks in the latter half of the twentieth century, and through the rise of the disabled people’s movement, it has been reclaimed as a term of identity and pride.
Today, many disabled people use this word intentionally and politically, to name the way society disables them through lack of access, rigid systems, stigma and exclusion. It is a word that connects us to a shared experience and a collective push for change.
I have always felt comfortable using it. I was born with my disabilities, so the idea of being disabled has always been part of my life. It is not a label I fear, it is part of who I am, something I identify with and something I say with pride.
Although my relationship with how I talk about my disabilities has changed over time, in some ways, becoming a wheelchair user has made that easier. I now look disabled, which seems to give others a clearer visual cue. Before COVID and my year-long hospital stay, I had the same disabilities, but the way they impacted me was less immediately noticeable to others. My needs have not changed drastically, but how visible they are to the world around me has, and that visibility has shaped how I’m perceived, and how I speak about myself.
That said, identity is deeply personal, and nobody’s experience is the same. Some people are still figuring out what language fits them, especially if their disability is new, invisible, or fluctuates. Others might never feel the word suits them. That is okay too. What matters is that people have the freedom to choose the words that feel right, without pressure or judgment.
The crux of what I want to say is this, language evolves, and so do we. It is okay to get things wrong, but it is even more powerful to try to get things right, especially when doing so helps others feel seen, respected, and included.
So, to every occupational therapist reading this, here is my challenge to you:
What terms do you regularly use that could be misunderstood or interpreted as ableist? What words or phrases might need updating in your everyday language, documentation, or communication with colleagues and the people who access your service?
More importantly, what actions will you take to change that? And how will you challenge it in others, kindly but firmly, just as someone once did for me?
Because change starts with reflection, and then with action.
Thanks, as always, for reading. Please feel free to share and comment below.
Rachel xx